Tycondrius leapt out of the magical shadows, Shatterspike in mid-swing... aimed to slice off the head of one of his closest friends.
It cut cleanly through the air and... nothing else.
Surprised, Tycon lost his balance as he landed, somersaulting onto the sand... getting itchy grains of it into hair.
...How frustrating.
Wroe was... nowhere to be seen.
...After assessing his surroundings, Tycon realized it was he who had erred.
He had emerged over a dozen yalms away from his intended destination.
"...Of course," He cradled his face in his palm.
He was in one of the seven hells. It was an oversight, but magical hell-darkness did not have the same properties as magical... 'regular' darkness.
--still... he'd misplaced an entire Daeva because of it.
"Hades!" Tycon raised his voice.
Narrowing his eyes, he glanced left and right, searching for... anything that resembled a small house in size.
