[It's high-pitched, tinged with hysteria. Neffa finds that, while he had the guts to follow Dixon all the way out the door, he does not have the guts to follow him further. He watches in mute horror as Dixon crosses one end of the room to the other; winces in every muscle as the sword tip drags on the stone floor; reaches out helplessly as he raises the sword.
Here's the fucking joke: Neffa was pointing at the wrong statue.
The sword glances harmlessly off the stone. Meanwhile: The statue on the other side of the fountain snakes out long, stone-colored tentacles, dipping low along the floor, going for Dixon's ankles as they'd gone for Neffa's.
Neffa looks at the stapler in his hand. Seized by a sudden mad courage, he hefts it; makes a swift gesture over it; takes one long stride, and, torn sleeve billowing, flings it overhand at the fountain. It's not Dixon's fastball pitch by a long shot, but that's not the intention: All he needs to do is release the spell on it.
The spell he attached to the stapler is an easy, simple home-security spell, popular among people in close-packed residential areas. Its name is Scream.
As the stapler soars through the air, it lets out a piercing shriek, swelling in volume, echoing off the atrium ceilings, bouncing off every stone surface and taking strength from its own reverberation. The sound, which Dixon has no reason to know, is borrowed from a kind of desert vulture common to Neffa's home city, audible from up to half a mile away on a quiet day. In this room, it's absolutely deafening.
The statue recoils, its tentacles flying back like a person trying to clap their hands over their ears, for all it's a fountain and has no ears in evidence.] Get out! [Neffa shrieks, now one entire step away from the doorway and still not making any move to get closer.]
no subject
[It's high-pitched, tinged with hysteria. Neffa finds that, while he had the guts to follow Dixon all the way out the door, he does not have the guts to follow him further. He watches in mute horror as Dixon crosses one end of the room to the other; winces in every muscle as the sword tip drags on the stone floor; reaches out helplessly as he raises the sword.
Here's the fucking joke: Neffa was pointing at the wrong statue.
The sword glances harmlessly off the stone. Meanwhile: The statue on the other side of the fountain snakes out long, stone-colored tentacles, dipping low along the floor, going for Dixon's ankles as they'd gone for Neffa's.
Neffa looks at the stapler in his hand. Seized by a sudden mad courage, he hefts it; makes a swift gesture over it; takes one long stride, and, torn sleeve billowing, flings it overhand at the fountain. It's not Dixon's fastball pitch by a long shot, but that's not the intention: All he needs to do is release the spell on it.
The spell he attached to the stapler is an easy, simple home-security spell, popular among people in close-packed residential areas. Its name is Scream.
As the stapler soars through the air, it lets out a piercing shriek, swelling in volume, echoing off the atrium ceilings, bouncing off every stone surface and taking strength from its own reverberation. The sound, which Dixon has no reason to know, is borrowed from a kind of desert vulture common to Neffa's home city, audible from up to half a mile away on a quiet day. In this room, it's absolutely deafening.
The statue recoils, its tentacles flying back like a person trying to clap their hands over their ears, for all it's a fountain and has no ears in evidence.] Get out! [Neffa shrieks, now one entire step away from the doorway and still not making any move to get closer.]