His airways are closed off even more as his feet leave the ground, and for a moment his thrashing doesn't stop, but flags into something weaker, its pace drawn down to nearly nothing. His lungs feel like they are on fire, and his free hand tries to claw at the one at his neck. He was relieved of his gauntlets at some point when he was brought here, before he regained consciousness, leaving his hands and arms bare under his robes and free of what were essentially -- well, claws. Decorative, yes, but a last-second defense should someone manage to get this close.

Those words hit him, and what about it makes it feel less like a lie than when the others insisted? Because of who it was? Who was to say the Dark Urge hadn't been lying at every other encounter before? Even if every instinct told Gortash that such a thing seemed pointless to him. Even if he knew the depth of this man's belief to be the Chosen of his god, and he would not speak of such matters on his behalf and use it for charade.

If he had any wind left to take from him it would be gone, because he believes that. Just as much as he believes he is going to die here, he now also has to let it exist alongside this notion that he is here because the god of Tyranny offered him. Sold him.

His toes scrape against the earth beneath them again, a scrabble of loose dirt and pebbles. A little less pressure, and he's trying to get a breath in without coughing. The hand holding the knife is smashed back against the stone wall, and he hisses in pain as it forces his fingers open, the weight leaving him.

If he had been wearing his gauntlets, it might have hurt more.

There's still fury in his eyes as he looks at the Dark Urge, the flames of a nearby brazier dancing madly across his features and making his tattoos appear to move on his ashen features. But that feeling is slowly being overtaken by pain, confusion.

What did I do?

"Why." The word chokes out.