05-04-2015, 06:33 PM
Whirda hit the ground before she could process the Spartan’s blow, light exploding in front of her eyes like fireworks. Through sheer warrior’s instinct, she used her momentum to twist into a backward somersault, regaining her feet. Blood poured into her eyes from a fresh gash in her forehead. She wiped it away with the back of one hand and spat.
The all-too-familiar feeling of the contagion coursed through her, replacing pain and exhaustion with cold fury. Her veins flooded black, just like before, but this felt different. This felt good. For the first time, Whirda didn’t fight it; she let the contagion take hold.
Her vision darkened. Shreds of shadow swirled around her, torn from the air like cotton. Almost quicker than her mind could comprehend, she scanned the battlefield and came to a conclusion, the plan forming automatically.
The Spartan fell to his knees, the tip of the mercenary’s sword emerging from his back with a spray of red. Dio Brando struggled to stand, saliva and foam dripping from his snarling lips, his shirt torn open and his chest charred and smoking. Blues stood in a catatonic stupor.
“Sorry, kid,” she murmured, drawing all she could from the thrumming lines of power in the air around her.
The maelstrom formed between the bedraggled Primes, fierce winds whipping their torn clothes. It grew in size and intensity, black clouds forming above. Skeins of electricity rippled along their swollen underbelly, the air crackling with heat. The shreds of shadow gravitated to the storm, forming an opaque barrier. One by one, the four warriors were claimed like rag-dolls.
Alain tried to burst from the maelstrom’s grasp, his head and torso emerging, his face twisted in consternation. The feat almost seemed possible until the Spartan’s discarded shield slammed into his back. The red mercenary went limp, and the storm claimed him once more. Whirda caught sight of him a moment later as he collided with Blues, the crunch audible over the howling winds.
Not content to watch the Primes hurled to and fro, Whirda focused on creating a clone. To her surprise, the shadow around her coalesced into not one clone, but three, each identical, each wearing the same mask of indifference. Shaking her head bemusedly, she issued them a simple command and they reacted at once, sprinting forward and hurling themselves into the umbral maelstrom. Whirda wiped the fresh sheet of blood from her brow and followed suit.
The winds caught her and twisted her upside down. She conjured gust after gust of stabilizing wind, managing to right herself as she progressed toward the eye of the storm. Dio whipped past an inch in front of her face, roaring incomprehensibly, and his trailing knee struck her back, wrenching her sideways with a groan. Fresh pain blossomed from the wounds inflicted by the tarrasque’s fangs.
Another gust of wind brought her above the contorted bodies of Atelos and Alain before she spotted Blues, his expression still dreamy despite the chaos around him. Dio came around again, somehow managing to spot her and open his arms wide in an attempt to crush her in his grasp. One of Whirda’s clones came up swiftly behind him, upside down and hysterically still indifferent to the proceedings.
Granted incredible speed by the sickness raging within her, Whirda flipped her dagger into an icepick grip. She teleported once, appearing atop Dio’s back. The Prime twisted, trying to grasp her, but Whirda was quicker. The pommel of her dagger struck at the base of Dio’s neck and the pompous warrior slumped.
Whirda made contact with her clones, providing a second, familiar command. Detonate. Her next teleport brought her to Blues’s side, her companion regarding her with a befuddled frown. After a moment’s concentration she felt a link form between them, an invisible tether of shadow stretched taut and waiting.
When she teleported again, the preteen machine travelled with her, the pair appearing outside the clutches of the savage maelstrom just as the thunderous boom of the clones detonating echoed throughout the peculiar verse.
Blues fell to his knees, smoke pouring from a half-dozen holes in his armor. It occurred to Whirda that killing him would be simple. In the back of her mind, she desired it. She recalled Ahn’Thrix’s words: “Once the shadow is inside you, it ceases to be a choice. It is an addiction. One from which you can never hope for freedom—from which you won't even want to be free.”
The thought faded along with the contagion’s hold. No longer able to sustain the maelstrom, the winds died down. Dio, Atelos, and Alain hit the ground as the storm cleared, now bound by dozens of wriggling shadow serpents, each struggling to break free.
“Finish them, kid,” Whirda pleaded as the exhaustion took her.
The all-too-familiar feeling of the contagion coursed through her, replacing pain and exhaustion with cold fury. Her veins flooded black, just like before, but this felt different. This felt good. For the first time, Whirda didn’t fight it; she let the contagion take hold.
Her vision darkened. Shreds of shadow swirled around her, torn from the air like cotton. Almost quicker than her mind could comprehend, she scanned the battlefield and came to a conclusion, the plan forming automatically.
The Spartan fell to his knees, the tip of the mercenary’s sword emerging from his back with a spray of red. Dio Brando struggled to stand, saliva and foam dripping from his snarling lips, his shirt torn open and his chest charred and smoking. Blues stood in a catatonic stupor.
“Sorry, kid,” she murmured, drawing all she could from the thrumming lines of power in the air around her.
The maelstrom formed between the bedraggled Primes, fierce winds whipping their torn clothes. It grew in size and intensity, black clouds forming above. Skeins of electricity rippled along their swollen underbelly, the air crackling with heat. The shreds of shadow gravitated to the storm, forming an opaque barrier. One by one, the four warriors were claimed like rag-dolls.
Alain tried to burst from the maelstrom’s grasp, his head and torso emerging, his face twisted in consternation. The feat almost seemed possible until the Spartan’s discarded shield slammed into his back. The red mercenary went limp, and the storm claimed him once more. Whirda caught sight of him a moment later as he collided with Blues, the crunch audible over the howling winds.
Not content to watch the Primes hurled to and fro, Whirda focused on creating a clone. To her surprise, the shadow around her coalesced into not one clone, but three, each identical, each wearing the same mask of indifference. Shaking her head bemusedly, she issued them a simple command and they reacted at once, sprinting forward and hurling themselves into the umbral maelstrom. Whirda wiped the fresh sheet of blood from her brow and followed suit.
The winds caught her and twisted her upside down. She conjured gust after gust of stabilizing wind, managing to right herself as she progressed toward the eye of the storm. Dio whipped past an inch in front of her face, roaring incomprehensibly, and his trailing knee struck her back, wrenching her sideways with a groan. Fresh pain blossomed from the wounds inflicted by the tarrasque’s fangs.
Another gust of wind brought her above the contorted bodies of Atelos and Alain before she spotted Blues, his expression still dreamy despite the chaos around him. Dio came around again, somehow managing to spot her and open his arms wide in an attempt to crush her in his grasp. One of Whirda’s clones came up swiftly behind him, upside down and hysterically still indifferent to the proceedings.
Granted incredible speed by the sickness raging within her, Whirda flipped her dagger into an icepick grip. She teleported once, appearing atop Dio’s back. The Prime twisted, trying to grasp her, but Whirda was quicker. The pommel of her dagger struck at the base of Dio’s neck and the pompous warrior slumped.
Whirda made contact with her clones, providing a second, familiar command. Detonate. Her next teleport brought her to Blues’s side, her companion regarding her with a befuddled frown. After a moment’s concentration she felt a link form between them, an invisible tether of shadow stretched taut and waiting.
When she teleported again, the preteen machine travelled with her, the pair appearing outside the clutches of the savage maelstrom just as the thunderous boom of the clones detonating echoed throughout the peculiar verse.
Blues fell to his knees, smoke pouring from a half-dozen holes in his armor. It occurred to Whirda that killing him would be simple. In the back of her mind, she desired it. She recalled Ahn’Thrix’s words: “Once the shadow is inside you, it ceases to be a choice. It is an addiction. One from which you can never hope for freedom—from which you won't even want to be free.”
The thought faded along with the contagion’s hold. No longer able to sustain the maelstrom, the winds died down. Dio, Atelos, and Alain hit the ground as the storm cleared, now bound by dozens of wriggling shadow serpents, each struggling to break free.
“Finish them, kid,” Whirda pleaded as the exhaustion took her.
Quote:Used one round of Shadow Form and Umbral Maelstrom, SP 0/3.
![[Image: drink-pepsi-cola.jpg]](https://lph5i1b6c053kq7us26bdk75-wpengine.netdna-ssl.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/08/drink-pepsi-cola.jpg)