01-12-2017, 03:39 AM
It doesn't go the way I'd hoped. Rather than running, or panicking, or obligingly dying, Coxley dives forward, rolling under the arcs of astral charge, and drives his sword into my stomach.
It hurts, which is something I did not expect at all. The blade fails to break through my scales, but I can feel the blow, and my mood isn't improved by the sudden barrage of arrows that erupts from the trees, fired by bowmen in hoods and dark clothing who seem to melt out of the forest like ghosts (which are an idea I find profoundly offensive - when something has been destroyed, it should stay gone). Any one of their primitive projectiles I could safely ignore, but there are so many of them that they practically set my hide ringing.
I try to grab the bandit leader's sword, but he's already pulled it back, and he makes a pair of stinging, shallow slashes across my chest, scoring my scales, actually managing to mar my glorious, shining perfection! Another storm of arrows erupts from the trees, and it seems like every one of them strikes me in the back.
It hasn't come up before now, but confronted with someone who can actually fight, surrounded by what must be at least a dozen archers, I'm suddenly faced with the fact that I have no idea how to use this body. Previously, my raw power had been enough, but I'm outflanked, and Coxley is both skilled and surprisingly powerful.
I roar, and spit a bolt of energy, but he sidesteps, and kicks me in the side of the knee, quickly tumbling out of reach when nothing is achieved. I turn to follow, hands thrown wide and sparking, the staccato rhythm of my glorious electric discharge raking a lethal arc across the trees! Several of the archers are struck, screaming their lives away as my peerless lightning blasts the flesh from their bones, but Coxley merely frowns, ducking and weaving as my efforts flicker harmlessly around him.
My frustration is growing. I kick and flail, lunging and swinging my limbs in great, powerful arcs, but Coxley evades easily, his lips twitching as he tries not to smile. How dare he mock me like this! This bandit is just another tiny, scurrying creature - unique, yes, and worth appreciating for that, but nowhere near grand enough to challenge me. Coxley is no Destroyer. The power of a star doesn't burn within his chest! My one and only defeat, beneath the claws and flashing balefire of an opponent whose immaculate ferocity and unrelenting force were unmatched across eons, will not be followed by humiliation at the hands of a MINIATURE THIEF!
He thrusts again, in the same spot as before, and this time the man actually draws a single drop of golden blood.
My vision goes red.
Responding to the anger, something inside me stirs. The eyes of my two dormant heads snap open, shining like dying stars. There is no intelligence there - I'm still alone within myself - but my desperate rage has roused them nonetheless, and I can see through their eyes.
The difference between having two points of reference when aiming and having six is almost as marked as the difference between having hands and having wings.
Coxley presses the attack, slashing again. I swing my claws at him and he sidesteps easily. I step back, focusing all six of my eyes on him as another barrage of arrows - this one much less intense than before - shatters against my burnished body.
Gathering my power and triangulating carefully, I attack. Three streams of golden lightning converge on the bandit leader, spiraling around each-other as the energies intertwine. The look of surprise on Brock Coxley's face when they catch him in the chest, erupting from his back in a shower of ash and bloody embers, that moment of confusion when the little light behind his eyes goes out and everything he was is lost forever, is nothing less than superb!
As I suspected, knowledge of what I'm taking away adds a whole new dimension to the act.
My two pairs of auxiliary eyes return to dormancy as I turn from my fallen foe. I sweep sheets of power across the forest for a solid half-minute, and the archers disappear, either turned to ashes or returned to the shadows. Soon, the crackle of burning undergrowth and the rustle of the wind in the leaves is the only sound that remains.
My lips part in a savage snarl of victory.
I. Win!
It hurts, which is something I did not expect at all. The blade fails to break through my scales, but I can feel the blow, and my mood isn't improved by the sudden barrage of arrows that erupts from the trees, fired by bowmen in hoods and dark clothing who seem to melt out of the forest like ghosts (which are an idea I find profoundly offensive - when something has been destroyed, it should stay gone). Any one of their primitive projectiles I could safely ignore, but there are so many of them that they practically set my hide ringing.
I try to grab the bandit leader's sword, but he's already pulled it back, and he makes a pair of stinging, shallow slashes across my chest, scoring my scales, actually managing to mar my glorious, shining perfection! Another storm of arrows erupts from the trees, and it seems like every one of them strikes me in the back.
It hasn't come up before now, but confronted with someone who can actually fight, surrounded by what must be at least a dozen archers, I'm suddenly faced with the fact that I have no idea how to use this body. Previously, my raw power had been enough, but I'm outflanked, and Coxley is both skilled and surprisingly powerful.
I roar, and spit a bolt of energy, but he sidesteps, and kicks me in the side of the knee, quickly tumbling out of reach when nothing is achieved. I turn to follow, hands thrown wide and sparking, the staccato rhythm of my glorious electric discharge raking a lethal arc across the trees! Several of the archers are struck, screaming their lives away as my peerless lightning blasts the flesh from their bones, but Coxley merely frowns, ducking and weaving as my efforts flicker harmlessly around him.
My frustration is growing. I kick and flail, lunging and swinging my limbs in great, powerful arcs, but Coxley evades easily, his lips twitching as he tries not to smile. How dare he mock me like this! This bandit is just another tiny, scurrying creature - unique, yes, and worth appreciating for that, but nowhere near grand enough to challenge me. Coxley is no Destroyer. The power of a star doesn't burn within his chest! My one and only defeat, beneath the claws and flashing balefire of an opponent whose immaculate ferocity and unrelenting force were unmatched across eons, will not be followed by humiliation at the hands of a MINIATURE THIEF!
He thrusts again, in the same spot as before, and this time the man actually draws a single drop of golden blood.
My vision goes red.
Responding to the anger, something inside me stirs. The eyes of my two dormant heads snap open, shining like dying stars. There is no intelligence there - I'm still alone within myself - but my desperate rage has roused them nonetheless, and I can see through their eyes.
The difference between having two points of reference when aiming and having six is almost as marked as the difference between having hands and having wings.
Coxley presses the attack, slashing again. I swing my claws at him and he sidesteps easily. I step back, focusing all six of my eyes on him as another barrage of arrows - this one much less intense than before - shatters against my burnished body.
Gathering my power and triangulating carefully, I attack. Three streams of golden lightning converge on the bandit leader, spiraling around each-other as the energies intertwine. The look of surprise on Brock Coxley's face when they catch him in the chest, erupting from his back in a shower of ash and bloody embers, that moment of confusion when the little light behind his eyes goes out and everything he was is lost forever, is nothing less than superb!
As I suspected, knowledge of what I'm taking away adds a whole new dimension to the act.
My two pairs of auxiliary eyes return to dormancy as I turn from my fallen foe. I sweep sheets of power across the forest for a solid half-minute, and the archers disappear, either turned to ashes or returned to the shadows. Soon, the crackle of burning undergrowth and the rustle of the wind in the leaves is the only sound that remains.
My lips part in a savage snarl of victory.
I. Win!