[The sudden growl and clack of the guns hitting the floor behind him startle both Carlisle and the rabbit; the clergyman clings to the creature tighter, turning just as Glacius' foot comes down on the supposed gifts. Well, that was certainly one way to dispose of them, he thinks to himself in that fraction of a second, though he'd thought that Glacius would likely take them outside instead. As it is, they crack easily beneath the warrior's weight, but what appears to be paint explodes from them rather than merely splinters or shards. No need to be worried though, as Glacius' icy armor makes him nearly impervious to all threats.
Nearly, and yet, down Glacius goes, his bulk crashing into the coffee table with all the grace (and weight, no doubt) of a sack of bricks. The table hardly even slows him down, its frame buckling from the impact, shattering into a rain of splinters. His body slides into the cradle of debris, still as the grave.
Carlisle about drops the rabbit, but has enough of a mind to set him back in the chair before he tears over to his partner, his hands already trembling as he calls Glacius' name. The alien does not stir -- not from Carlisle's voice, nor the hand on his shoulder, nor the desperate jostling Carlisle puts him through when his first two attempts to rouse Glacius fail. Disbelief colors the clergyman, followed by despair, then denial to hold back both of them: he'll awaken after a short time, Carlisle tells himself. It must be the effects of a fainting charm rather than something wholly malicious, as the timing was far too coincidental. He picks up those tantalizing weapons, then passes out? And the gods thought themselves clever. They have an unfortunate penchant for what they view as 'games;' this will likely be as those before, Carlisle thinks with increasing desperation, his inner voice as agitated as the rest of him. Glacius will be fine.
But days pass, and Glacius does not awaken. Carlisle keeps vigil over his partner, clearing up the debris from the floor around him, doing his best to pull the dead weight of the alien warrior onto the couch, cleaning the paint from his icy frame with a towel before using glyphs to conjure more ice and snow around his nearly lifeless body. The fresh snow helped him before; however, it does not help him now, yet Carlisle keeps at it from morning until night, using routine to keep himself moving. Awaken, feed Rabbit. Check on Glacius. Morning prayer. Gardening. Steps start to fall by the wayside as the days pass and he struggles to maintain any semblance of composure.
He must believe things will be all right, as he's almost more frightened of what he might do if he believes otherwise for even an instant. He's lost so many in his life, and never handled it well -- he cannot lose Glacius now. Not now, when he can still feel his partner through the Mote. Why does he not wake?
And then, on the fourth day of Carlisle's vigil, the body is gone.]
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Nearly, and yet, down Glacius goes, his bulk crashing into the coffee table with all the grace (and weight, no doubt) of a sack of bricks. The table hardly even slows him down, its frame buckling from the impact, shattering into a rain of splinters. His body slides into the cradle of debris, still as the grave.
Carlisle about drops the rabbit, but has enough of a mind to set him back in the chair before he tears over to his partner, his hands already trembling as he calls Glacius' name. The alien does not stir -- not from Carlisle's voice, nor the hand on his shoulder, nor the desperate jostling Carlisle puts him through when his first two attempts to rouse Glacius fail. Disbelief colors the clergyman, followed by despair, then denial to hold back both of them: he'll awaken after a short time, Carlisle tells himself. It must be the effects of a fainting charm rather than something wholly malicious, as the timing was far too coincidental. He picks up those tantalizing weapons, then passes out? And the gods thought themselves clever. They have an unfortunate penchant for what they view as 'games;' this will likely be as those before, Carlisle thinks with increasing desperation, his inner voice as agitated as the rest of him. Glacius will be fine.
But days pass, and Glacius does not awaken. Carlisle keeps vigil over his partner, clearing up the debris from the floor around him, doing his best to pull the dead weight of the alien warrior onto the couch, cleaning the paint from his icy frame with a towel before using glyphs to conjure more ice and snow around his nearly lifeless body. The fresh snow helped him before; however, it does not help him now, yet Carlisle keeps at it from morning until night, using routine to keep himself moving. Awaken, feed Rabbit. Check on Glacius. Morning prayer. Gardening. Steps start to fall by the wayside as the days pass and he struggles to maintain any semblance of composure.
He must believe things will be all right, as he's almost more frightened of what he might do if he believes otherwise for even an instant. He's lost so many in his life, and never handled it well -- he cannot lose Glacius now. Not now, when he can still feel his partner through the Mote. Why does he not wake?
And then, on the fourth day of Carlisle's vigil, the body is gone.]