08-06-2018, 07:07 AM
“Sasuke, Let me fight our comrade. There is much for me to learn here.” Serraph grinned, the blades of aether dissipating from relative existence. Sasuke nodded and split off to engage, as was the common theme of their boats up to this point,. Serraph took a moment to reflect upon the opposing teams in comparison to his own. Most teams spoke a moderate amount, but not Serraph’s. He and Sasuke held only understanding of one another. Their motivations for competing were perhaps be worlds apart, but the end result still remained the same. They had no real need for companionship, but only the strength and knowledge that came with growth.
Serraph took a step forward. In the dead of night, the full moon’s lonely light above reflected off the Former Espada. Such an effect brought a certain elegance and grace to his every motion no matter how minimal. His stature bore no hostile intent. He appeared as a child would, curious and innocent to the world around him. His eyes told a different story. Within the ageless silver eyes and deep within his soul, an insatiable hunger resided. The night and its moon called for it and drew his other from his innermost veiled depths.
Serraph could feel her at the back of his mind. Her presence grew, slowly encroaching his consciousness. Her guiding hand covering his own, she could feel the anger and thirst for battle with every beat of his hollowed heart. “It’s night again, my Seraphim. You must be awfully tired. Why don’t you sleep, my Seraphim.” Serra whispered into his ear.
“No, not here. Restrain yourself.” Serraph gritted his teeth and clenched his hands into tightly bound fists. The warm spirit's guidance had transitioned from the warm, soft embrace to a cold and aggressive one. Invisible tendrils moved throughout his spiritual structure. “You’d aim to control me against my will?!”his mind screamed, willing his body to fight back against the oppressive force.
The change in posture was immediate. For a split second, Serraph’s form lowered, the spacing between his feet widening. A gloved hand dug into the blood-soaked soil beneath him. Erik was taken aback, immediately on guard from the change in demeanor. The telepath reached out with his mind to perhaps glean a clue as to what happened with Serraph, but Serra cut the link almost immediately after contact.
He sprung himself towards Erik, the light psionic blades flaring as they clashed. Conflicting powers sparked, singeing the ground beneath their feet. Erik pushed him away without difficulty and extended an arm out by his side. Powerful psi energy charged through the length of his fingers and flowed into space beneath them. A disk of radiant purple light flashed into existence. “Blessed father Gal’skap, guide my hand!” Erik drew back his arm.
A wicked smile stretched over Serraph’s face, tearing the fragile skin the further it stretched. His movements mirrored that of his opponent’s. Erik cried out and launched his chakram and Serraph returned in kind. Streaks of purple light tore through the darkness and collided with each other. Psionic sparks flew from the impact in a flash of brief, yet distracting light.
When it resided, Serraph was no longer there. Up the hill, he climbed to the ominous building that topped it. The smell of blood tainted the air around it in a thick haze. Serra missed this, the rank smell of gore and bloody bits. The horrid smell put Serra at ease, and she receded back into the depths of his soul. Serraph was perplexed, but pleasantly so! Something around here had gotten his old hollow instincts riled again, and it wasn’t merely just the night sky above. No, something else was at play here.
The pale Babylonian entered the clinic, his leather shoes stepping into a puddle consisting of an unknown substance. The further he ventured into the hallway that led to the receptionist desk. A dimly lit lamp flickered, casting shadows of non-existing objects over the substance covered walls. The closer he approached, Serraph and the spirit within him could see what it was. Red ichor was splashed everywhere. It rolled down the walls like vengeful hands taking all who may enter. It dripped hungrily from the ceiling as if preparing to devour its guests. Serraph blinked, and at that moment everything he saw had changed.
The blood was dry, and the air ceased to stink of death. It was a radical transformation, leading him to believe that perhaps his mind was playing tricks on himself. Then again, maybe it was something less internal and more external. Could the deaths of what Serraph assumed to be in the hundreds if not thousands bend the space of this area? The concentration of souls chained to this location no doubt could give the old decaying clinic some terrifying characteristics.
“Interesting,” he muttered, pressing his hand against a bloodstain flaking from the wall. “Perhaps I’ll let the others fight. There is much to learn here, I feel.”
Serraph took a step forward. In the dead of night, the full moon’s lonely light above reflected off the Former Espada. Such an effect brought a certain elegance and grace to his every motion no matter how minimal. His stature bore no hostile intent. He appeared as a child would, curious and innocent to the world around him. His eyes told a different story. Within the ageless silver eyes and deep within his soul, an insatiable hunger resided. The night and its moon called for it and drew his other from his innermost veiled depths.
Serraph could feel her at the back of his mind. Her presence grew, slowly encroaching his consciousness. Her guiding hand covering his own, she could feel the anger and thirst for battle with every beat of his hollowed heart. “It’s night again, my Seraphim. You must be awfully tired. Why don’t you sleep, my Seraphim.” Serra whispered into his ear.
“No, not here. Restrain yourself.” Serraph gritted his teeth and clenched his hands into tightly bound fists. The warm spirit's guidance had transitioned from the warm, soft embrace to a cold and aggressive one. Invisible tendrils moved throughout his spiritual structure. “You’d aim to control me against my will?!”his mind screamed, willing his body to fight back against the oppressive force.
The change in posture was immediate. For a split second, Serraph’s form lowered, the spacing between his feet widening. A gloved hand dug into the blood-soaked soil beneath him. Erik was taken aback, immediately on guard from the change in demeanor. The telepath reached out with his mind to perhaps glean a clue as to what happened with Serraph, but Serra cut the link almost immediately after contact.
He sprung himself towards Erik, the light psionic blades flaring as they clashed. Conflicting powers sparked, singeing the ground beneath their feet. Erik pushed him away without difficulty and extended an arm out by his side. Powerful psi energy charged through the length of his fingers and flowed into space beneath them. A disk of radiant purple light flashed into existence. “Blessed father Gal’skap, guide my hand!” Erik drew back his arm.
A wicked smile stretched over Serraph’s face, tearing the fragile skin the further it stretched. His movements mirrored that of his opponent’s. Erik cried out and launched his chakram and Serraph returned in kind. Streaks of purple light tore through the darkness and collided with each other. Psionic sparks flew from the impact in a flash of brief, yet distracting light.
When it resided, Serraph was no longer there. Up the hill, he climbed to the ominous building that topped it. The smell of blood tainted the air around it in a thick haze. Serra missed this, the rank smell of gore and bloody bits. The horrid smell put Serra at ease, and she receded back into the depths of his soul. Serraph was perplexed, but pleasantly so! Something around here had gotten his old hollow instincts riled again, and it wasn’t merely just the night sky above. No, something else was at play here.
The pale Babylonian entered the clinic, his leather shoes stepping into a puddle consisting of an unknown substance. The further he ventured into the hallway that led to the receptionist desk. A dimly lit lamp flickered, casting shadows of non-existing objects over the substance covered walls. The closer he approached, Serraph and the spirit within him could see what it was. Red ichor was splashed everywhere. It rolled down the walls like vengeful hands taking all who may enter. It dripped hungrily from the ceiling as if preparing to devour its guests. Serraph blinked, and at that moment everything he saw had changed.
The blood was dry, and the air ceased to stink of death. It was a radical transformation, leading him to believe that perhaps his mind was playing tricks on himself. Then again, maybe it was something less internal and more external. Could the deaths of what Serraph assumed to be in the hundreds if not thousands bend the space of this area? The concentration of souls chained to this location no doubt could give the old decaying clinic some terrifying characteristics.
“Interesting,” he muttered, pressing his hand against a bloodstain flaking from the wall. “Perhaps I’ll let the others fight. There is much to learn here, I feel.”
Quote:Wc: 833
"Mine eyes hath seen the glory of the presence of my Lord. He is sifting through the treasures in which his Gates of Wrath does store. He lets loose the righteous vengeance of his terrible swift swords. Gilgemesh has returned!"