02-28-2016, 12:23 PM
The Warlock keeled over, wrapping his arms around the fresh cavity in his chest. He gurgled profusely as his soul regurgitated out from his fatal wound, billowing through the crevices between his arms in the form of blue fumes. The warlock fell to his knees. What was left of him—just a hollow shell—tardily crumbled into a rounded pyramid of ash. As his head disintegrated, the final relic dropped into the pile the dust of his remains, sinking into the pyramid with an inaudible splash. The blue fumes of his soul paused, and levitated in place, as if glaring at the reapers of his life. Then it warped, and shot into the bowels of the cave.
The suited demon snatched the gold-plated helmet from the dusty remains of the warlock, and rushed back over to his only remaining compadre, boasting about the newest accessory to his ensemble. But his exuberant visage soon slumped, grief-stricken as he realized his friend's status—by the swordsman's look of it, the Kai-looking fellow only had a few dozen breaths left in him.
Trunks related to the demon man's pain. He was in that same frame of feeling not too long ago, when he scurried in a frenzy, searching for Ammy. That heart-thumping feeling, which he assumed felt much like cardiac arrest; while its occurring, your ears mute your surroundings, and all you're left with is the sounds of your heartbeat rapidly echoing, and hysteria running laps in your mind. A part of him sent his remorse.
He turned his sights to Ammy. Her body laid lifelessly, top-half bathed by the morning sun. While the Warlock's soul traveled out the top of the cave, Trunks was sure Ammy's soul would transverse to the sun, and to whatever lay beyond it. Thank you for your sacrifice, he said. I am indebted to you. Tears began to muster up in his eyes, but he clasped his lids shut; enough of those were shed earlier, and the swordsman refused to weep while in the presence of others.
He hoped this meant the end—he hoped it meant Teucer would finally liberate him from the island, no strings attached—but kept the wishful thinking nullified. The suspicion he held towards the Spirit still lingered like a chest cold, and the swordsman could cough out a handful of rebuttals to anyone who tried to counter his assumptions. The pessimist inside of him doubted this was the end. If it were, why didn't Teucer magically teleport everyone back to the temple—did he not want his precious relics?
Trunks surveyed how many people survived the battle. The two-toned mouse's squad lived—all of them, including the woman recently brought back from the dead—, and appeared to have high moral while conversing with the duo of wild-haired men; the adolescent survived, along with the woman carrying the octopus creature; though the demon man's partner wasn't going to last much longer, he himself seemed to get by without sustaining any further injuries.
He gritted his teeth.
The swordsman took note of where his rifle laid—if he were the center of a clock, his firearm would have been at ten o'clock—and cautiously walked towards it, never pulling his eyes from the crowd.
He'd be damned if Tuecer--or anyone--caught him off-guard.
The suited demon snatched the gold-plated helmet from the dusty remains of the warlock, and rushed back over to his only remaining compadre, boasting about the newest accessory to his ensemble. But his exuberant visage soon slumped, grief-stricken as he realized his friend's status—by the swordsman's look of it, the Kai-looking fellow only had a few dozen breaths left in him.
Trunks related to the demon man's pain. He was in that same frame of feeling not too long ago, when he scurried in a frenzy, searching for Ammy. That heart-thumping feeling, which he assumed felt much like cardiac arrest; while its occurring, your ears mute your surroundings, and all you're left with is the sounds of your heartbeat rapidly echoing, and hysteria running laps in your mind. A part of him sent his remorse.
He turned his sights to Ammy. Her body laid lifelessly, top-half bathed by the morning sun. While the Warlock's soul traveled out the top of the cave, Trunks was sure Ammy's soul would transverse to the sun, and to whatever lay beyond it. Thank you for your sacrifice, he said. I am indebted to you. Tears began to muster up in his eyes, but he clasped his lids shut; enough of those were shed earlier, and the swordsman refused to weep while in the presence of others.
He hoped this meant the end—he hoped it meant Teucer would finally liberate him from the island, no strings attached—but kept the wishful thinking nullified. The suspicion he held towards the Spirit still lingered like a chest cold, and the swordsman could cough out a handful of rebuttals to anyone who tried to counter his assumptions. The pessimist inside of him doubted this was the end. If it were, why didn't Teucer magically teleport everyone back to the temple—did he not want his precious relics?
Trunks surveyed how many people survived the battle. The two-toned mouse's squad lived—all of them, including the woman recently brought back from the dead—, and appeared to have high moral while conversing with the duo of wild-haired men; the adolescent survived, along with the woman carrying the octopus creature; though the demon man's partner wasn't going to last much longer, he himself seemed to get by without sustaining any further injuries.
He gritted his teeth.
The swordsman took note of where his rifle laid—if he were the center of a clock, his firearm would have been at ten o'clock—and cautiously walked towards it, never pulling his eyes from the crowd.
He'd be damned if Tuecer--or anyone--caught him off-guard.