07-16-2017, 07:53 PM
Vulre smiled beneath the black cloth shrouding the lower half of his face, his long-delayed payment arriving at last. Ebonywood Hellscythe. “My condolences,” he said, grasping her frail hand and pulling the small child to her feet. The youth was putting on a brave face, but a bounty hunter such as himself made much of his living on reputation: fear, intimidation, and surprise could determine the fate of a fight more decisively than any weapon. While their attempt was admirable, there was certainly no shred of strength within their slight frame.
He attempted to withdraw his hand from her grasp and-
He could feel his bones shift beneath his well-weathered gloves, a hiss escaping through clenched teeth as he stifled a scream, drowning out an all-too quiet crack. Eyes desperately trying to disguise the fear within her lost and forgotten existence stared into his own dead orbs, searching for some source of stability and compassion that was simply not there. His own eyes were like marbles forged of green glass, entirely devoid of all the warmth and kindness one might find in a corpse. Nonetheless, tears started to well up in the corner of these empty eyes, a reflexive reaction to the crushing bones within his hand.
“Strong grip you have,” he said in a coarse whisper, his hand feeling like it was being transformed into an agonizing jelly, constrained only by the scarred and scratched leather. Was she some kind of witch, channeling her powers into her own physical form?
No, that was unlikely. Unless winging and whimpering qualified as components for a spell, there was precious little magic here at work, barring the workings of this Omni. Omni. Was this part of their work? Making a damn child stronger than him? For what maddening purpose?
He could feel his legs start to weaken, the vice-like grip of the child draining his vitality, sapping his strength as his hand went numb. “I’m gonna have to ask you to let go, now,” Vulre said, experimentally twitching the numb fingers held in her grasp, noting with dismay that his digits were unwilling to respond.
He turned his helmeted head to the titanic woman looming nearby, his situation in no ways improved by her proximity, give his immobility. He didn’t like this, surrounded by strangers, in pain, and with precious few means to escape short of engaging in what may be constituted as unwarranted violence by the ivory-clad enforcers nearby.
Hun. That was what the armoured amazonian had said earlier, a term of endearment. She was, presumably, kind and caring enough to assist a child. It was a task Vulre himself would freely admit he was unqualified for: Children were gentle, fragile things of feelings and impatient energy, things which were anathema to him. “Mind lending a hand here?” He asked the warrior-woman, silently cursing as his breath began to come just a little bit heavier, fingers without feeling suffering under the small sorceress’s grasp.
He attempted to withdraw his hand from her grasp and-
He could feel his bones shift beneath his well-weathered gloves, a hiss escaping through clenched teeth as he stifled a scream, drowning out an all-too quiet crack. Eyes desperately trying to disguise the fear within her lost and forgotten existence stared into his own dead orbs, searching for some source of stability and compassion that was simply not there. His own eyes were like marbles forged of green glass, entirely devoid of all the warmth and kindness one might find in a corpse. Nonetheless, tears started to well up in the corner of these empty eyes, a reflexive reaction to the crushing bones within his hand.
“Strong grip you have,” he said in a coarse whisper, his hand feeling like it was being transformed into an agonizing jelly, constrained only by the scarred and scratched leather. Was she some kind of witch, channeling her powers into her own physical form?
No, that was unlikely. Unless winging and whimpering qualified as components for a spell, there was precious little magic here at work, barring the workings of this Omni. Omni. Was this part of their work? Making a damn child stronger than him? For what maddening purpose?
He could feel his legs start to weaken, the vice-like grip of the child draining his vitality, sapping his strength as his hand went numb. “I’m gonna have to ask you to let go, now,” Vulre said, experimentally twitching the numb fingers held in her grasp, noting with dismay that his digits were unwilling to respond.
He turned his helmeted head to the titanic woman looming nearby, his situation in no ways improved by her proximity, give his immobility. He didn’t like this, surrounded by strangers, in pain, and with precious few means to escape short of engaging in what may be constituted as unwarranted violence by the ivory-clad enforcers nearby.
Hun. That was what the armoured amazonian had said earlier, a term of endearment. She was, presumably, kind and caring enough to assist a child. It was a task Vulre himself would freely admit he was unqualified for: Children were gentle, fragile things of feelings and impatient energy, things which were anathema to him. “Mind lending a hand here?” He asked the warrior-woman, silently cursing as his breath began to come just a little bit heavier, fingers without feeling suffering under the small sorceress’s grasp.
Torcher of tomes, slayer of sorcerers, taker of ears, and flayer of men. Reasonable rates.