It was like falling and having a scream ripped from your chest. It was reflex, it was unthinking and uncaring about psychics or death.
Ilya closed his eyes.
There was no doubt in his mind, to the point that the thought barely even crossed his mind, that he could block or catch the hammer … or survive it, most likely. Pragmatism took over. He just waited for death.
Pragmatism fled, and was replaced but an instant flush of first relief, and then, when that faded, the ever-present undercurrent of fear, his mind coming back to its natural pace.
Ilya reached into his pouch, his hands shaking with adrenaline or maybe fear or maybe fear or maybe fear, and then he paused.
The cup had a Mask of Creation symbol on it. He probably shouldn’t blow up Ekimu’s ancient chalice. He placed it into his pouch, for no reason other than that it was handy … and maybe the cup was valuable …
He shook his head. Don’t steal from Makuta.
He left the cup in his pouch.
He still had his final potion. He couldn’t hit the Makuta now, not with so many crowding around him, not without knowing what the potion did. But maybe …
Was the hammer far enough away from the rest of the party?