His vision came to him in fits and spurts, slipping in and out of oblivion. He was hurting pretty badly. The whitewash sound created by Thunder's magical fit drowned out nearly everything else as eldritch light lit up the entire courtyard. He had to be running low, he simply had to. Everything Handy had seen about magic implied it cost effort and exertion. Old magic didn't seem to follow the same rules from what he could tell, but Thunder had to be wearing himself out. Handy had even managed to strike a physical blow after all this time. It was probably the only one he was going to get. He had given up a bit of blood and was feeling the consequences. He nearly had his windpipe collapsed on him, and every breath felt like a small, brisk miracle. And he had just been flung around like a doll while in such a state. This he could not just shrug off, and every movement felt like a titanic effort of will. Arcs of magical lightning struck the walls and ground around him. An unfortunate pegasus was struck in the wing and collided with the ground ten feet in front of him.