Chapter 6 (Continued)

[Ianaeveli Tigenet]

Muffled sounds filter through the closed door, and Iana's head lifts as she blinks the tears away from her eyes. She needs clear vision right now - and more importantly, clear thoughts.

For the first few moments, it is hard to tell what is going on. There are voices. More than one person: she can hear different pitches, but nothing more than that, not even enough to know how many. More than two, she suspects, but would not swear to it.

Footsteps. Just a changing of the guard? No, they are scuffling, she thinks - and her keen senses sharpen…

…until everything goes abruptly dark.

Iana chokes back a whimper. Clear head, she tells herself, battling down the panic that has been rolling through her in waves ever since she was first cornered in the library. Do not lose yourself now.

There is a sharp clatter. A high-pitched shout. Iana still cannot make out more than the barest shape of the words, but the voice is finally loud enough that she can tell one thing for certain: it is Asra.

Wild reckless hope flares in Iana. The rescue is here! If Asra is here, then she is almost certainly not alone.

Iana lurches towards where she knew those boxes were: the precarious ones, the ones that would tip over if they were given even the slightest nudge.

The ones that would tip over and make a lot of noise if they were given the slightest nudge.

And she gives them as much more of a nudge as she can manage, throwing all of her force behind it, trying to make a sound that her friends will hear.

[AftermathGM]

The tray clatters noisily to the floor as Asra's shaking hands shoot up and a blindingly bright flash of hard light slices through the air. The thought was to remove the threat. The threat currently being the hand holding that knife. Luckily for everyone involved, a heavy wave a nausea hits Asra when she pulls upon her power, causing that sizzling plane of light to crash against the wall behind the two goons, leaving a smoldering scar that nearly robbed the older man of his knife hand.

Asra is pale and shaking as she holds her hand aloft, her pupils dilated as she stares at the wound on the wall. She can feel Georg's eyes on her (or maybe she's just imagining it), but its enough for her to whirl on him.

"Don't look at me like that!" she squeaks indignantly, her voice quivering with adrenaline. "I am NOT good in high-pressure situations, and I did NOT sign up for a hostage negotiation!"

The knife-wielder startles badly, which puts the knife even more firmly against Calim's neck. A bright line of blood appears, a tiny droplet crawling down his skin. "What in Altam's HELLS?" the knife-wielder shouts. He would be more intimidating if his voice didn't crack halfway through. He staggers back until his back is against the wall, his grip on Calim growing even tighter. There could be some question of whether he's likely to cut Calim's throat or strangle him first.

[Georg Elsebethson]

It's all a bloody colossal mess. One of the major lessons every Granite scholar has to learn sooner or later is that there's nothing simple or straightforward about violence, no matter how the stories told afterward usually go. Real enemies aren't faceless dummies who stand still and don't make you feel bad about hitting them; they aren't even sparring opponents who act with the calm of someone who knows that their opponent isn't really trying to hurt them, even if accidents can happen. A real enemy is distressingly full of thoughts, emotions, and adrenaline, and is usually either reacting (badly) to a half-formed awareness of what is happening or else enacting a plan that stopped making sense several steps previous.

Case in point: this fucking guy taking a hostage without an exit strategy. What does he think is going to happen? They'll shrug their shoulders, turn around, and leave? Even if that were at all likely on any page in the book of existence, he's just blabbed who his boss is, so he's still screwed if he lets them go, and if he thought he could stop them he wouldn't have taken a hostage in the first place. Georg is about to preempt the bastard with this line of thought before he gets there on his own and does something even worse, when a blinding flash of light shoots past him and narrowly misses the man's hand, cutting a nasty-looking swath in the wall behind them.

So that's the 'reacting badly' example sorted, then, Georg thinks as he turns to stare at Asra, who at least has the decency to look sheepish. Maybe someday I'll use this as an illustrative anecdote. He'll have to change the names to protect the innocent—i.e., himself—of course. Then he hears the sound of a lot of boxes crashing to the ground and he winces, because deep down he still remembers being an awkward preteen breaking everything in sight.

"What in Altam's HELLS?" the knife-wielder shouts. He would be more intimidating if his voice didn't crack halfway through. He staggers back until his back is against the wall, his grip on Calim growing even tighter. There could be some question of whether he's likely to cut Calim's throat or strangle him first.

Georg sighs. Back to business. "You." He points a finger at the knife-wielder and makes for the door. "Stay put. If the door is magically locked, there's no harm in letting me check it, right?" Maybe this whole thing is one big bluff, but if it's not, there still might be a way to take the door, and thus, the rationale for cutting Calim's throat, out of the equation. Georg doubts he'll get anywhere with him until he has a chance to collect his wits anyway.