A film of thick, hidelike shadow slipped protectively over his hand and he gripped the edge of the cane, sides of his lips tensing, twitching down into a frown-- he could still feel the sharpness, but it was softer, muted.

The magic seemed to respond better when he was angry. Maybe because that's when he used it the most. Funny, how those things ended up working. He summoned a few clumps of shadow to wind around his ankles and keep him anchored steadily to the roof, and then started to push the cane-- and, hopefully, Riddler-- back. He felt sick calling on more shadows to wind up his body, his arm that was attached to the cane, to help add strength and force, but did it anyways. "It was barely enough. We're not--" and then, bit-off and bitter, "mentally sound, all of us. You're lucky nobody went looking for you."