Emeros wanted Throvald to flee. Such power was something so terrifying that he could not believe it even existed.
A pall of gray spread outward like a blanket being unfurled over the world. It drifted over them soft as dust but heavy as despair. The air lost its color. Sound dulled.
To everyone, motion seemed like an unnecessary luxury.
Emeros felt something warm and suffocating press down on his thoughts. His heartbeat slowed, not from fear, but from a sense of indifference. His legs numbed as if walking had always been optional. His fingers forgot why they were holding the spear-turned-gun.
The weapon that was Noxus was also struggling.
It was losing its form, and Noxus was feeling extremely... lazy.
Simera staggered mid-step. Her grip loosened on her sword as if the act of holding a weapon had become an unreasonable demand. Throvald blinked slowly, stupidly, his expression slackening into something halfway between confusion and contentment.
