11-11-2015, 12:33 PM
The man with the outrageous red leather coat and the silly white haircut suddenly screamed as though he was in an argument with someone, and though he could not see Magus, his reckless barrage of bullets grazed him on the cheek, shoulder, and thigh.
Then, suddenly, the man was rushing at him, guns clapping over and over again, spitting their deadly payload at the wizard, casings flying off erratically to the left and the right. It wasn’t hard to circle around to avoid the incoming metal storm and to ready his counterattack as Dante continued on his foolhardy sprint.
Magus braced himself – he hadn’t fought against such fury in a long time. He knew not what raced through his opponent’s head, but he could sense something raw; something savage and primal. His previous opponents had fought either out of pride – or of fear. This… this was something altogether different.
Just as Dante burst free from the Miasma, Magus lunged forward, plowing the tip of his blade into his adversary’s guts and straight out the other side. The audaciously dressed demon hunter shuddered and tensed uncontrollably, fighting the fiery agony radiating out from the horrific wound.
“Huh,” the mage quipped, his scarlet eyes dancing with something akin to amusement. “That was unexpected. And here I thought I might finally be pushed to exert myself in this tournament.”
“Y’know,” the impaled warrior rasped, choking on his own blood.
Magus patronizingly tilted his head in a pantomime of attentiveness. “Whatever it is you’ve got to say, you must be dying to tell me.”
“I’ve… got a lesson for you, actually,” Dante managed.
Magus literally laughed in his face. “And what might that be? A lesson in how to get your blood out of my clothes?”
“No, in gun safety.”
Magus looked down as a pistol was pressed into his gut. And then there was a bright flash as his body shuddered under some sudden, tremendous anguish. The bark of the .45 rang through his ears and he lost grip of his sword, stumbling back as Dante raised both his guns to Magus’ head, and fired.
The wizard fell, crashing onto the cobblestone street. He pressed a hand on his wound, knowing instantly that he’d suffered a catastrophic wound.
He opened his eyes to the familiar monochrome of the Place Between. His opponent stood, nearly frozen in time, guns drawn in front of him, identical gouts of flame slowly sprouting out of their barrels. A pair of bullets spun ever so slowly through the air in front of them, winding tiny vapor trails through the air as they went.
Magus sat up, grimaced at the pain that flooded his body as he did so, and then flopped over onto his hand and knees – his one hand still occupied with putting pressure on his gunshot wound. With a grunt of exertion, the Fiendlord climbed to his feet and clasped the hilt of his blade – still embedded in Dante’s flesh – with his free hand.
With a sharp tug, he pulled the blade free, stepping back into the material plane. In spite of his injuries, Magus raised his blade, intent on ending this fight here and now, and swiped at Dante’s neck, meaning to cleave his head straight off.
The foolhardy man seemed intent on keeping his head, however, and rolled out of the way, throwing up a hail of bullets as he ran to cover behind a building.
The barrage of gunfire forced Magus to beat his own retreat, and he ran stumbling down a narrow alley, bleeding through his armor and all over his gloved hand.
“Filthy dog,” the magister panted, rounding a corner and collapsing with his back up against the wall. “Why couldn’t you just… just die.”
Magus pulled his hand away to look at his wound, and then his bloody appendage burst into flame. Gritting his teeth and clenching shut his eyes, Magus pulled up his leather chest plate and shirt with one hand, and pressed his flaming palm onto his wound with the other.
He screamed as he literally seared shut his own flesh. He heard the sizzle and whiffed the stench of burning hair and flesh, cauterizing the wound, probably with the bullet still inside of him. It didn’t matter right now; as long as he could fell this insolent gunslinger before the infection took him, he could have it taken care of properly.
He looked at his work; a terrible, ugly red scar over milky flesh.
Then, suddenly, the man was rushing at him, guns clapping over and over again, spitting their deadly payload at the wizard, casings flying off erratically to the left and the right. It wasn’t hard to circle around to avoid the incoming metal storm and to ready his counterattack as Dante continued on his foolhardy sprint.
Magus braced himself – he hadn’t fought against such fury in a long time. He knew not what raced through his opponent’s head, but he could sense something raw; something savage and primal. His previous opponents had fought either out of pride – or of fear. This… this was something altogether different.
Just as Dante burst free from the Miasma, Magus lunged forward, plowing the tip of his blade into his adversary’s guts and straight out the other side. The audaciously dressed demon hunter shuddered and tensed uncontrollably, fighting the fiery agony radiating out from the horrific wound.
“Huh,” the mage quipped, his scarlet eyes dancing with something akin to amusement. “That was unexpected. And here I thought I might finally be pushed to exert myself in this tournament.”
“Y’know,” the impaled warrior rasped, choking on his own blood.
Magus patronizingly tilted his head in a pantomime of attentiveness. “Whatever it is you’ve got to say, you must be dying to tell me.”
“I’ve… got a lesson for you, actually,” Dante managed.
Magus literally laughed in his face. “And what might that be? A lesson in how to get your blood out of my clothes?”
“No, in gun safety.”
Magus looked down as a pistol was pressed into his gut. And then there was a bright flash as his body shuddered under some sudden, tremendous anguish. The bark of the .45 rang through his ears and he lost grip of his sword, stumbling back as Dante raised both his guns to Magus’ head, and fired.
The wizard fell, crashing onto the cobblestone street. He pressed a hand on his wound, knowing instantly that he’d suffered a catastrophic wound.
He opened his eyes to the familiar monochrome of the Place Between. His opponent stood, nearly frozen in time, guns drawn in front of him, identical gouts of flame slowly sprouting out of their barrels. A pair of bullets spun ever so slowly through the air in front of them, winding tiny vapor trails through the air as they went.
Magus sat up, grimaced at the pain that flooded his body as he did so, and then flopped over onto his hand and knees – his one hand still occupied with putting pressure on his gunshot wound. With a grunt of exertion, the Fiendlord climbed to his feet and clasped the hilt of his blade – still embedded in Dante’s flesh – with his free hand.
With a sharp tug, he pulled the blade free, stepping back into the material plane. In spite of his injuries, Magus raised his blade, intent on ending this fight here and now, and swiped at Dante’s neck, meaning to cleave his head straight off.
The foolhardy man seemed intent on keeping his head, however, and rolled out of the way, throwing up a hail of bullets as he ran to cover behind a building.
The barrage of gunfire forced Magus to beat his own retreat, and he ran stumbling down a narrow alley, bleeding through his armor and all over his gloved hand.
“Filthy dog,” the magister panted, rounding a corner and collapsing with his back up against the wall. “Why couldn’t you just… just die.”
Magus pulled his hand away to look at his wound, and then his bloody appendage burst into flame. Gritting his teeth and clenching shut his eyes, Magus pulled up his leather chest plate and shirt with one hand, and pressed his flaming palm onto his wound with the other.
He screamed as he literally seared shut his own flesh. He heard the sizzle and whiffed the stench of burning hair and flesh, cauterizing the wound, probably with the bullet still inside of him. It didn’t matter right now; as long as he could fell this insolent gunslinger before the infection took him, he could have it taken care of properly.
He looked at his work; a terrible, ugly red scar over milky flesh.
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![[Image: Magus.jpg]](http://rpnexus.com/sig/miscsig/Magus.jpg)