It is not helping, and neither is Strange's refusal to stop talking, even if that speech isn't strictly more information--it still takes brainpower for Foster to process what it isn't, and he's starting to lose the last vestiges of control over his reactions. His paws clench fitfully, 3-inch claws curling inwards at the sound of Strange's continued voice. It's not just pressure; it's disorder, it's desperation, it's the half second from eruption, either at himself or at Strange. He wants his focus back, his thought, not--not this, and--
Thankfully, he gets that half a second (maybe even a whole second, or two!) to reclaim himself, or at least force words out, though he feels alarmingly disconnected from them now.
"The... the king's roads," Foster starts, but waves a paw rapidly to ward him off of speech yet--Strange having gotten closer, this swipes those ursine claws mere inches from the magician's face.
"The mmmm...." He takes an impatient breath. "M-master of lost hope." His eyes are bright-shining, a blue glint in stark contrast with the volatile tension of his body. It's like he's compressing, really. "That... that first."
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Thankfully, he gets that half a second (maybe even a whole second, or two!) to reclaim himself, or at least force words out, though he feels alarmingly disconnected from them now.
"The... the king's roads," Foster starts, but waves a paw rapidly to ward him off of speech yet--Strange having gotten closer, this swipes those ursine claws mere inches from the magician's face.
"The mmmm...." He takes an impatient breath. "M-master of lost hope." His eyes are bright-shining, a blue glint in stark contrast with the volatile tension of his body. It's like he's compressing, really. "That... that first."