[The dagger is given up for the sake of a quick retreat, and even as Ardyn pulls the sharp steel from his arm -- dripping, utterly oozing black -- in his periphery, he notes the movement of Zain drawing distance away from him. The tempo of his footsteps against damp soil, the rustle of clothing, the exertion of breath. The snapping of reins.
Already, his wound threatens to heal, to knit together on its own. Even as he clenches the hilt of the dagger in his grip, pain remains far away, and it doesn't hinder his movement. The thief has the skull, but that hardly matters as much as catching up to him to indulge in Ardyn's pointed edge of sadism sticking in his chest.
He warps forward, a burst of red magic in his wake, towards the horse -- so close that he might grasp tightly at its saddle, the dagger still glinting in the light in his other hand. The intention is to either startle horse or rider, and to swing with his borrowed weapon if the opportunity presents itself.]
no subject
Already, his wound threatens to heal, to knit together on its own. Even as he clenches the hilt of the dagger in his grip, pain remains far away, and it doesn't hinder his movement. The thief has the skull, but that hardly matters as much as catching up to him to indulge in Ardyn's pointed edge of sadism sticking in his chest.
He warps forward, a burst of red magic in his wake, towards the horse -- so close that he might grasp tightly at its saddle, the dagger still glinting in the light in his other hand. The intention is to either startle horse or rider, and to swing with his borrowed weapon if the opportunity presents itself.]