The mimic bounds along after Firo, faster and faster, each hop longer than the last as desperation sets in -- it's deceptively quick for its size and shape, hunger driving it to fight.
As for Carlisle, he's anything but quick: his world has come to a complete standstill, his hands and knees holding him off the ground, his eyes affixed on the pool of ink spreading beneath him, one that grows with each wracking cough that escapes him. His wounded limb still aches, the punctures bleeding profusely, crimson trailing down the tears in his gloves and mingling with the black mass that swallows and stains his exposed fingertips; however, it's his abdomen that's a distraction now, stabbing pain cutting through him like a hundred knives, all aimed at the scars across his middle. Though he'd expected this pain, it's no easier to deal with. It never is.
Another pang hits him, and he squeezes his eyes shut; his bloodied hand, now working again, claws at his old wounds, the other curling into a fist as he forces himself to breathe. It'll pass -- it always does.
And as the seconds tick by, it does dissipate, slowly but surely; the pounding in his head clears, and as he opens his eyes and fights that dizzying moment of vertigo, he becomes fully aware of the clunk clunk clunking of the mimic as it bounds after Firo. They can't stay here.
He pushes himself off the ground with his feet, cradling his wounded arm. "I'm fine!" he calls behind him as he takes off, even if it is a stretch of the truth. "Go!"
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As for Carlisle, he's anything but quick: his world has come to a complete standstill, his hands and knees holding him off the ground, his eyes affixed on the pool of ink spreading beneath him, one that grows with each wracking cough that escapes him. His wounded limb still aches, the punctures bleeding profusely, crimson trailing down the tears in his gloves and mingling with the black mass that swallows and stains his exposed fingertips; however, it's his abdomen that's a distraction now, stabbing pain cutting through him like a hundred knives, all aimed at the scars across his middle. Though he'd expected this pain, it's no easier to deal with. It never is.
Another pang hits him, and he squeezes his eyes shut; his bloodied hand, now working again, claws at his old wounds, the other curling into a fist as he forces himself to breathe. It'll pass -- it always does.
And as the seconds tick by, it does dissipate, slowly but surely; the pounding in his head clears, and as he opens his eyes and fights that dizzying moment of vertigo, he becomes fully aware of the clunk clunk clunking of the mimic as it bounds after Firo. They can't stay here.
He pushes himself off the ground with his feet, cradling his wounded arm. "I'm fine!" he calls behind him as he takes off, even if it is a stretch of the truth. "Go!"