Snippet #1515088

Robes swirling in the rain, the amorphous Child of Fire stood in place for what felt like a small eternity. Without any sort of visible or audible command the mob fanned out to attack. Five men and women armed with pitchforks and cudgels charged at Faera and Thanaros, readying to swing and stab at the Nightmarian's softer, less armored portions with deadly accuraccy. The last of the citizens swayed uncertainly, their eyes glassy. That moment passed with a flash of lightning and the resounding clap of thunder that accompanied it. The remaining seventeen rushed at Wrath and his two companions with their crude weapons drawn.

Wrath, surprisingly, met their charge with one of his own. Just before resuming his spellsong the general called out at the top of his lungs as to carry over the oddly loud crash of rain on cobblestone and grass. "Don't kill them! I don't want a full-scale revolt on our hands!" such a restriction would place a great handicap on his already sparce forces in this engagement, and would severely limit their ability to fight effectively in every case excluding his own and that of Thanaros. It was hard to pull punches when you had bladed hands, a blade as your primary mode of damage and a slight buzz that made it difficult to pull punches.

With a slide underneath the cudgel of the closest citizen and a quick jab that winded the second, Wrath began his performance.
Quick as a snake, and light as a moth, so light yet I bring the pain. the aura surrounding Wrath shifted to a crimson tempest of ethereal light as he leapt above a dark elf's head, delivering a hard thump that sent the woman sprawling onto the slippery ground.
You can't touch me, not even a grasp, so why even consider some more? as the spellsong grew in power so too did his grasp of the technique return to it's fluidity, granting it's wielder enhanced reflexes enough to dodge the four successive attacks of the viallgers, if only barely.
As we dance this dance, of fists and kicks, in this silent world of rain. now in the midst of his attackers and more than halfway to the Child, Wrath lashed out with a flurry of sweeping punches to the jaw and kicks to the knees, crippling a few of those held in thrall.
I'm already bored of this jolting jaunt, so politely, just kiss the floor. the aura concentrated around Wrath's fist as he delivered a powerful punch to the face of a bulky orc, slamming the gray-skinned brute into the ground with a heavy thump.

Wrath stood before the lone Child, panting. Having not prepared any proper spells, that magical tune had drained much more of his willpower than it should have. With the adrenaline and magic leaving his system in a rush Wrath fianlly realized: He was standing before one of the empowered cultists without so much as a stick to defend himself. Even if he were trained in the monastic tradition, it would still be a risky proposition. Now? It was suicide.

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Castle of Nihalistrix the Black, Dungeon

A delicate hand set a pair of tongs, covered in some dark, thick liquid inside a tray of water. The water was already tinged red with blood and grew even darker with the substance that fouled it now. The Nightmarian--a praying mantis breed, regal and lithe--wiped his thin, chitinous fingers on a white cloth and sighed. The sound was more a chittering hiss than furstration, with an underlying tone of amusement beneath. "You just won't give in? It is...curses, what is the Common word for it? Pedantic? Sarcastic?" the mantis nightmarian snapped his blade-like fingers. "Ironic. It is ironic that you should name yourself Mercy, in this world of fleshlings."

In a split second of disorienting speed Ja'ksis had his arm buried elbow deep inside of Mercy's abdomen. His arm, although thin and sleek, ended in a razor-sharp and naturally armored hand that withdrew a pair of eyeball-sized black orbs and no small amount of gore. The regal nightmarian inspected his haul and popped one into his mouth. A juicy pop could be heard as he chewed on the first, then consumed the second. "Your eggs are absolutely divine. Are you sure you were not born directly of the Queen's womb? I have tasted royals, and you are definetly up there..."

Ja'ksis chittered softly when he realized some of the blackish blood had fell onto his robes. The robes of one of the Children of Fire, so pristine and white had been marred by this prisoner's...fluids. For no logical reason the frailer of the two nightmarians grew violently angry. He dove back inside of Mercy and tore apart whatever he could grasp. All the while, Mercy was securely chained and kept alive by torturously slow healing spells. "Tell me what you know of the Prince's plans! That undead general of yours too! What are you doing?!" his words grew in pitch and became a delighted scream as he rummaged through Mercy's internal organs.