[ get out of the way? Boothill is now the one in the way of Justice. Of true justice. This is penance. Boothill has ceased to matter in the face of the cause, a small thing - remorse is a human’s folly, no matter the metal shell surrounding it. This is now bigger than just him, driven mad by whatever force is attempting to exert its will. The true cause of Revenge. On every Templar, every holy sister, every executioner and demon and god and Host and Auditor - anyone who dares to stand in the way of vengeance will be destroyed, and Boothill is simply the first thing in the way. It is elation to see the face of it. To feel it so clearly, after so much time sleepwalking towards foolish attempts at things like peace, contentment with a life that has no meaning beyond the next day.
it must the closest thing he has felt to true joy since the explosion at the Chantry. Fulfillment. Purpose.
the chainsaw swings towards him, barely bites into the flesh, but he does not flinch or pull because he is not of mortal men, not slowed by injury or regret, or anything like mercy or kindness. it’s too late for any of that now. he is a monster and he will do as monsters do. a spirit. a demon.
you need two hands for proper magic, but this is not magic as much as it is something deeper, more primal. the Fade itself - or whatever passes for it here. he reaches out with his remaining hand to arrest the swing of Boothill’s arm - grip solid and heavy as steel and pours fire out of it, enough to scorch the ground, enveloping both the chainsaw and Boothill’s arm, burning with more heat than the sun.
it doesn’t so much break as shatter into molten, metallic shards - leaving red hot streaks into the ground below and flicking at the edges of his coat, and drawing lines across exposed skin without a flicker of pain. ]
no subject
it must the closest thing he has felt to true joy since the explosion at the Chantry. Fulfillment. Purpose.
the chainsaw swings towards him, barely bites into the flesh, but he does not flinch or pull because he is not of mortal men, not slowed by injury or regret, or anything like mercy or kindness. it’s too late for any of that now. he is a monster and he will do as monsters do. a spirit. a demon.
you need two hands for proper magic, but this is not magic as much as it is something deeper, more primal. the Fade itself - or whatever passes for it here. he reaches out with his remaining hand to arrest the swing of Boothill’s arm - grip solid and heavy as steel and pours fire out of it, enough to scorch the ground, enveloping both the chainsaw and Boothill’s arm, burning with more heat than the sun.
it doesn’t so much break as shatter into molten, metallic shards - leaving red hot streaks into the ground below and flicking at the edges of his coat, and drawing lines across exposed skin without a flicker of pain. ]
It is useless. Submit.