1st of Cylus, Arc 719
Praetorum swooped and spun in the air, his wings spread wide as he danced around his foes. All around him, fire and lighting raced and roared, casting an ever shifting pattern of light over his scales. His scythe lashed out, one, two, three times, and the dancing flames around him guttered out, their ithecal and human shaped figures dissipating into nothing as he sliced through them. There was a clap of thunder; anger, fear, hunger, echoing through each and every one of the figures that surrounded Praetorum.
How long Praetorum had been fighting, he could not have said. His armor, already painted black, had been scorched an even deeper charcoal; his shield bore fine, silver lines, spreading out in thin branches, evidence of the countless bolts of lightning that had struck it full force; and the cobalt of his scythe glowed with heat, like the embers that were left as a campfire died out. Far below, the ground itself was spotted with red; how much of it was flame, and how much of it fire, Praetorum could not have said. There was movement below, warriors and soldiers fighting against other creatures of flame and electricity; wolves and panthers and crocodiles and more, snapping and clawing at their foes, leaving streaks of sparks in the air behind them.
Far above, a spirit loomed. A creature of the darkest rain storm, all black clouds and thunder and lightning, a ball of flame pulsing blue where a heart would have been in a man. A large as a mountain, the creature merely watched and rumbled, content to allow the soldiers of its own making fight its battles for him.
Another such creature reached for him, white sparks dancing between its fingers, and Praetorum roared, the mighty flapping of his wings sending a gust of wind right through the creature, sending it flying backwards into its fellows in a tangle of flame. Whirling around, he slashed, cleaving an arrow of flame clean in half before it struck him, the blow continuing onwards to obliterate the fiery archer before it could draw another arrow.
There was a crack, and pain bloomed behind Praetorum's eyes as a bolt of lightning struck him from behind, piercing into his back and sending spasms of agony through his muscles. His shoulders convulsed, but he endured; arms trembling, fingers twitching, Praetorum reached behind his shoulder, and grasped the bolt. The movement sent a fresh wave of agony over his fingers, and he let out a cry of pain as he pulled it free, the wound smoking as he did so. No blood dripped from the newly made hole in his shoulder; the injury was seared close, the blood boiling without spilling in his veins.
Turning, he lunged at the creature wielding a sparking crossbow. it turned to flee, but not fast enough; the bolt in Praetorum's hand sank into its throat, and the creature melted away in a flicker of white, crossbow, bolts and all.
There were too many, Praetorum thought without despair. He was killing them as fast as he could and there were still too many of them, and more arriving every bit. But every moment he spent fighting up here was a moment those below could use to escape, or fight back, or whatever they chose. So Praetorum fluttered in the air, wings beating out a steady rhythm in time with his heart as he gripped his scythe in both hands.
He was ready for them. And they were utterly unprepared for him.
How long Praetorum had been fighting, he could not have said. His armor, already painted black, had been scorched an even deeper charcoal; his shield bore fine, silver lines, spreading out in thin branches, evidence of the countless bolts of lightning that had struck it full force; and the cobalt of his scythe glowed with heat, like the embers that were left as a campfire died out. Far below, the ground itself was spotted with red; how much of it was flame, and how much of it fire, Praetorum could not have said. There was movement below, warriors and soldiers fighting against other creatures of flame and electricity; wolves and panthers and crocodiles and more, snapping and clawing at their foes, leaving streaks of sparks in the air behind them.
Far above, a spirit loomed. A creature of the darkest rain storm, all black clouds and thunder and lightning, a ball of flame pulsing blue where a heart would have been in a man. A large as a mountain, the creature merely watched and rumbled, content to allow the soldiers of its own making fight its battles for him.
Another such creature reached for him, white sparks dancing between its fingers, and Praetorum roared, the mighty flapping of his wings sending a gust of wind right through the creature, sending it flying backwards into its fellows in a tangle of flame. Whirling around, he slashed, cleaving an arrow of flame clean in half before it struck him, the blow continuing onwards to obliterate the fiery archer before it could draw another arrow.
There was a crack, and pain bloomed behind Praetorum's eyes as a bolt of lightning struck him from behind, piercing into his back and sending spasms of agony through his muscles. His shoulders convulsed, but he endured; arms trembling, fingers twitching, Praetorum reached behind his shoulder, and grasped the bolt. The movement sent a fresh wave of agony over his fingers, and he let out a cry of pain as he pulled it free, the wound smoking as he did so. No blood dripped from the newly made hole in his shoulder; the injury was seared close, the blood boiling without spilling in his veins.
Turning, he lunged at the creature wielding a sparking crossbow. it turned to flee, but not fast enough; the bolt in Praetorum's hand sank into its throat, and the creature melted away in a flicker of white, crossbow, bolts and all.
There were too many, Praetorum thought without despair. He was killing them as fast as he could and there were still too many of them, and more arriving every bit. But every moment he spent fighting up here was a moment those below could use to escape, or fight back, or whatever they chose. So Praetorum fluttered in the air, wings beating out a steady rhythm in time with his heart as he gripped his scythe in both hands.
He was ready for them. And they were utterly unprepared for him.
