That's about the only thing Rosinante is sure of. When he raises his shotgun to fire at it, he's aware that its visage is shifting rapidly - hallucinations blurred and unwinding as his potion-enhanced mind battles to make sense of the reality rather than what the spirit wants him to see. It whispers, it laughs, it uses his brother's voice and drags up the horror from within him that shrouds his vision in gray-red-pink, his sense of smell in death and gunpowder. For one sickening moment, he's a child again.
If not for the potion he may have bolted for the trees, once again to run with no goal but to escape, but he swallows and forces the fear and nausea down and refocuses on his target right as it's inches from closing with him - a hulk of muscle equal to his own height, its stomach-mouth a whirling circle of bladelike teeth that quickly envelop his arms the very moment he pulls the trigger.
His shotgun, once Winters', is damaged; the shot comes out as an explosion that knocks him back and would burn if it could. The spirit twitches, gnaws at the snow where it fell, then is set upon by one of the allied green-eyes and torn to shreds in its moment of weakness.
Rosinante's arms are shredded with dozens of deep cuts - he'll have to back off and heal up if he wants to fire a single further bullet with any other weapon. Worse, though, will be the hallucinations, for at random, on occasion, when speaking to anyone he deeply cares for, he'll see them die an abrupt, violent death and be unable to do anything about it only for things to go right back to normal moments later.
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That's about the only thing Rosinante is sure of. When he raises his shotgun to fire at it, he's aware that its visage is shifting rapidly - hallucinations blurred and unwinding as his potion-enhanced mind battles to make sense of the reality rather than what the spirit wants him to see. It whispers, it laughs, it uses his brother's voice and drags up the horror from within him that shrouds his vision in gray-red-pink, his sense of smell in death and gunpowder. For one sickening moment, he's a child again.
If not for the potion he may have bolted for the trees, once again to run with no goal but to escape, but he swallows and forces the fear and nausea down and refocuses on his target right as it's inches from closing with him - a hulk of muscle equal to his own height, its stomach-mouth a whirling circle of bladelike teeth that quickly envelop his arms the very moment he pulls the trigger.
His shotgun, once Winters', is damaged; the shot comes out as an explosion that knocks him back and would burn if it could. The spirit twitches, gnaws at the snow where it fell, then is set upon by one of the allied green-eyes and torn to shreds in its moment of weakness.
Rosinante's arms are shredded with dozens of deep cuts - he'll have to back off and heal up if he wants to fire a single further bullet with any other weapon. Worse, though, will be the hallucinations, for at random, on occasion, when speaking to anyone he deeply cares for, he'll see them die an abrupt, violent death and be unable to do anything about it only for things to go right back to normal moments later.