Four's fist clenches and unclenches. A cord of muscles
along his arm spasm in attempted unison, his eyes roll
aimlessly in their sockets and his mouth begins to move,
move, move; Wind doesn't even realize he has clamped
his hand over the smithy's mouth until he feels sticky lips
move beneath his palm. Four's irises tremble against
white. Wind presses down harder, smothering Four's
answers beneath his hand, and he watches, aghast, as
the smithy's eyes roll to the back of his head.