[The fear Prior is going to get hurt is irrational—nothing is going to deviate from the moment in time. But rather than what would be reasonable, remaining frozen in place and reliving as little detail as possible from afar, he runs after Prior. Damn him and his ability escape him here.
For all the racket that murder makes, clanging metal and the collapse of armored bodies, the targeted men are too wrapped up in one another to hear the death outside their door. The thugs fell another two guardsmen in the hall, and others go on ahead to take care of those that would come running, leaving bloody footprints on polished tile. The Dorian within, only six years younger than the man giving chase to Prior, only notices when the door is all but burst open. He freezes from lying atop another young man, both so stricken with fear they don't part from one another until it's too late.
He tries to put up a fight, scrambling out of bed and to the floor in attempt to grab his discarded staff, but his hands are intercepted by one of the thugs. His gentlemen caller shrinks back into the bed, shouting for the guards that aren't coming. He, just like the visitors, is helpless to do anything as they subdue his guest. Dorian puts up a fight, kicking and shouting, but there's little he can do when they've caught him so vulnerable. Blood smears against naked skin as they twist his arms behind his back, his voice descending from fury into panic.
"Stop! Get your filthy hands off of me, don't you know who I am— Is that blood?! What've you done—"
It's then that the real one grabs a fistful of Prior's shirt to drag him back from the scene. He'd be in the way—they aren't killing the boy, they're just taking him. One drags him out into the hall as another grabs his clothes from the floor.]
no subject
For all the racket that murder makes, clanging metal and the collapse of armored bodies, the targeted men are too wrapped up in one another to hear the death outside their door. The thugs fell another two guardsmen in the hall, and others go on ahead to take care of those that would come running, leaving bloody footprints on polished tile. The Dorian within, only six years younger than the man giving chase to Prior, only notices when the door is all but burst open. He freezes from lying atop another young man, both so stricken with fear they don't part from one another until it's too late.
He tries to put up a fight, scrambling out of bed and to the floor in attempt to grab his discarded staff, but his hands are intercepted by one of the thugs. His gentlemen caller shrinks back into the bed, shouting for the guards that aren't coming. He, just like the visitors, is helpless to do anything as they subdue his guest. Dorian puts up a fight, kicking and shouting, but there's little he can do when they've caught him so vulnerable. Blood smears against naked skin as they twist his arms behind his back, his voice descending from fury into panic.
"Stop! Get your filthy hands off of me, don't you know who I am— Is that blood?! What've you done—"
It's then that the real one grabs a fistful of Prior's shirt to drag him back from the scene. He'd be in the way—they aren't killing the boy, they're just taking him. One drags him out into the hall as another grabs his clothes from the floor.]