Crumbling Ruin
The Altar
He'd intended for the blow to be simple. Even as angry and hostile as he'd been, there'd been intent behind his actions-- to get the Mandalorian as far away from the candle as possible. It had been hasty, sloppy, and motivated by both his frustration, and his fear of what could come next.
At worst, the Mandalorian would be injured. At worst, the attack would've turned the group against him. These things could be made up for-- helping the man with his injuries and explaining his actions could go a long way.
But none of that happened.
Instead, as he'd yelled, he'd felt this place's intrusions into his mind. The wild frustration that had turned to rage became incoherent, frothing hatred. His half measured, half furious rant turned into a mixture of half words and guttural noises. The already shoddy grip on the mandalorian was only further unfocused, and coupled with the surge of hate that burned through him, it was uncontrollable. Waves of kinetic energy sprang from him, slamming into everyone and everything. He'd completely lost control over both himself, and the situation.
Than came the whispering in his ears, the laughing cackles of long dead evils. They laughed, even in the milliseconds that he had before the candle went flying at him. His entire body had tensed up, muscles cramping in place out of nowhere. In his current mental state, it was hard to focus on any one thing. As the door opened and a horde of wasps poured out, fear clashed against the overwhelming, near animalistic fury within him. All of it was so... overwhelmingly horrible.
All he'd wanted to do was get fuel. Just a simple desire to leave this planet. Yet he'd foolishly walked into a trap in spite of his better judgement. Now, when he'd tried doing something as basic as defending himself, he'd inadvertently put himself, and everyone else, in complete danger. The moments cycled, and he stood there, face still twisted in rage. Aquamarines bulged, amber rings circling round his irises and throbbing red veins cutting through a sea of white, which had turned a sickly pink.
It was all so much. Fear, anger, hatred, all of it poured from him. Would he have been able to command this power if it weren't for this place? If it weren't for the cackling in his ears, the pain that shot through him as his body tried to shift position. These thoughts would burn through all the turmoil that raged within him. But none of it mattered as the candle whizzed past him, and as the wasps flew forward.
Flight from this place was what he wished to do. But these things weren't going to let him. The monsters in his mind and flying right towards him wouldn't allow it. They were enemies; enemies that could only be destroyed, or ran from. Going back into the previous room wouldn't save him, going through the hall that the wasps had come from was a beyond foolish proposition, and diving into the water could wreak untold horrors. None of his options had improved, and he had to consider this as the wasps flew towards him.
It was the anger that drove him to do more than just flee.
With an ear shattering roar, Laeonas summoned his powers again. He had no control, but he could still do his work. In spite of the pain that radiated from him when joints moved, like a rusty hinge scraping, the man let his arms flail, swatting the massive insects. In spite of the pain in his hand, he'd clap in the air, smashing the insects. But more than that, he'd lash out with the force again. There was no precision this time, not even an attempt to focus through the fog. Just a screaming man letting the concussive blasts pop the little monsters as they flew.
Their stings sent waves of pain through his body. Even in such an incoherent rage, he knew fighting these things was pointless. Scooping up his vibrosword once again, he'd sheathe the blade as he ran towards the water. Agony rippled throughout his entire body, but pain was something he was familiar with. He wouldn't let this ruin be his tomb. He wouldn't be reduced to a bag of flesh and hanging skin. He would survive, escape from this place, and do as he pleased with a galaxy that was all for his taking. The knowledge of the force, riches of his own, all of it would grow. The scarring on his hand would be like all the others that covered his body.
He'd ignored every one of them; the force wielding woman's laughter, the harlequin's screams, even the albino's impotent yelling. None of it mattered as he took in a breath and dove in. The force would fill his lungs as much as the air, and he would try desperately to focus through the pain and the evil of this place to keep them full for as long as possible.