11-14-2015, 02:43 PM
The snivelling little devil hunter taunted him; something about a fair fight, all the while Magus’ Wither leeched the strength and life from his adversary’s veins, hurling his body forward through time until the moment before his inevitable demise.
The once pretty white-haired man was now a shrivelled up husk, wrinkled and stooped and spotted by age and illness. The rickety old man hefted his sword, its weight now throwing him off-balance. Magus chuckled, swiping the incoming blade away and out of Dante’s hands with an effortless back-handed parry.
His free hand darted out and clamped down around the now-old man’s throat, slamming him up against the wall of the modest bookstore behind him. Magus stabbed Dante in the gut once, twice, three times, before hurling the broadsword away and driving a hard cross across his face, and then started choking Dante with both hands.
“Look at you,” Magus hissed through gritted teeth, death in his wild, red eyes. “You’re pathetic! Did you ever think you stood a chance against me?!”
Dante gurgled and choked response, grabbing Magus’ wrist with a frail, liver-spotted hand.
“Why did you join this tournament, anyway? Fame? A reward? You simpleton. You know why I joined?” the Fiendlord grinned, gripping his hand on the back of Dante’s head and driving his face down into Magus’ knee, smashing his nose and dropping him to the ground.
“To teach them to be afraid.”
Dante coughed and spluttered as his vitality began to return to him. Magus watched as his opponent grew more youthful by the second, albeit marred by a bloodied nose, an eye swollen shut, and horrific bruises all over his face and throat. The multiple stab wounds in his gut didn’t help much either.
“Then… what…?” the gunslinger choked, obviously stalling for time. Magus raised an eyebrow. He was surprised he hadn’t crushed the fool’s trachea.
“I’ll win this contest, and I’ll use the fame to raise an army against our Divine Jail Warden. I’ll either force Omni to send me back home, or I’ll kill him. Camelot will quake beneath the boots of the Demon King before I’m through.”
It was Dante’s turn to laugh. A weak, choked bark of humor rattled between his lips.
“Even gods die sometime,” Magus growled.
“And-” Dante rasped from where he lay. “So do demons.”
Magus’ eyes widened but it was too late. Dante’s arm flicked up, shotgun in hand. A white burst of flame and then he was tossed off his feet, crashing onto the rough cobbles, his entire torso aflame with agony.
The wizard fought to raise his head and inspected the damage. His leather chest plate had been shredded, and his blood was spattered all over himself. He coughed, flecks of blood further staining his countenance. With a strained grunt of exertion, he propped himself up on his elbows.
Dante was nowhere to be seen. Licking his wounds, no doubt. “You fucking coward.”
If it was reversed, Magus would have executed his coup de graçe right then and there.
Every movement sent dolorous spears shooting through seemingly every nerve he had. Even his teeth hurt. There must have been a quarter pound of buckshot just jangling around in his insides.
That gave him an idea. Magus closed his eyes for a moment and tried to focus on phasing only his body, and soon, he faded away.
It worked; little lead pellets began falling to the ground with delicate little clinks, bouncing along the cobbles, but it had worked a little too well, as his clothing, including his famous cloak and armor, fell away with them.
“Well, shit,” Magus breathed as he phased back. Bloody and naked as a jay bird, he grabbed his pants and his boots and sprinted into an alley, where he hastily threw his pants back on to cover himself and tugged his boots back over his feet.
Already, he felt a lot better. Looking down at his naked chest, he realized he’d been lucky. Though parts of his torso looked a little more like hamburger than flesh, none of the shot pellets had gotten too terribly deep, and without them moving around inside him any longer, the pain was… tolerable.
Outrageously painful, but tolerable.
He’d been tortured enough times to regulate pain. This wasn’t any different.
It didn’t mean Magus wasn’t going to return the favor, however.
No. Dante had given up his chance for a quick death. Now, he would be made to suffer extraordinary, exquisite pain.
The once pretty white-haired man was now a shrivelled up husk, wrinkled and stooped and spotted by age and illness. The rickety old man hefted his sword, its weight now throwing him off-balance. Magus chuckled, swiping the incoming blade away and out of Dante’s hands with an effortless back-handed parry.
His free hand darted out and clamped down around the now-old man’s throat, slamming him up against the wall of the modest bookstore behind him. Magus stabbed Dante in the gut once, twice, three times, before hurling the broadsword away and driving a hard cross across his face, and then started choking Dante with both hands.
“Look at you,” Magus hissed through gritted teeth, death in his wild, red eyes. “You’re pathetic! Did you ever think you stood a chance against me?!”
Dante gurgled and choked response, grabbing Magus’ wrist with a frail, liver-spotted hand.
“Why did you join this tournament, anyway? Fame? A reward? You simpleton. You know why I joined?” the Fiendlord grinned, gripping his hand on the back of Dante’s head and driving his face down into Magus’ knee, smashing his nose and dropping him to the ground.
“To teach them to be afraid.”
Dante coughed and spluttered as his vitality began to return to him. Magus watched as his opponent grew more youthful by the second, albeit marred by a bloodied nose, an eye swollen shut, and horrific bruises all over his face and throat. The multiple stab wounds in his gut didn’t help much either.
“Then… what…?” the gunslinger choked, obviously stalling for time. Magus raised an eyebrow. He was surprised he hadn’t crushed the fool’s trachea.
“I’ll win this contest, and I’ll use the fame to raise an army against our Divine Jail Warden. I’ll either force Omni to send me back home, or I’ll kill him. Camelot will quake beneath the boots of the Demon King before I’m through.”
It was Dante’s turn to laugh. A weak, choked bark of humor rattled between his lips.
“Even gods die sometime,” Magus growled.
“And-” Dante rasped from where he lay. “So do demons.”
Magus’ eyes widened but it was too late. Dante’s arm flicked up, shotgun in hand. A white burst of flame and then he was tossed off his feet, crashing onto the rough cobbles, his entire torso aflame with agony.
The wizard fought to raise his head and inspected the damage. His leather chest plate had been shredded, and his blood was spattered all over himself. He coughed, flecks of blood further staining his countenance. With a strained grunt of exertion, he propped himself up on his elbows.
Dante was nowhere to be seen. Licking his wounds, no doubt. “You fucking coward.”
If it was reversed, Magus would have executed his coup de graçe right then and there.
Every movement sent dolorous spears shooting through seemingly every nerve he had. Even his teeth hurt. There must have been a quarter pound of buckshot just jangling around in his insides.
That gave him an idea. Magus closed his eyes for a moment and tried to focus on phasing only his body, and soon, he faded away.
It worked; little lead pellets began falling to the ground with delicate little clinks, bouncing along the cobbles, but it had worked a little too well, as his clothing, including his famous cloak and armor, fell away with them.
“Well, shit,” Magus breathed as he phased back. Bloody and naked as a jay bird, he grabbed his pants and his boots and sprinted into an alley, where he hastily threw his pants back on to cover himself and tugged his boots back over his feet.
Already, he felt a lot better. Looking down at his naked chest, he realized he’d been lucky. Though parts of his torso looked a little more like hamburger than flesh, none of the shot pellets had gotten too terribly deep, and without them moving around inside him any longer, the pain was… tolerable.
Outrageously painful, but tolerable.
He’d been tortured enough times to regulate pain. This wasn’t any different.
It didn’t mean Magus wasn’t going to return the favor, however.
No. Dante had given up his chance for a quick death. Now, he would be made to suffer extraordinary, exquisite pain.
![[Image: Magus.jpg]](http://rpnexus.com/sig/miscsig/Magus.jpg)