[ At least it isn't touching him anymore. And he still seems okay. That's one initial fear alleviated, one latent terror dispersed.
It breathes in, and he feels something else entirely.
Amos has spent a lifetime cultivating strength. Genetics gifted him some, and he'd leaned into it, because it was the one thing that he knew could keep him safe. One thing that he knew he could count on. He wouldn't be small anymore; he wouldn't be helpless again. He'd be okay.
He is slowly feeling himself becoming not okay. The dagger — the dagger Yima herself had gifted to him, like it was made for him — starts to feel heavy in his hand; his arms start to feel like too much. His legs wobble, shake as he tries to take another step back, because he doesn't know what's happening to him — just that this is wrong, and he doesn't know how to kill it when even his own body is starting to feel like too much for him.
His knees buckle. It takes everything in him to remain standing, although he couldn't say what good that's even doing him in the moment.
In looking around him for something — anything — he sees Dextera again. He inhales, and even that feels a bit too much, but there's a part of him that can tell what Dextera is getting out of this. It's more than a sense of victory, and Amos' chest tightens. His lips peel back in what's barely a snarl and his legs finally give out, as he collapses to his knees, dagger limp in his hand, blade's tip brushing against the ground, and has just enough left in him to think, ]
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It breathes in, and he feels something else entirely.
Amos has spent a lifetime cultivating strength. Genetics gifted him some, and he'd leaned into it, because it was the one thing that he knew could keep him safe. One thing that he knew he could count on. He wouldn't be small anymore; he wouldn't be helpless again. He'd be okay.
He is slowly feeling himself becoming not okay. The dagger — the dagger Yima herself had gifted to him, like it was made for him — starts to feel heavy in his hand; his arms start to feel like too much. His legs wobble, shake as he tries to take another step back, because he doesn't know what's happening to him — just that this is wrong, and he doesn't know how to kill it when even his own body is starting to feel like too much for him.
His knees buckle. It takes everything in him to remain standing, although he couldn't say what good that's even doing him in the moment.
In looking around him for something — anything — he sees Dextera again. He inhales, and even that feels a bit too much, but there's a part of him that can tell what Dextera is getting out of this. It's more than a sense of victory, and Amos' chest tightens. His lips peel back in what's barely a snarl and his legs finally give out, as he collapses to his knees, dagger limp in his hand, blade's tip brushing against the ground, and has just enough left in him to think, ]
What the fuck is wrong with you.