02-14-2017, 01:43 PM
(This post was last modified: 02-14-2017, 01:44 PM by homin-Ratione.
Edit Reason: typoes
)
His helm, pack, and jumpsuit pads did what they could to protect his body from the initial impact. Ratione received no cuts or impalement, but plenty of bruises, shock, and a very sudden, sharp shot of pain going through his skull and neck.
Once again, his sensory input was shrouded in discomfort and general lack of ability to process anything around him. The most the Furtumin could tell was he was sprawled across a bunch of seats, arms and legs fumbling to get a grip, fingers pushing themselves to their limits to grab a hold of something.
The Novan redirected his efforts to removing his helm, which was suffocating him at this point. Shakily, he brought his hands up to slide it off his shaved head, dropping the heavy chunk of now warped steel and watching as he bounced down one step before resting still. Next, his digits fumbled with the two buckles holding his dead pack in place. This went on for about a minute before, eventually, Ratione’s body slid from the pack and his face buried itself in a pile of abandoned popcorn.
The salt and butter stung his already burning nostrils, eyelids clamping shut.
Tearen stood, silent, still at the center arena. His head fixated on the prone form of his opponent. This stillness lasted for a short while before eventually the legendary prime relaxed.
“You put up a good fight, swordsmen. Unfortunately, that’s all yo-“
CLANG
Tearen ceased his speech. Ratione’s right arm had managed to erect itself in a ninety-degree bend, slapping his palm against the aluminum seats which had elicited the sound and subsequent shuddering vibrations throughout the whole platform.
CLANG
Next came the left arm, fingers spread out. The old man’s muscles bulged and he let out a long, low groan as ever so slowly his torso was elevated. This was followed by both knees being tucked in one at a time. In this bent over position, Ratione hacked and wheezed, either coughing up or vomiting a foul-smelling mixture of blood and bile.
After five solid minutes of continuing to force his body to move, the Furtumin was able to get on two feet. Then, said two feet shuffled stifle first down the aisle he had landed in, then to the stairs, putting his weight against each seat back as he made a steady, paced way down to the concrete, one step at a time.
The faceless, dark glass skin of Tearen’s head rotated in sync with the Novan as they shuffled over to the burnt, black spot on the ground where he had abandoned his armor. Laying before him, just outside of the blast radius, was his sword. The heavy, condensed steel encasing had fallen apart, magnetic locks releasing as soon as his helm’s onboard computer sent the emergency eject signal.
Inside, a Novan greatsword lay. Exposed to the open air for the first time in over a century. Lighter, proportionally longer blade, but keeping the overall length of its previous form.
Once again, his sensory input was shrouded in discomfort and general lack of ability to process anything around him. The most the Furtumin could tell was he was sprawled across a bunch of seats, arms and legs fumbling to get a grip, fingers pushing themselves to their limits to grab a hold of something.
The Novan redirected his efforts to removing his helm, which was suffocating him at this point. Shakily, he brought his hands up to slide it off his shaved head, dropping the heavy chunk of now warped steel and watching as he bounced down one step before resting still. Next, his digits fumbled with the two buckles holding his dead pack in place. This went on for about a minute before, eventually, Ratione’s body slid from the pack and his face buried itself in a pile of abandoned popcorn.
The salt and butter stung his already burning nostrils, eyelids clamping shut.
Tearen stood, silent, still at the center arena. His head fixated on the prone form of his opponent. This stillness lasted for a short while before eventually the legendary prime relaxed.
“You put up a good fight, swordsmen. Unfortunately, that’s all yo-“
CLANG
Tearen ceased his speech. Ratione’s right arm had managed to erect itself in a ninety-degree bend, slapping his palm against the aluminum seats which had elicited the sound and subsequent shuddering vibrations throughout the whole platform.
CLANG
Next came the left arm, fingers spread out. The old man’s muscles bulged and he let out a long, low groan as ever so slowly his torso was elevated. This was followed by both knees being tucked in one at a time. In this bent over position, Ratione hacked and wheezed, either coughing up or vomiting a foul-smelling mixture of blood and bile.
After five solid minutes of continuing to force his body to move, the Furtumin was able to get on two feet. Then, said two feet shuffled stifle first down the aisle he had landed in, then to the stairs, putting his weight against each seat back as he made a steady, paced way down to the concrete, one step at a time.
The faceless, dark glass skin of Tearen’s head rotated in sync with the Novan as they shuffled over to the burnt, black spot on the ground where he had abandoned his armor. Laying before him, just outside of the blast radius, was his sword. The heavy, condensed steel encasing had fallen apart, magnetic locks releasing as soon as his helm’s onboard computer sent the emergency eject signal.
Inside, a Novan greatsword lay. Exposed to the open air for the first time in over a century. Lighter, proportionally longer blade, but keeping the overall length of its previous form.
"Our fear is our weapon."