Tarquin Wroe lied on the floor, unmoving.
Dark blood ran from gunshot wounds on his head and body.
His calves and feet were folded awkwardly beneath his thighs.
A foolish expression of confusion... or perhaps betrayal had frozen onto his face.
Tycondrius was quickly losing his patience.
"If you don't at least *breathe,* Mister Wroe, then I cannot administer a healing potion in good faith."
...Even the playful taunt elicited no reaction from the Hexblade.
It was concerning.
As time passed, the lack of blood flow to the man's brain had the potential to reduce his intelligence to unprecedented levels of incompetence.
"Tarquin Wroe... I *order* you to breathe."
He snapped his fingers.
⟬ ⌈Commander's Strike⌋ failed. ⟭
With his System's response, Tycon felt his heart sink.
He crouched down beside his old friend.
