who we are and all that we're trying to be
There was only the smallest inkling of smug satisfaction as his blade struck the creature straight into its eye. He was too fatigued, too weakened, to feel anything victorious, especially as the knife didn’t stop it – turning towards the crimson essence of the staff, disappearing down below the earth.
Perhaps that would be enough. Perhaps he could move on towards the Spire. Perhaps he could be done with everything, crawl into the terrain, loam, and soil too, become a part of its darkening denizen. Enough, he wanted to whisper, I have had enough. The fatigue pulsed and drained at him, his body hissed and recoiled, every movement, every gesture, a pull at some wounds, a draw for blood and death. He didn’t welcome it – but knew its chords, its factions, its threshold.
Then the landshark returned, launching from the dirt, and he didn’t move – barely inhaling, exhaling, breaths softened while underneath he was barely anything but savage and feral, an acrimonious beast waiting, waiting, waiting, for desecration, for disaster, for ruin. He could see Kiada’s harpy talons reaching; his life drain magic wouldn’t be applicable, not with her in such a range, not with his strength barely keeping him upright. So, on naught more than trained, honed impulse, first a warrior, then an untamed, wild behemoth, he slid a sword out of his belt, and despite every protest in his arms, slashed at the incoming creature.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
