Each footstep set the blackened bones and feathers bound at the back of His head into a quiet hollow rattle. The Witch-Prince Spirit stopped His pacing. There was a moment of amusement in His eyes. Shaking His head, He and announced quite plainly.

"You would not survive it." Absolute certainty.

The green ichor swirled about Him, and the image leaned forward just a fraction.

"I was you. Held back by the same thing that holds you back, even now."