“Look, Ampora, your fluke magic crasher was good — it stings like a fucking constant to the thinkpan — but why in the good name of Odin would you declare a duel against a professor?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?!” Eridan snarls, the congealed blood in his nose obscuring his accent. He’s wheezing. Sollux probably shouldn’t find that as appealing as it was.
“For fuck’s sake you idiot, just drop the act,” Sollux spits, pulling Eridan’s ridiculous scarf closer, “I’ve got you burned and webbed and all this pretty fog nullifies your goddamn attacks. You know this—“
The high wizard raises a hand in defiance, weak magic pulsing from his palm. “Stop overestimatin’ yourself, Captor! Maybe I just got tired of seein’ your piss-yellow ass struttin’ around.”
Sollux rakes him in, eyes starting to spark with power.
“I’m built to destroy wizards. Like you. So you’ve got ten seconds to explain before I land a fire bolt on your royal grubnook and make a new manteau outta your roasted hide.”