That was all needed to be said. Gale whispered a small request for forgiveness in her head as she readied the spell, gathering its energy where she could feel it condensing in her finger tips, drifting up the veins of the wooden staff. Magic was such a peculiar, personal art -- Gale did not think that anyone but a mage could truly appreciate how it felt to cast magic, wrenching and shaping and forming that malleable energy until it took the form of a spell. When the Blind spell freed itself from the confines of her mind, streaking towards Merrion, Gale could feel her stomach twist as if she were the one being affected by the spell, the overly-familiar darkness cloaking over her vision like permanent night or, as one of her peers had described, like a sheet thrown over the head (though far, far less poetic).
"Now cure yourself," Gale said, retreating a step or two away from Merrion -- just in case.