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Chaos built, a swirl of color, of fire, of temptation and annihilation, fueled and incensed and belligerent to the touch – he embraced it wholeheartedly, a child of rain, death, and demolition, crowding around the harpooning agony, the wailing, siren songs. Something passes through him, vigilant, violent, erupting and brewing and crashing amongst the wake of the disastrous plunges and the infernal desecration; it was wonderful, it was antagonistic, it was strong and overwhelming – Orsino hissed through the strain, Erebos slithered within a tempest of his own choosing – they were undaunted, fearless, forgoing emotions and ramshackle sentiments for munitions, for exploitation, for piercing and puncturing. Even Aithniel, screaming at him from above, couldn’t deter the sudden, immense satisfaction (bloodshed, war, abominations and monsters coming together to destroy one another – heartless and cruel, indignant and vindictive, a rush, a chase, a dream) spreading over his features. He called out along the screeching decibels, the intoxicating shrouds, “I’m okay!,” even as a ball of fire fell from the heavens and clawed at his shoulder.
Cloaked and besotted in irony, he lost his breath. The embers raked and rasped and scorched his skin – he didn’t know if he roared out in agony, or if he merely suffered in silence. The black kitsune tethered to his hooves sibilated, worried and concerned, but the boy only ceased his movement for mere moments. The lad blinked, watched the world around him, witnessed the layers of bedlam and mayhem, thunderstruck and listless, maneuvered his foreleg once or twice to feel the burn, the sting, the bestial edges of battle conquer his ambitions. Was that all he’d be then? Another casualty? Another victim? Were his dreams, his aspirations, to die and wither right here and now, in the space and breadth of beasts, infidels, and gods? Was he to simply sit back and watch everything unravel without him?
The scion laughed for a second, a great gust of air billowing past his crackling lungs.
Then he surged ahead, bristling and searing, simmering and demonic, giving no care to his follies, to his faults, to the gasps of pain stretching through his membrane and flailing amongst his heart. The little heathen charged with bestial intentions, with seething regard, with frustration and anticipation roaring, howling, demanding, amidst his skull. He lowered his head, racing towards the monster’s left back leg, intending to mark the great, foul crocodile, with a loathing harpoon of his sword.
[Momentarily stunned at the fire scorching his shoulder. Recently cured of GLL, he finds a second wind and races towards the crocodile's left hind leg, intending to stab it with his horn. Mentions @Aithniel]
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SWP :: You thought it was over? So did I. (Part II)
