.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
10-24-2015, 03:35 AM
i am the vanguard of your destruction
The chaos came in behind him like a tidal wave. They swarmed in, wet and sandy, from north to south, east to west, each and every one aflame with some kind of passionate, righteous rage—
But Mauja was cold.
He was one ant among many, swarming something so much bigger than all of them, but there was strength in their numbers and fractured chaos. With reckless abandon they threw themselves through the fire he had helped set, they jostled in close to one another, fought their way to the tiger to bring it down, seemingly heedless of one another, and how they got in the way of their allies. It left a bitter taste in his mouth that had little to do with the acrid stink of burning flesh and singed hair. Was there glory to be had in this? In tearing down a sick God?
This wasn't even a fair fight—it was a massacre. Slaughter. It rang with the doomsday bells of all the invasion of the Foothills, the same slow, steady cadence. Those hadn't been wars, either.
Mauja had begun to back away, away from the inferno he had created, wanting to just get away—far from this battle and the sickening, rolling tide of bodies surging in around the tiger. Didn't they notice how in the way they were? How much harder it would be for those with magic to get a clear shot? Were they that desperate to defend, or was it greed that drove them? A desire for the spoils of war Earth would create out of the body of this fallen warrior?
The blood was freezing in his veins, and he wasn't fast enough.
A massive paw came striking out of the chaos, dripping hot tar, flashing for a moment like a burnished sun-disc before his vision, and then—it fell towards him. He felt it, distantly, snag the skin on his right shoulder, shear through the topmost layer of muscle, branding him.
Marking him.
For what?
For death.
Not even a second later, his mind split, a scream rising from his throat above the din—the heat and black sludge of the tarry claws seared his broken skin, red spilling out first shyly, and then freely, forcing its way past semi-cauterized edges and down his shoulder and chest like a red mantle.
Like blood on snow, he thought dimly, backpedaling and narrowly avoiding setting his tail on fire in a puddle of flaming tar. Fuck, he thought a second later. It *is* blood on snow.
Each motion tugged at torn nerves, plucked at his consciousness, and he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. It's just blood, he told himself, trying to still the vertigo. It's just pain. The fresh, salty air bit into the exposed flesh, and the oh fuck how the tar hurt and if it wasn't for his ability to numb his own nerves with ice—
Slowly, pale blue eyes slid open. Erthë lay crumpled by the Earth God, who flared his wings angrily and strode forward.
He could still smell burning flesh, burning hair, burning hearts. Maybe fire hadn't been such a good idea, though something in the deepest, darkest parts of his heart longed to scour the entire battlefield clean, and start over from the ashes. A phoenix was the sign of rebirth, wasn't it? So maybe a beautiful Helovia could grow from the destruction he wrought.
It's the pain, he told himself, breathing through trembling nostrils. You don't hate everyone that much, it's just the pain—
Fuck that. He did hate everyone that much.
But it wasn't reason to kill those he didn't hate, so with a brooding, childish resignation he just loaded the valiant tiger's heart with ice, hoping to burst her arteries and bleed her to death before ... well, before someone else died.
[ Mauja is backing off, gets clawed over the right shoulder/chest. He then attacks the tiger's heart, loading it up with small ice crystals in the hopes of bursting her arteries. ]
But Mauja was cold.
He was one ant among many, swarming something so much bigger than all of them, but there was strength in their numbers and fractured chaos. With reckless abandon they threw themselves through the fire he had helped set, they jostled in close to one another, fought their way to the tiger to bring it down, seemingly heedless of one another, and how they got in the way of their allies. It left a bitter taste in his mouth that had little to do with the acrid stink of burning flesh and singed hair. Was there glory to be had in this? In tearing down a sick God?
This wasn't even a fair fight—it was a massacre. Slaughter. It rang with the doomsday bells of all the invasion of the Foothills, the same slow, steady cadence. Those hadn't been wars, either.
Mauja had begun to back away, away from the inferno he had created, wanting to just get away—far from this battle and the sickening, rolling tide of bodies surging in around the tiger. Didn't they notice how in the way they were? How much harder it would be for those with magic to get a clear shot? Were they that desperate to defend, or was it greed that drove them? A desire for the spoils of war Earth would create out of the body of this fallen warrior?
The blood was freezing in his veins, and he wasn't fast enough.
A massive paw came striking out of the chaos, dripping hot tar, flashing for a moment like a burnished sun-disc before his vision, and then—it fell towards him. He felt it, distantly, snag the skin on his right shoulder, shear through the topmost layer of muscle, branding him.
Marking him.
For what?
For death.
Not even a second later, his mind split, a scream rising from his throat above the din—the heat and black sludge of the tarry claws seared his broken skin, red spilling out first shyly, and then freely, forcing its way past semi-cauterized edges and down his shoulder and chest like a red mantle.
Like blood on snow, he thought dimly, backpedaling and narrowly avoiding setting his tail on fire in a puddle of flaming tar. Fuck, he thought a second later. It *is* blood on snow.
Each motion tugged at torn nerves, plucked at his consciousness, and he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. It's just blood, he told himself, trying to still the vertigo. It's just pain. The fresh, salty air bit into the exposed flesh, and the oh fuck how the tar hurt and if it wasn't for his ability to numb his own nerves with ice—
Slowly, pale blue eyes slid open. Erthë lay crumpled by the Earth God, who flared his wings angrily and strode forward.
He could still smell burning flesh, burning hair, burning hearts. Maybe fire hadn't been such a good idea, though something in the deepest, darkest parts of his heart longed to scour the entire battlefield clean, and start over from the ashes. A phoenix was the sign of rebirth, wasn't it? So maybe a beautiful Helovia could grow from the destruction he wrought.
It's the pain, he told himself, breathing through trembling nostrils. You don't hate everyone that much, it's just the pain—
Fuck that. He did hate everyone that much.
But it wasn't reason to kill those he didn't hate, so with a brooding, childish resignation he just loaded the valiant tiger's heart with ice, hoping to burst her arteries and bleed her to death before ... well, before someone else died.
[ Mauja is backing off, gets clawed over the right shoulder/chest. He then attacks the tiger's heart, loading it up with small ice crystals in the hopes of bursting her arteries. ]
