02-20-2018, 11:46 PM
For a brief moment, the vision of God's Executioner was filled with a baleful red glow, and his entire body wreathed in a halo of agony. His hand, pinned to the ground by the Huntress's blade, was ripped free of its impalement with a splattering of blood to send him toppling back, flopping and tumbling end over end to land in a smoking, scorched heap.
He drew in a shuddering breath, his entire body quaking, before all at once he lurched up. Rising from prone, to his knees, and leaping back to his feet. His glasses had been vaporized in the blast, his front side bloodied and his clothing torn and scorched. Only the cross hanging about his neck remained miraculously unblemished, gleaming a pale gold. His breathing was heavy, labored, and rattling as he stared listlessly dead ahead. In his brief moment of pain and agony, laying upon the ground, Weiss had disappeared. Elsewhere, into the fray, no doubt.
His eyes slowly roved over the scene, settling upon the other combatants. The hulking, diseased abomination and the thrice-damned demon. A demon of blades, blood and violence fighting a creature of disease, death and decay. There was a twisted sort of irony to it, that brought a wry grimace to the Paladin's face. He sucked in a breath, baring bloodied teeth as he flourished his left arm, drawing one of his exploding blades, and hurled it at the demon even as a spear erupting from his palm skewered the plagued behemoth to great effect. The distraction served to great effect, as the blade nearly hit home; the silver weapon sliced a neat gash across the ribs of the demon, impaling itself into the earth between the hellish combatants.
Immediately, the weapon's hilt expanded, the pommel blasting off as smoke and a red glare of light issued forth. With barely a moment's delay, the blade shattered as explosives in the hilt went off with a noise like thunder. A deafening boom and a hail of silvery shrapnel pelted everything within a dozen feet of the blade, leaving the site scorched and cratered. Wherever a shard of the weapon struck the ground, flowers and thorns sprang up, silvery marble spreading between them.
Anderson himself was swift behind the blast, his eyes set and narrowed in a predatory cast. His mangled right hand, broken and cut nearly in half, hung limply at his side, already on the mend but still mostly useless. His left had already drawn another of his blades, holding it at the ready. Through the haze and the smoke, he strode swiftly, blood dripping from his wounds. Each drop left a new growth of thorned, deadly plants in his wake, writhing and squirming for blood, thick clouds of ash and dust drifting from their leaves like pollen. It cast a shroud of silver and gray about him, and his eyes seem to glow, the gentle green iris ringed with an unearthly, pale flare of silvery-blue light.
The demon was the one to meet him first, flashing out of the haze with blades sprouting from each arm and bore down on the holy man with a frenzy of strikes. "No idea what your deal is, old man," he started, his lips curled into a smirk. "And I hate to be the one to break it to ya, but church is out." Under his swift blows, Anderson was hard-pressed to do more than mount a defense, one blade trying to contend with two. He held out for a while, dodging and ducking, weaving this way and that around strikes, deflecting them here and there, but still he received his fair share of glancing wounds, adding new tears and bloody splatters to his body and the ground on which they performed their deadly bladed dance.
Until all at once, the silver bayonet cracked. Kuzuru chortled in open amusement. "Shoddy weapons ya got there, eh?" And another parried blow shattered the weapon entirely, sending shards and splinters of the blessed metal raining down. "Tough luck, pal!" the demon snarled, as he lunged in for further punishment.
"Hold yer vile words, demon." Anderson's voice was cold and sharp as steel. He shot forward, meeting the hellspawn's charge with his own. His mangled hand burst forward in a blur of gray, the fingers trembling with the barely working nerves grasping wildly, madly, for the demon's throat. Kuzuru, taken somewhat aback by the sudden lunge, tried to backpedal, to line up for a more solid strike. The grasping fingers found only the collar of a soiled shirt, latching on with an iron grip, as Anderson threw himself forward, striking with a vicious headbutt, carrying the both of them down to the ground. A wordless roar, silver blazing in his eyes, Anderson struck out with his mostly intact hand, left arm striking repeatedly. Up and down, like a hammer, pounding and crashing against flesh and bone, grime and soil, marble and ash.
Fresh blood soon stained the already soiled white glove, the words scrawled on its back lost under crimson splotches. Ragged breaths desperately tried to fill lungs burning from exerting through so many injuries suffered so quickly, and still Anderson didn't slow down. Not until a blade pierced his arm, and a boot crashed into his side, throwing him off. He rolled in the ash and dirt of the field, the blood and grime of a war, and the rust and sludge of ages. He tumbled and rolled, springing back up to his feet in a feral crouch. "I'll not listen tae the likes o' you speak and blather at me," he spat. "I'll have that tongue ripped from yer damnable head before another word leaves you!"
With an arrogant smirk, the demon squared off his stance, wiping the stray muck and grime from his lips. "Another word," he sing-songed, his eyes lighting up at the sheer rage that flashed across the holy man's face.
He drew in a shuddering breath, his entire body quaking, before all at once he lurched up. Rising from prone, to his knees, and leaping back to his feet. His glasses had been vaporized in the blast, his front side bloodied and his clothing torn and scorched. Only the cross hanging about his neck remained miraculously unblemished, gleaming a pale gold. His breathing was heavy, labored, and rattling as he stared listlessly dead ahead. In his brief moment of pain and agony, laying upon the ground, Weiss had disappeared. Elsewhere, into the fray, no doubt.
His eyes slowly roved over the scene, settling upon the other combatants. The hulking, diseased abomination and the thrice-damned demon. A demon of blades, blood and violence fighting a creature of disease, death and decay. There was a twisted sort of irony to it, that brought a wry grimace to the Paladin's face. He sucked in a breath, baring bloodied teeth as he flourished his left arm, drawing one of his exploding blades, and hurled it at the demon even as a spear erupting from his palm skewered the plagued behemoth to great effect. The distraction served to great effect, as the blade nearly hit home; the silver weapon sliced a neat gash across the ribs of the demon, impaling itself into the earth between the hellish combatants.
Immediately, the weapon's hilt expanded, the pommel blasting off as smoke and a red glare of light issued forth. With barely a moment's delay, the blade shattered as explosives in the hilt went off with a noise like thunder. A deafening boom and a hail of silvery shrapnel pelted everything within a dozen feet of the blade, leaving the site scorched and cratered. Wherever a shard of the weapon struck the ground, flowers and thorns sprang up, silvery marble spreading between them.
Anderson himself was swift behind the blast, his eyes set and narrowed in a predatory cast. His mangled right hand, broken and cut nearly in half, hung limply at his side, already on the mend but still mostly useless. His left had already drawn another of his blades, holding it at the ready. Through the haze and the smoke, he strode swiftly, blood dripping from his wounds. Each drop left a new growth of thorned, deadly plants in his wake, writhing and squirming for blood, thick clouds of ash and dust drifting from their leaves like pollen. It cast a shroud of silver and gray about him, and his eyes seem to glow, the gentle green iris ringed with an unearthly, pale flare of silvery-blue light.
The demon was the one to meet him first, flashing out of the haze with blades sprouting from each arm and bore down on the holy man with a frenzy of strikes. "No idea what your deal is, old man," he started, his lips curled into a smirk. "And I hate to be the one to break it to ya, but church is out." Under his swift blows, Anderson was hard-pressed to do more than mount a defense, one blade trying to contend with two. He held out for a while, dodging and ducking, weaving this way and that around strikes, deflecting them here and there, but still he received his fair share of glancing wounds, adding new tears and bloody splatters to his body and the ground on which they performed their deadly bladed dance.
Until all at once, the silver bayonet cracked. Kuzuru chortled in open amusement. "Shoddy weapons ya got there, eh?" And another parried blow shattered the weapon entirely, sending shards and splinters of the blessed metal raining down. "Tough luck, pal!" the demon snarled, as he lunged in for further punishment.
"Hold yer vile words, demon." Anderson's voice was cold and sharp as steel. He shot forward, meeting the hellspawn's charge with his own. His mangled hand burst forward in a blur of gray, the fingers trembling with the barely working nerves grasping wildly, madly, for the demon's throat. Kuzuru, taken somewhat aback by the sudden lunge, tried to backpedal, to line up for a more solid strike. The grasping fingers found only the collar of a soiled shirt, latching on with an iron grip, as Anderson threw himself forward, striking with a vicious headbutt, carrying the both of them down to the ground. A wordless roar, silver blazing in his eyes, Anderson struck out with his mostly intact hand, left arm striking repeatedly. Up and down, like a hammer, pounding and crashing against flesh and bone, grime and soil, marble and ash.
Fresh blood soon stained the already soiled white glove, the words scrawled on its back lost under crimson splotches. Ragged breaths desperately tried to fill lungs burning from exerting through so many injuries suffered so quickly, and still Anderson didn't slow down. Not until a blade pierced his arm, and a boot crashed into his side, throwing him off. He rolled in the ash and dirt of the field, the blood and grime of a war, and the rust and sludge of ages. He tumbled and rolled, springing back up to his feet in a feral crouch. "I'll not listen tae the likes o' you speak and blather at me," he spat. "I'll have that tongue ripped from yer damnable head before another word leaves you!"
With an arrogant smirk, the demon squared off his stance, wiping the stray muck and grime from his lips. "Another word," he sing-songed, his eyes lighting up at the sheer rage that flashed across the holy man's face.
Quote:988 words, according to wordcounter.net
Anderson interrupted Kuzuru and Okor's fight, then dove right into melee combat with Kuzuru. Traded blows on both sides with blades and fists, bloody and ugly chaos.
![[Image: kUpgBYg.gif]](https://i.imgur.com/kUpgBYg.gif)