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A Ferrata Legio reports they've captured a hostile sparkspeaker. And they'll transport him to Windchurn the moment he -- Hey --
<span class="mu-i">sunfed from the midday point, where the grand Eye above lends the most strength, the sparkspeaker theurge growls and whips his head up, suddenly stronger than three men and warmer than ten. Heat radiates. The Ferrata legio grits his teeth and maintains the steel-grip on his prisoner despite the sudden white-hot pain this act entails and he brings his fist up once - twice - again - trying to reduce the fulminant stargazing madman to concussive darkness but it avails him not. Theurges, when pushed to extreme, fed by sunlight and adrenaline and sensation, they're more Other than they are Here, and pain is more sensation that draws in more attention that lets them channel vaster things across the Threshold. This one is leaving humanity behind, at pace, sparking his own soul in a last ditch spiteful spate of sheer, undiminished desire to watch us and all our works dim to ash.
The Sparkspeakers, each and all, are recalcitrant to be taken alive. They do not abide by the polite conventions of the Accords of War. Few theurges will ever willingly be prisoners when they can instead go out, sunbright, hallowed and exalt themselves to the Eye in their final moments.
Sometimes, staring too long at distant stars erodes human fragility and perspective both.</span>
<span class="mu-b">SIR! THE ACCELERANT! MOVE! HE'S SPARKING OFF</span>
