Waver Velvet, Lord El Melloi II of the Mages Association and head of the Modern Magecraft department at the prestigious Clock Tower that was sought after by wealthy magus lineages the world over, scowled as this foul woman leaned over him like a snake leering down at the prey it was crushing the breath out of with it's powerful, sinuous coils. His eyes, the same dark green as the stormy ocean, narrowed with her jubilant, wicked smile and haughty words.
Indeed, if he was the worst kind of mage? She was among the best.
And he knew exactly how to throw off her game.
"Have you looked in a mirror lately?" He asked dryly, his voice hoarse and cracking from his efforts to both focus and not lose himself to the hot, sickly queasiness that threatened to drown him with every motion.
"Because... it seems you have something on your face."
With that-- he was in motion. He whipped out the hand he had dug underneath him and flung sticky, sulfuric sand in her eyes. The thick mess of sand, silt, and other muck smelled as putrid as it looked, and the clots of it would be as frustrating to clear as in it's powered, dry form.
If she insisted on calling him infantile.... then he would deliver.
cw: sand + eyes. You do the math
...he would show her juvenile.
Waver Velvet, Lord El Melloi II of the Mages Association and head of the Modern Magecraft department at the prestigious Clock Tower that was sought after by wealthy magus lineages the world over, scowled as this foul woman leaned over him like a snake leering down at the prey it was crushing the breath out of with it's powerful, sinuous coils. His eyes, the same dark green as the stormy ocean, narrowed with her jubilant, wicked smile and haughty words.
Indeed, if he was the worst kind of mage? She was among the best.
And he knew exactly how to throw off her game.
"Have you looked in a mirror lately?" He asked dryly, his voice hoarse and cracking from his efforts to both focus and not lose himself to the hot, sickly queasiness that threatened to drown him with every motion.
"Because... it seems you have something on your face."
With that-- he was in motion. He whipped out the hand he had dug underneath him and flung sticky, sulfuric sand in her eyes. The thick mess of sand, silt, and other muck smelled as putrid as it looked, and the clots of it would be as frustrating to clear as in it's powered, dry form.
If she insisted on calling him infantile.... then he would deliver.