[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/ZivsXN1.png[/img][/center] [hr][center][h3]~1444 | PARIS | FASHION SHOW VENUE[/h3][/center][hr] Bolts of arcane power sang through the flickering light and shadow of the venue, striking with aplomb before Edward delivering a killing blow with his Scythe. Twas with the fury of the storm itself that his staff smashed through the last of the wisp's defenses, vines and petals charring to ash before the tip of the staff cracked open the skull of the child inside. No blood, no cry. Only a muted stare from a pair of pitch-black eyes. And then, unraveling. Fibers unmade, threads unspooled. The entire body of the predator-plant peeling away into a myriad of ethereal lines. The lines twisted together once more, wrapping into itself over and over again, [i]spinning[/i] with the speed of a mechanical loom. Histories and egos stripped away, form and substance flattened to a single color, the life that made the wisp, the life that made the child before the wisp, it all became of nothing once more. A ball of yarn, rolling to a stop by Edward's foot. To be processed at the Kiln once all this was over. And though all this was not yet over, one could certainly forgive the necromantic aspirant for wanting to bask a little in his own victory. After all, he, not Lucian, not Vera, had single-handedly taken down a triple-phantom-infused wisp! And without doing the disgusting amount of collateral damage that Amelia did either! It was good to be a God of Undeath! ... It was bad to be Lucian. Ribs cracked, abs crushed, the former model picked up his pool cue once more, ready to take a hefty swing at the dragon. But the nature of luck was that what went up must go down, and while in most cases, misfortune would rebound upon someone else, in this case? Half-stumbling, half-charging, half-swinging, his foot slipped upon the pool balls he had scattered just four minutes prior and Lucian found himself face-down, ass-up. Thankfully free from concussions owing to the hardiness of his face, he nevertheless cut a sad image, one that was of no use to Vera and no harm to the dragon. But Vera herself had found her tempo now. The world was pulling away from her as she continued to prioritize, continued to categorize. The fire alarm turned mute. The civilians were mere shadows. Celeste was a concern for another time. Edward's gloating earned no thoughts. All there was was her sword and the dragon, the prototypical tale of heroes and the monsters they had to slay. Everything else, after all, was just a backdrop. Spectral sparks scattered from the deflectional parry of her longsword, bone chipping as the blade guided it away. With the momentum of that movement, the swordswoman transitioned into a cut that aimed to behead the beast while its head was extended. It sliced into the dragon's upper jaw instead, shorning off what ought to have been its nose before digging into its lower teeth. If the beast had been alive, there would be hot blood, roars of pain. But it was just bones, animated and possessed with fury. It drew its jaw back, more teeth shattering as it pinned Vera's blade inside what remained of its mouth. It would not be something she could free easily. Not be something she could free on [i]time[/i]. For within its ribcage, spectral flames coiled once more, rushing up the channel of its neckbones and [i]bursting[/i] out the gaps of its ruined face! It was a shotgun blast, rendered in a blaze, and if Vera did not defend, she would be sent flying back, perhaps suffering the same fate that Lucian had just extricated himself from. But if she did not defend, she could [i]attack[/i].