( ... Mika, light as a feather, his rapier pointed down.
Like a drop in his stomach, Mika had been afraid when he'd felt his magic sealed. His vines withered black, the roses turned to ash and dissipated— leaving behind only the faint scent of blood and decay.
He is not powerless without his magic, but he was not powerful enough, and if he was not powerful enough, people would die— again, as they always did; and, worse yet, he might not be among them— as always, as always. Death's shadow settles across his vision, and he hears it ask him, again, if he is watching.
He has not felt so chill since he had died.
But hope appears like a spark. Not in the form of a hero, maybe, but he feels the gentle hymn of spirits in the rustle of nature about him and how that song swells within him, and that is enough. He is steady enough to plan with Ginger, and he is empowered by the strange blood that courses in him like a roaring furnace - one that'd fought against his reason telling him to stay in place and protect the former sage. But with Bruno and Ithaqua behind them, Mika and Ginger could step forward, and act.
Shall we? Ginger asks, and Mika's answer is, as it would ever be: Always, my heart.
He is someone born startlingly incomplete. He feels the balance in his step, descending Ginger's mirrored steps from heaven, to act as two halves of a whole. And in the night, beneath the heavy moon, he feels - light, and at home.
His mind feels clear.
Mika's vines overbloom from the earth below: the thorned tendrils sprout massive and thick as they shoot upward to seize the body of the mech and spiral 'round it, vast roses blooming in overtime. They hold it still, or close enough.
And down comes Mika.
In concert with everyone's attacks, Mika lets gravity - impact enforced with magic - guide his blade downward, its point aimed into the face of the juggernaut, seeking to fatally pierce the human within. Wound around his blade are his thorned vines and roses, grown from his own blood and energy. The logic: if these can provide an absolute defense, they may make his blade unbreakable enough to shatter through the cockpit, and through the bloody heart of the pilot. )
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Like a drop in his stomach, Mika had been afraid when he'd felt his magic sealed. His vines withered black, the roses turned to ash and dissipated— leaving behind only the faint scent of blood and decay.
He is not powerless without his magic, but he was not powerful enough, and if he was not powerful enough, people would die— again, as they always did; and, worse yet, he might not be among them— as always, as always. Death's shadow settles across his vision, and he hears it ask him, again, if he is watching.
He has not felt so chill since he had died.
But hope appears like a spark. Not in the form of a hero, maybe, but he feels the gentle hymn of spirits in the rustle of nature about him and how that song swells within him, and that is enough. He is steady enough to plan with Ginger, and he is empowered by the strange blood that courses in him like a roaring furnace - one that'd fought against his reason telling him to stay in place and protect the former sage. But with Bruno and Ithaqua behind them, Mika and Ginger could step forward, and act.
Shall we? Ginger asks, and Mika's answer is, as it would ever be: Always, my heart.
He is someone born startlingly incomplete. He feels the balance in his step, descending Ginger's mirrored steps from heaven, to act as two halves of a whole. And in the night, beneath the heavy moon, he feels - light, and at home.
His mind feels clear.
Mika's vines overbloom from the earth below: the thorned tendrils sprout massive and thick as they shoot upward to seize the body of the mech and spiral 'round it, vast roses blooming in overtime. They hold it still, or close enough.
And down comes Mika.
In concert with everyone's attacks, Mika lets gravity - impact enforced with magic - guide his blade downward, its point aimed into the face of the juggernaut, seeking to fatally pierce the human within. Wound around his blade are his thorned vines and roses, grown from his own blood and energy. The logic: if these can provide an absolute defense, they may make his blade unbreakable enough to shatter through the cockpit, and through the bloody heart of the pilot. )