[Fugo clenches his jaw and bites down his own comeback. What's the point? Giorno has already made up his mind that he's going about this the wrong way. He forces his shoulders down and ignores the unpleasantly cold feeling of snow melting into his slacks. He pushes everything aside to focus on the spell; on opening up his senses to magic. He can taste the spell now-- bitter and sour. He can feel the heat of it beneath his palms, slowly eating away at the vessel it was born in.
Come back to me, he thinks, because more than anything else, this spell is about willpower. Come back and we'll try again.]
[Slowly, something else begins to rise up with the steam. Giorno will recognize the color of it-- a shimmering purple haze, the same color as the mirage of water in the distance. It isn't really here, but neither is it there, caught in the still foul-smelling liquid underneath Fugo's hands. It creeps sullenly back into him, as if it's reluctant to cram itself back in with the rest of his magic.]
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Come back to me, he thinks, because more than anything else, this spell is about willpower. Come back and we'll try again.]
[Slowly, something else begins to rise up with the steam. Giorno will recognize the color of it-- a shimmering purple haze, the same color as the mirage of water in the distance. It isn't really here, but neither is it there, caught in the still foul-smelling liquid underneath Fugo's hands. It creeps sullenly back into him, as if it's reluctant to cram itself back in with the rest of his magic.]