Aziraphale feels it too, that baleful voice, pulsing through his manifested form quite unpleasantly - even for him, how is that poor human withstanding it? She seems nearly at the bitter end of her rope, but she must be singularly strong to have lasted so long, but it's going to destroy her - or at least her dreamself, if that's how this works? - if he doesn't interfere soon. And it's so clear that this villain has no intention of listening to reason. Of course he doesn't. They're all the same, the ones like this.
Fortunately, the thing mortals say about old habits is true. With a gesture buried deep in muscle memory, a light, unassuming flick of the wrist, he drags his sword out of the aether, sets it aflame with a crack and a sudden whiff of ozone. The effort costs him a bit of his hold on his assumed form, and his wings burst forth as well, flaring out, not quite as impressive as they could be, unkempt as they are, but it doesn't much matter at this point. He must be giving off a bit of a glow. He only hopes the woman can cope with a sight like this in her state. At least he's still three-dimensional, any more might be pushing it.
"Don't say I didn't warn you," he says (Crowley would be so proud, he thinks at the back of his mind), and lunges.
He's not sure what he's anticipating, really - a fight, some sort of dark magic to fend him back, a really tussle, perhaps. But he doesn't get it. The creature seems almost incapable of physically defending itself, and doesn't seem to anticipate Aziraphale's own immense show of force. Which is fair enough. Aziraphale's not really looking for a grandiose struggle. His sword tears right through the demon, ripping its body apart like soft clay. The unfleshy ooze of it melts and sizzles instantly, and he breaks apart, crumbling in liquid pieces to the floor, a noxious black puddle.
Aziraphale jumps back with a casual flap of his wings and stares at the remains for just a moment before turning his attention to the woman. He frees her shackled ankle with a wrathful sweep of his hand and crosses to her at once, the still-crawling poison burning up around him as he passes through it. He vanishes his sword and crouches down before her.
"Give me your hands," he instructs, soft but brisk, wanting to deal with this first and foremost.
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Fortunately, the thing mortals say about old habits is true. With a gesture buried deep in muscle memory, a light, unassuming flick of the wrist, he drags his sword out of the aether, sets it aflame with a crack and a sudden whiff of ozone. The effort costs him a bit of his hold on his assumed form, and his wings burst forth as well, flaring out, not quite as impressive as they could be, unkempt as they are, but it doesn't much matter at this point. He must be giving off a bit of a glow. He only hopes the woman can cope with a sight like this in her state. At least he's still three-dimensional, any more might be pushing it.
"Don't say I didn't warn you," he says (Crowley would be so proud, he thinks at the back of his mind), and lunges.
He's not sure what he's anticipating, really - a fight, some sort of dark magic to fend him back, a really tussle, perhaps. But he doesn't get it. The creature seems almost incapable of physically defending itself, and doesn't seem to anticipate Aziraphale's own immense show of force. Which is fair enough. Aziraphale's not really looking for a grandiose struggle. His sword tears right through the demon, ripping its body apart like soft clay. The unfleshy ooze of it melts and sizzles instantly, and he breaks apart, crumbling in liquid pieces to the floor, a noxious black puddle.
Aziraphale jumps back with a casual flap of his wings and stares at the remains for just a moment before turning his attention to the woman. He frees her shackled ankle with a wrathful sweep of his hand and crosses to her at once, the still-crawling poison burning up around him as he passes through it. He vanishes his sword and crouches down before her.
"Give me your hands," he instructs, soft but brisk, wanting to deal with this first and foremost.