LOREN
He ran.
Which was stupid, when he had more than enough abilities to overcome this bizarre sensation of fear. But it rankled, it defied, it sent him to extending long limbs and racing along the labyrinth’s threshold, an inherent, inborn sensation unfurled by pure instinct and not much else. His eyes caught the telltale burst of flames, the sensation of infernos burning against his skin, threatening to surge; and then there was the bull itself, appearing, charging, horns and fires, devastation and demolition.
Hadn’t he experienced this enough? Hadn’t he been through trial after trial, tribulation after tribulation? What had he done this time, to deserve such terror? How many times would he be forced to face such adversities? Or what hadn’t he done, extending his misfortune somewhere in the collective unknown?
And while he rushed, while he paced, he mulled over the possibilities of his impending doom. Was there something he could summon to counter-act the rage, the stampede, the assault? Out of some bizarre weight of panic (when was the last time he’d been seized by trepidation?), his thoughts weren’t quite as calculating as they should’ve been, his powers summoning a siren (while simultaneously creating ear plugs), hoping to draw the bull away from himself, a lure, a snare on songs.
Which was stupid, when he had more than enough abilities to overcome this bizarre sensation of fear. But it rankled, it defied, it sent him to extending long limbs and racing along the labyrinth’s threshold, an inherent, inborn sensation unfurled by pure instinct and not much else. His eyes caught the telltale burst of flames, the sensation of infernos burning against his skin, threatening to surge; and then there was the bull itself, appearing, charging, horns and fires, devastation and demolition.
Hadn’t he experienced this enough? Hadn’t he been through trial after trial, tribulation after tribulation? What had he done this time, to deserve such terror? How many times would he be forced to face such adversities? Or what hadn’t he done, extending his misfortune somewhere in the collective unknown?
And while he rushed, while he paced, he mulled over the possibilities of his impending doom. Was there something he could summon to counter-act the rage, the stampede, the assault? Out of some bizarre weight of panic (when was the last time he’d been seized by trepidation?), his thoughts weren’t quite as calculating as they should’ve been, his powers summoning a siren (while simultaneously creating ear plugs), hoping to draw the bull away from himself, a lure, a snare on songs.
