"He must have uprooted an entire graveyard," Methos says, but his tone is a little distracted, a little dull. Weary, in a way that his Adam Pierson guise can't quite explain. Not that it needs to, with the amount of mind-twisting magic being thrown around.
It would be so easy to lie down, to stop, to let these foolish children fight their stupid little crusade to save a world that doesn't care, has never cared.
He reaches out with his scarred hand, and presses his palm flat against the glass on the door. Flesh sizzles and blisters, and he jerks back with a hiss, the sudden jolt of adrenaline bringing with it the metallic taste of anger at the back of his throat. The animal urge to lash out at the source of pain carries him for a few seconds, long enough to attempt to twist the dial to turn off the oven with his unburnt hand. For what little good that might do.
cw suicidal ideation; self-harm
It would be so easy to lie down, to stop, to let these foolish children fight their stupid little crusade to save a world that doesn't care, has never cared.
He reaches out with his scarred hand, and presses his palm flat against the glass on the door. Flesh sizzles and blisters, and he jerks back with a hiss, the sudden jolt of adrenaline bringing with it the metallic taste of anger at the back of his throat. The animal urge to lash out at the source of pain carries him for a few seconds, long enough to attempt to twist the dial to turn off the oven with his unburnt hand. For what little good that might do.