The frenzy of scoring a blow turned what was an attack into an all out assault; the second and third strike came wildly after the first, claws crossing one another in their slashing as they drove with earthen weight down toward the ground, hoping to rip the entire being down with them. They rent and raked, seemingly uncaring to create more of the ink and further the cycle of wild wrath. When it then sought to establish a hold, it then moved after to go for the coup de grace. If there wasn't any resistance to be found, as it hadn't earlier, it was going for the literal and figurative throat of the matter - but not first without wrestling it to the ground.

The dark liquid that made up the uncanny shapes was a matter to come, the first and foremost was to not break the siege or fail the executioner's strike of the jaws; the Harbinger knew well to finish one enemy off before another, at least what it seemed to be, could take shape. While for the time being it was a physical thing, it had no confidence that this would be for any length of time. After all, the beast of myth had dispersed once already, but it was willing to do so again and again; eternity was what it had, but it doubted they would trade such blows for so long. [i]Something[/i] else was already happening with the sickly ink.

It drew back its jaws, seized its forelimbs and sought to drive the two ivory, lethal points home.

[@BrokenPromise]