The crocodile he had slain out of sudden fear for himself and the child in the river. He had never killed a man before though. He backed his sons and himself away from the body. Hands struck out from the cells, begging, yelling, cheering. The riotous uproar was deafening as it rang through the building.
The shrewish man and another approached him quickly. Eoin pushed his sons behind him, gritting his teeth. He wasn’t sure he could do what he just did again in such quick succession. The Fyskar were not violent people. They didn’t teach their children how to do what he had just done. He caught the malice and fear in the tall man’s eyes and grasped for that cold anger that spread across his skin willingly. Not waiting to find out if his faith would hold, he barreled toward the taller of the two men. The short shrew of a man was the leader of this band of brigands. He needed a word with him.
Eoin caught the taller man’s thrown fist in his hand, his tendons straining against the force. With every remaining ounce of fear in his system he brought the man down to his knees, crumpling into a muttering shell. That left the shrew.
The man threw up his hands in defense, terrified for his life. Eoin approached him purposefully. He could no longer feel fear or anger in his system. He was spent and warm, his hands trembled with numbness. His sons clung to his legs, scared. Eoin grasped the man’s hand and yanked him into the void.
Eoin turned back to Seonaid and Fearchar in the void. “It’s amazing how well the human mind can understand will and request, even when the language isn’t shared,” he settled into his low stool near his little fire. Fearchar and Seonaid stood back, uncertain if they wanted to sit down or not. They had experienced every level of emotion and were strung thin.
“Wha’id ye do?” Fearchar whispered in the silent, inky blackness. Eoin looked up at him, leaning back slightly. “Why the bracers?”
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