His body doesn't react the way he wants it to; slow, sluggish, in a haze, in a dream. A living nightmare, as the grasp tightens first around his leg to the point where he can't hope to escape. His magic flickers away as panic lances through him, abandoning him with disturbing ease. He tries to pull away, but it's a futile effort. More tentacles reach out and restrain him, wet and disgusting, bruising his skin as they tighten around him.

The one reaching around his neck almost makes him cry out in frustration and dread, but whatever noise he was going to make catches in his throat as he hears a very familiar voice echo all around him.

"Y-you-!" he finally manages to sputter, through practically grit teeth. Logic escapes him, as it often does in nightmares. All he knows is that voice means danger, and here he is, prone and useless.