That affirmation is enough to actually raise Erik's eyebrows, or the rough semblance he has of them, anyway. There is a strange cracking sensation, a sense of something dry breaking open, imperceptibly small flakes of clay breaking off and dissipating. He has the strange space to wonder (time seems dilated like this, everything slowed down to syrup) if he could move his face enough to crack along the seams, if he'd be flesh underneath or just more earth.
Then he has to actually deal with the fact that Tony isn't departing under his own power, or can't; perhaps under the circumstances he ought to feel more charitable, considering what he knows of the absolute erosion of any human dignity. Then again, that's never been a virtue he's ascribed to anyway. It's such an inelegant solution, brute force, but that's this body, that's what it does. He's just traded one weapon for another.
The broad plane of his shoulders creaks as he turns a glance over at Ned, still clearly positioned uncertainly somewhere between flight and--well, between flight and flight, actually; he wouldn't have much idea how to convey reassurance if he wanted to, so the fact that he's present will have to serve. They've had this conversation, and Erik only ever says what he means. He's putting more distance between the two of them, which makes him a less direct shield, but as the drag of one foot in front of the other takes him toward Tony, he's also advancing on the prominent threat.
Already crushed flowers smear further along the ground under the soles of his feet; an iris here, a patch of daisies there. The environment Ned has created, festooned with trees as it is, would be something on any other day he'd appreciate aesthetically. Now all of his focus is occupied by Tony.
The stance he takes up in the aim of .......throwing him is not the same as the hold he used to lift him away from Ned: that was more or less a discus throw. This has more in common with a hard shove, a straight shot that when Erik pushes, drawing back back impossibly long arms so that the blocks he has for shoulderblades touch, should send Tony flying backwards on what amounts to a linear plane.
Thus at least avoiding the pinball aspect of the trees around them. One hopes.
no subject
Then he has to actually deal with the fact that Tony isn't departing under his own power, or can't; perhaps under the circumstances he ought to feel more charitable, considering what he knows of the absolute erosion of any human dignity. Then again, that's never been a virtue he's ascribed to anyway. It's such an inelegant solution, brute force, but that's this body, that's what it does. He's just traded one weapon for another.
The broad plane of his shoulders creaks as he turns a glance over at Ned, still clearly positioned uncertainly somewhere between flight and--well, between flight and flight, actually; he wouldn't have much idea how to convey reassurance if he wanted to, so the fact that he's present will have to serve. They've had this conversation, and Erik only ever says what he means. He's putting more distance between the two of them, which makes him a less direct shield, but as the drag of one foot in front of the other takes him toward Tony, he's also advancing on the prominent threat.
Already crushed flowers smear further along the ground under the soles of his feet; an iris here, a patch of daisies there. The environment Ned has created, festooned with trees as it is, would be something on any other day he'd appreciate aesthetically. Now all of his focus is occupied by Tony.
The stance he takes up in the aim of .......throwing him is not the same as the hold he used to lift him away from Ned: that was more or less a discus throw. This has more in common with a hard shove, a straight shot that when Erik pushes, drawing back back impossibly long arms so that the blocks he has for shoulderblades touch, should send Tony flying backwards on what amounts to a linear plane.
Thus at least avoiding the pinball aspect of the trees around them. One hopes.