12-07-2015, 01:54 PM
A grid of blood opened up over the alabaster man’s jawline, his body spiraling away into the snowy battlefield. The once-mighty marauder couldn’t keep track of him, her eyes clouded by cataracts. Obscurity surrounded her, and what little she could see was blurred beyond any true recognition. The only thing she could identify with any surety was the delicate flakes of snow the fell onto her cheeks.
Her old bones crackled and creaked as she tipped herself onto her side, wrinkled fingers sinking into the frigid ground. She hissed through her teeth and pulled back, the cold now sharp. Her brow folded and wrinkled as she began to notice the ache in her joints, the wheeze in her breath. For the first time in her brief life, she felt frail.
“Do you feel it?” a voice snarled from somewhere beyond her sight. It was cruel voice, twisted by hatred.
“Yes,” she croned. Her wrist flinched back when the cold pierced her hand again, but she willed herself through it and pushed herself up. Her knees wobbled and cracked under her weight, but she stood firm.
She barely managed to hear the sound of his footfalls as he approached, and she was thankful for the snow’s crunch. The aches of a long, hard life throbbed from her shoulder when she lifted her bracer to defend herself. The wicked scythe bit through the ancient steel, sparks falling in equal measure to the flakes of rust. His cruel grin gleamed from the blur of white, sharp teeth carved from his bleached features into an image diabolical sadism.
“There is so much more I can take from you,” he whispered, allowing her mind to imagine which nightmares he would indulge her with.
“I can take your strength,” he snapped viscously and levered down on his scythe, forcing her to her knees.
“I can take your breath.” A knee sank into her unprotected gut, forcing the wind from her lungs.
Gloom materialized in his free hand, casting awful purple highlights over the checkered trenches in his face. His red eyes bore down into her, his nose turned high in superiority. The undulating magic grew larger as he poured his essence into it, his attack painting the snow with dancing darkness. He brought the ball of shadow back as it reached its maximum size and density, and smiled.
“I can take your life.”
Magus threw his palm forward and the blast engulfed the venerable old woman’s body, swallowing her in a sea of black magic. Swirling, inky, fumes filled the area, the sorcerer tainting the soil and sky with his foulness. He savored the silence that followed.
As the magician strode through the wafting miasma of shadow he had created, he glimpsed what must have been the tattered body of his opponent. The scythe still clung to her arm, the haft stabbing out into the air.
The man’s cruel, injury-distorted smirk retained its position. It soon vanished however, when the smoldering pile of flesh and steel fidgeted its miserably contorted body. “How-“ he stammered, before he was cut off.
“What I can’t take any more of,” the bandit barked, her voice clear and youthful as it had been before, “is any more of your bullshit.”
She was quickly to her feet, her entire body layered with grotesque injury from the blast. She reached up and grabbed the handle of his scythe, prying it free from her armor and slapping it onto the ice below. “I’ve already told you, you dense shit, I ain’t got anything you can steal from me.” Rotating her arm, she massaged one of the various tears in the muscle from her brief moment of geriatrics.
Magus was unwilling to listen to another of the woman’s lectures, and instead lobbed another volley of shadow at her and rushed forward. She leapt, tucking and rolling over her sledgehammer, retrieving it on the way up. A puff of dark summoned his blade back to him, and the thunderous clang of metal filled the arena when their weapons met.
The two wounded warriors glared, only inches apart. “I got nothing,” she growled.
Stepping to the side, Magus pulled his weapon back and skillfully spun on his heel, allowing the bandit’s strength to work against her. She staggered forward at the sudden lack of resistance, and he swooped in behind her by completing his turn. The butt of the haft pounded between her shoulder blades, and once again she was kneeling.
“So there’s nothing to take.”
Her old bones crackled and creaked as she tipped herself onto her side, wrinkled fingers sinking into the frigid ground. She hissed through her teeth and pulled back, the cold now sharp. Her brow folded and wrinkled as she began to notice the ache in her joints, the wheeze in her breath. For the first time in her brief life, she felt frail.
“Do you feel it?” a voice snarled from somewhere beyond her sight. It was cruel voice, twisted by hatred.
“Yes,” she croned. Her wrist flinched back when the cold pierced her hand again, but she willed herself through it and pushed herself up. Her knees wobbled and cracked under her weight, but she stood firm.
She barely managed to hear the sound of his footfalls as he approached, and she was thankful for the snow’s crunch. The aches of a long, hard life throbbed from her shoulder when she lifted her bracer to defend herself. The wicked scythe bit through the ancient steel, sparks falling in equal measure to the flakes of rust. His cruel grin gleamed from the blur of white, sharp teeth carved from his bleached features into an image diabolical sadism.
“There is so much more I can take from you,” he whispered, allowing her mind to imagine which nightmares he would indulge her with.
“I can take your strength,” he snapped viscously and levered down on his scythe, forcing her to her knees.
“I can take your breath.” A knee sank into her unprotected gut, forcing the wind from her lungs.
Gloom materialized in his free hand, casting awful purple highlights over the checkered trenches in his face. His red eyes bore down into her, his nose turned high in superiority. The undulating magic grew larger as he poured his essence into it, his attack painting the snow with dancing darkness. He brought the ball of shadow back as it reached its maximum size and density, and smiled.
“I can take your life.”
Magus threw his palm forward and the blast engulfed the venerable old woman’s body, swallowing her in a sea of black magic. Swirling, inky, fumes filled the area, the sorcerer tainting the soil and sky with his foulness. He savored the silence that followed.
As the magician strode through the wafting miasma of shadow he had created, he glimpsed what must have been the tattered body of his opponent. The scythe still clung to her arm, the haft stabbing out into the air.
The man’s cruel, injury-distorted smirk retained its position. It soon vanished however, when the smoldering pile of flesh and steel fidgeted its miserably contorted body. “How-“ he stammered, before he was cut off.
“What I can’t take any more of,” the bandit barked, her voice clear and youthful as it had been before, “is any more of your bullshit.”
She was quickly to her feet, her entire body layered with grotesque injury from the blast. She reached up and grabbed the handle of his scythe, prying it free from her armor and slapping it onto the ice below. “I’ve already told you, you dense shit, I ain’t got anything you can steal from me.” Rotating her arm, she massaged one of the various tears in the muscle from her brief moment of geriatrics.
Magus was unwilling to listen to another of the woman’s lectures, and instead lobbed another volley of shadow at her and rushed forward. She leapt, tucking and rolling over her sledgehammer, retrieving it on the way up. A puff of dark summoned his blade back to him, and the thunderous clang of metal filled the arena when their weapons met.
The two wounded warriors glared, only inches apart. “I got nothing,” she growled.
Stepping to the side, Magus pulled his weapon back and skillfully spun on his heel, allowing the bandit’s strength to work against her. She staggered forward at the sudden lack of resistance, and he swooped in behind her by completing his turn. The butt of the haft pounded between her shoulder blades, and once again she was kneeling.
“So there’s nothing to take.”
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