Trapped... And no means of escape. Normally he'd argue, insist that no, you're just not trying hard enough, of course there had to be a way to leave—
Except this was Stocke they were talking about. He would have exhausted every possibility before... resigning himself like this. "Trapped like rats..." A low growl of frustration rumbled in his chest. "And rendered powerless..." His gaze settled once more on the Gauntlet. He was beginning to wonder if those doctors had purposefully sabotaged it, now. He wouldn't put it past them. His mana, on the other hand...
"Uh..." He glanced away, looking shamefaced, scratching his cheek in distraction. "I hadn't noticed, actually..." Compared to the others, especially spell-slingers, like Raynie and Stocke, he didn't really have the sort of sensitivities they must have possessed. And he hadn't actually tried drawing on those reserves of power within himself, but considering that thaumatech relied on mana for power... "Wait! Maybe that's part of the reason the Gauntlet is so screwed up! You think it's because my mana is sealed or whatever?"
Well, that might have answered one question. But there were plenty more knocking around inside Rosch's head. The problem was deciding which one to ask first.
"Gods...?" He tilted his head in confusion, and a stray lock of hair settled across his nose. "So they're just going around, snatching people up, stripping away their powers, and just dumping them here?"
He listened to the rest of Stocke's explanation, his expression clearly telegraphing the the slow realization of impending horror.
Rosch's throat went suddenly dry. "We're..." He paused, swallowing hard. "They're gonna turn us into... monsters...?" Lips skinned back from teeth in an anguished growl. "But why?! What's the point?! Just what are these bastards trying to accomplish, huh?!"
In fury, Rosch swung the Gauntlet to one side (luckily avoiding Stocke in the process) and slammed it into the nearest object (which, unfortunately, happened to be someone's nicely plastered facade), burying his fist up to the knuckles. Cracks radiated outward, and a few chunks of plaster fell loose and toppled to the pavement. Rosch's teeth were bared canines oddly sharpened, for a human... and roared his frustration over the sound of the servos in the Gauntlet screeching in protest at the abuse.
no subject
Except this was Stocke they were talking about. He would have exhausted every possibility before... resigning himself like this. "Trapped like rats..." A low growl of frustration rumbled in his chest. "And rendered powerless..." His gaze settled once more on the Gauntlet. He was beginning to wonder if those doctors had purposefully sabotaged it, now. He wouldn't put it past them. His mana, on the other hand...
"Uh..." He glanced away, looking shamefaced, scratching his cheek in distraction. "I hadn't noticed, actually..." Compared to the others, especially spell-slingers, like Raynie and Stocke, he didn't really have the sort of sensitivities they must have possessed. And he hadn't actually tried drawing on those reserves of power within himself, but considering that thaumatech relied on mana for power... "Wait! Maybe that's part of the reason the Gauntlet is so screwed up! You think it's because my mana is sealed or whatever?"
Well, that might have answered one question. But there were plenty more knocking around inside Rosch's head. The problem was deciding which one to ask first.
"Gods...?" He tilted his head in confusion, and a stray lock of hair settled across his nose. "So they're just going around, snatching people up, stripping away their powers, and just dumping them here?"
He listened to the rest of Stocke's explanation, his expression clearly telegraphing the the slow realization of impending horror.
Rosch's throat went suddenly dry. "We're..." He paused, swallowing hard. "They're gonna turn us into... monsters...?" Lips skinned back from teeth in an anguished growl. "But why?! What's the point?! Just what are these bastards trying to accomplish, huh?!"
In fury, Rosch swung the Gauntlet to one side (luckily avoiding Stocke in the process) and slammed it into the nearest object (which, unfortunately, happened to be someone's nicely plastered facade), burying his fist up to the knuckles. Cracks radiated outward, and a few chunks of plaster fell loose and toppled to the pavement. Rosch's teeth were bared
canines oddly sharpened, for a human...and roared his frustration over the sound of the servos in the Gauntlet screeching in protest at the abuse.