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The thing falls, and Tyradon watches with eyes that glow with macabre intent.
He likes it when they go to their knees - he likes the superiority, the dominance, of having something at his mercy, bent below him like a slave to crave the sting of his whip in their back. The scream of agony that Cynder's flame causes is music to the hellhound's ears, and his jade war-dragon gives a shriek of delight as she turns away, the smell of burning flesh ripe in her nostrils. Her tail continues to illuminate the duelling duo, although it isn't much of a fight, not really. The unicorn is down, his legs tangled and useless - the way he looks up at Tyradon would make a weaker man's heart melt. A lesser man would grant clemency, allow the creature to live another day, but not the warlord. He showed mercy once, and it came back to bite him on the ass. Never again. But he isn't a masochist - he isn't a torturer. He does not inflict pain for the simple pleasure of doing so; he does it because it is his duty, by the blood of Nieque that flows through his veins. By the holy death he grants them, perhaps in the afterlife they can be saved - their horns and wings will be purged and they will be pure. He looks down at the other stallion, pity in his gaze, but says nothing - his weight simply shifts to his hindquarters, massive forehooves lifting and then slamming sharply downwards, aiming to shatter the man's skull. It is the quickest and most painless way that the beast knows to kill; the thing won't suffer. His spirit will leave his hideous body, and Nieque will grant him entry to the halls of the gods. Without his horns, he can be great - the afterlife will cleanse him, and perhaps he will be reincarnated into a superior body. |
[ we are made of greed ]
[ the regime ]
