[It's saronite armor that she's put on; armor forged from the hardened blood of an old god. The Scourge had put its living prisoners to work mining the stuff, and every one of them had gone mad. Koltira's armor whispers; it breathes. It corrupts.
He has little time for this.]
Enough of you.
[Icy power gathers in his hand. He releases it, throwing his open palm towards her. Ice-rimed chains burst from the dusty floor of the arena, seeking her ankles; her wrists; her legs. Seeking to bind her in place.]
no subject
He has little time for this.]
Enough of you.
[Icy power gathers in his hand. He releases it, throwing his open palm towards her. Ice-rimed chains burst from the dusty floor of the arena, seeking her ankles; her wrists; her legs. Seeking to bind her in place.]