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Despite not knowing what he was searching for, not even what he was following, Anfarwol could feel that his goal was within reach. Or at least the location was. The strong thrumbing of aether within his body urging him forwards, drowning out everything else, channelling his focus on the single goal he’d been clawing towards ever since he had been returned to the forest in which he had (presumably) been taken from.
And as he entered upon a clearing before a cliff face, the thrumbing in his mind, his body, his soul , swiftly turned into a crescendo.
He felt trapped.
As much as he wished to move forward, a part of him was refusing. Unwilling to finally unearth that which he had sought after for so many years.
So loud was the aether in his veins that he didn’t notice that he had been building up a tangible fire within each of his hands until Gliommoux slapped him square across the face.
The Ishgardian had been calling out to Anfarwol. Had tried to grab his hands to cease the building fire. Yet Anfarwol heard naught. Felt naught. T’was only the shock and the forceful change of his gaze that had brought him out of the state he had become locked in.
Anfarwol looked down to Gliommoux’s seared hands and gently took them in his own. Silently apologising as he tended to the monk’s fresh wounds. Perhaps it would be best if he left the decision on what to do til the morrow.