Change everything you are and everything you were
Your number has been called
Deimos pretended not to see the absolute wreckage of a crash into the weapons rack, an inward cringe sufficing for a nonchalant reaction – distracted anyways by the inevitable rush of magic searing and sizzling around them. It was unfortunate the fire contorting through the air, snapping and crackling, missed, though he’d long since grown used to the lamentable surge. Perhaps he ought to have trained more in those precise skills, and he made a mental note of it for the next round of training along the barracks. Otherwise, he scrutinized, watched, and witnessed as water come pouring from Loren – a wave of steam churning, barreling towards him.
He maneuvered quickly, but it didn’t matter – the rush of hot, sweltering steam pummeled at his already injured shoulder, burning along the fabric of his clothes, scorching the skin underneath. Despite being used to conflagrations, being blown up on occasion, and the general simmering touch of the magic billowing in his veins, the pain still curled, contorted, and lamented, placed on top of the bruising filaments. He didn’t release any outcry of misery or woe, clenching his jaw, fighting the vitriol with a rushing torrent of air through his lungs. A commendable effort on Loren’s part – because it was truly an agonizing rasp along his flesh.
In response, the beast remained rooted to his spot along their makeshift battlefield, unfurling breath after breath, placating the pain while streamlining the pulsing beat of his life drain (it hollered and howled from within; as if yearning to be set free, unraveled, uncoiled) towards the Launcelyn. A menacing wake settled from his essence, from his presence, stark and cold, intending to snag and snare at his opponent; one last movement and motion for the masses.
He maneuvered quickly, but it didn’t matter – the rush of hot, sweltering steam pummeled at his already injured shoulder, burning along the fabric of his clothes, scorching the skin underneath. Despite being used to conflagrations, being blown up on occasion, and the general simmering touch of the magic billowing in his veins, the pain still curled, contorted, and lamented, placed on top of the bruising filaments. He didn’t release any outcry of misery or woe, clenching his jaw, fighting the vitriol with a rushing torrent of air through his lungs. A commendable effort on Loren’s part – because it was truly an agonizing rasp along his flesh.
In response, the beast remained rooted to his spot along their makeshift battlefield, unfurling breath after breath, placating the pain while streamlining the pulsing beat of his life drain (it hollered and howled from within; as if yearning to be set free, unraveled, uncoiled) towards the Launcelyn. A menacing wake settled from his essence, from his presence, stark and cold, intending to snag and snare at his opponent; one last movement and motion for the masses.
DEIMOS
