"Don't need to kill them all," Boba retorts, "Just thin them out so we can strike at the heart."
It's more a figure of speech than a concrete declaration of target. Unfortunately, it catches the attention of the beast's master all the same. Boba is focused on cauterizing wounds, plumes of fire chasing each wet, red smear. The survivors in the group are changing strategies as well, pulling out blades to help with the grisly work. It is slow—but the tides of the battle are turning as the hydra loses one head, then two, then three. And with them, its defenses.
Attention split between fire and fang, Boba doesn't notice the dark-robed figure who steals like a shadow to the hydra's side. He certainly doesn't notice his own shadow moving independently of him, a pantomime of turning his flamethrower against his allies...
Not until his body begins to follow suit.
The others will have only a moment to scatter before a jet of flame scorches the air where a moment before they had been standing. The helmet covering Boba's face means they won't be able to see the confusion and surprise in his expression—though, when it turns to fury a moment later, they'll surely be able to hear it in his voice.
"No!" His arm jerks violently as he tries to wrest back control, flames slashing through the air in a chaotic arc. At least he's resisting enough to avoid consistently targeting the others—but neither can he take back full enough control to continue the assault on the hydra. Even his words are only fitfully under his own control; his tongue feels like lead in his mouth. He only manages to bite off another syllable, a single word of warning, before he's silenced again.
no subject
It's more a figure of speech than a concrete declaration of target. Unfortunately, it catches the attention of the beast's master all the same. Boba is focused on cauterizing wounds, plumes of fire chasing each wet, red smear. The survivors in the group are changing strategies as well, pulling out blades to help with the grisly work. It is slow—but the tides of the battle are turning as the hydra loses one head, then two, then three. And with them, its defenses.
Attention split between fire and fang, Boba doesn't notice the dark-robed figure who steals like a shadow to the hydra's side. He certainly doesn't notice his own shadow moving independently of him, a pantomime of turning his flamethrower against his allies...
Not until his body begins to follow suit.
The others will have only a moment to scatter before a jet of flame scorches the air where a moment before they had been standing. The helmet covering Boba's face means they won't be able to see the confusion and surprise in his expression—though, when it turns to fury a moment later, they'll surely be able to hear it in his voice.
"No!" His arm jerks violently as he tries to wrest back control, flames slashing through the air in a chaotic arc. At least he's resisting enough to avoid consistently targeting the others—but neither can he take back full enough control to continue the assault on the hydra. Even his words are only fitfully under his own control; his tongue feels like lead in his mouth. He only manages to bite off another syllable, a single word of warning, before he's silenced again.
"Mage."