[ The thing that's emerging can't fully do so — kept padded down by the strangeness of this place, and perhaps by its own strangeness before. The ancient thing has been mutilated by the hands guiding it, again and again, and so freshly now.
But it bubbles and pops up under the surface of its container of human skin sometimes, and its spirit is emboldened by this — this ritual, this activity, her. Emboldened and infuriated, and the woman's calling Peter. She's trying to keep Peter. It goes against everything that the cult shaped for him, for them, and Paimon's spirit roars.
The woman roars back. Her voice rises, she demands things from him, and ordinarily the demon king Paimon would have to respond in truth, as commanded by a magician, a witch. Those rules still apply to his spirit, even if the shape of them is warped and fogged-over, and the power coming from both sides isn't what it should be.
He grabs ahold of her now, fingers wrapping around the woman's small wrists, forcing her closer, lips peeled back in a snarl as his head snaps back down to stare at her. The warm browns of Peter's eyes are pools of inky black now, pupils blown and swollen. The thing snarls in her face. ]
CHORUM TZFON MA’ARAV βορειοδυτικά
[ Not its name, but something else. 'Northwest', jibbered on in a few ancient languages, like a broken record skipping and repeating. ]
TZFON MA’ARAV CHORUM
[ And then, as a warning— he starts hissing at her, lips peeled back, the sound serpentine, reedy, loud. Stay away from him.
With that, he lets go of her but it's with a sudden wave of energy, telekinetic force meant to knock the woman away from him. Ideally, he'd slam her against the closest wall, but his powers can't quite reach; Johanna may only fall backwards, hit the floor or slide across it some. ]
no subject
But it bubbles and pops up under the surface of its container of human skin sometimes, and its spirit is emboldened by this — this ritual, this activity, her. Emboldened and infuriated, and the woman's calling Peter. She's trying to keep Peter. It goes against everything that the cult shaped for him, for them, and Paimon's spirit roars.
The woman roars back. Her voice rises, she demands things from him, and ordinarily the demon king Paimon would have to respond in truth, as commanded by a magician, a witch. Those rules still apply to his spirit, even if the shape of them is warped and fogged-over, and the power coming from both sides isn't what it should be.
He grabs ahold of her now, fingers wrapping around the woman's small wrists, forcing her closer, lips peeled back in a snarl as his head snaps back down to stare at her. The warm browns of Peter's eyes are pools of inky black now, pupils blown and swollen. The thing snarls in her face. ]
CHORUM
TZFON MA’ARAV
βορειοδυτικά
[ Not its name, but something else. 'Northwest', jibbered on in a few ancient languages, like a broken record skipping and repeating. ]
TZFON MA’ARAV
CHORUM
[ And then, as a warning— he starts hissing at her, lips peeled back, the sound serpentine, reedy, loud. Stay away from him.
With that, he lets go of her but it's with a sudden wave of energy, telekinetic force meant to knock the woman away from him. Ideally, he'd slam her against the closest wall, but his powers can't quite reach; Johanna may only fall backwards, hit the floor or slide across it some. ]