Solomon's vision was hazing over by the time he managed to draw in a thin, raw breath, too small to actually help him at all except open his lungs just enough to make them loosen. The next breath was a little bit deeper and easier, even though it made him cough afterward.
He never got the chance to work his way slowly up to breathing properly, let alone answering. Solomon's soul cringed in the presence of the Temple around them, his magic craving, his soul recoiling.
Solomon cried out and bowed into the floor, and another memory washed over him, a memory of the Temple that made his head pound, of sparring, of magic and the Scream. More memories. Memories working backward in time, all those memories of when he used his magic. It was raw, painful, the sound of it inescapable, and even then there was something on the edge that he couldn't quite see.
The ex-Necromancer's body loosened and he slumped, coughing, his breath rasping as he tried to draw in air.
"You--wouldn't--believe--" he choked out, all he could manage before his soul rebelled once again. Another memory. Another slide of exactly what he'd been using for his power.
With a whimper as he sagged against the stones again, Solomon closed his eyes, felt the mask of drying blood on his face, and knew he had three-hundred-and-eighty-four years' worth of those memories to endure. They were rushing at him like a freight-train, now, eager to be heard again--and again--and again--
Solomon Wreath convulsed on the floor, his head thrown back against the stones and eyes rolling feverishly in his head, seeing and witnessing all the things he hadn't the first time he'd lived it.
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He never got the chance to work his way slowly up to breathing properly, let alone answering. Solomon's soul cringed in the presence of the Temple around them, his magic craving, his soul recoiling.
Solomon cried out and bowed into the floor, and another memory washed over him, a memory of the Temple that made his head pound, of sparring, of magic and the Scream. More memories. Memories working backward in time, all those memories of when he used his magic. It was raw, painful, the sound of it inescapable, and even then there was something on the edge that he couldn't quite see.
The ex-Necromancer's body loosened and he slumped, coughing, his breath rasping as he tried to draw in air.
"You--wouldn't--believe--" he choked out, all he could manage before his soul rebelled once again. Another memory. Another slide of exactly what he'd been using for his power.
With a whimper as he sagged against the stones again, Solomon closed his eyes, felt the mask of drying blood on his face, and knew he had three-hundred-and-eighty-four years' worth of those memories to endure. They were rushing at him like a freight-train, now, eager to be heard again--and again--and again--
Solomon Wreath convulsed on the floor, his head thrown back against the stones and eyes rolling feverishly in his head, seeing and witnessing all the things he hadn't the first time he'd lived it.