The unmistakable blinding brilliance of holy magic shines through the clearing in bursts and flashes of light.
Every person still conscious drops to their knees, heads bowed, collectively deciding that witnessing an actual divine being is an event that calls for immediate, unquestioning reverence and humility.
Val, who has spent the entirety of the chaos calmly, methodically stuffing his face with whatever abandoned snacks he could scavenge from the fleeing crowd, finally steps through the field of kneeling villagers, wiping his mouth clean on one sleeve.
A snap of his fingers wreathes him in a brief curl of ash magic, and by the time it clears his suit sits immaculate once more, silver-grey hair perfectly preened, not a single hair out of place despite the pressure wave that flattened an entire village's residents mere moments earlier. He looks, as ever, entirely unbothered by events that would send most mortals into a screaming panic.
