[u]Pray II[/u]

Zucroas leapt back from her sanguine elixir, moving with such force, such aggression, that the countless reflections of the tangible woman before him couldn’t help but swoon in unison.. though, she made no such gestures. How could she, bleeding out as she was, right before his eyes? His breath's radiance bleached the room in a stark, bone white— juxtaposing against the ever deepening abyss of Oblivion's maw, leaving it to be cast across the forum like the bleak, open wound upon the borders of life and death that it truly was. An umbral scar upon the corridors of this palace. The woman twitched, but for as inrealistic as it were, that was somehow enough for her to build sufficient momentum to send herself tumbling to her right; narrowly avoiding the cosmically-charged electron beam, as its fury discharged into the pool of blood around her— leaving both a harrowing red mist and the mirror like viscera pond yo race with bands of his power. However, he rushed in soon after, led in with his sheer bloodlust. The lightning, however, would never reach her. Not before he did, at least, though it was trapped in a closed-circuit loop around her; the ionized gore storing far more energy than feasibly possible, with impossibly complex matrices of covalent bonds that wove his fury into tangible, material form. Stagnant, isolated. Usable. Lending to itself more mass This led them to the crux of the oncoming storm of violence. He charged at her, through the gap. He fell headlong through the crimson fog, bringing all he had to bear, before the river of scarlet dried up like the Euphrates. Converted into theoretical, potential value— a veritable slew of horror that converged upon the energy quotient of the blood mist the instant it occurred, which was upon contact. Zucroas' death knell sang with the rupturing of countless fermions into a counterfeiture of celestial light. The distended vomit of Creation— otherwise known as reality cancer, and threatened to baptize him in the collapsing of countless possibilities into a single inevitability. 

"How unfortunate," the chorus sang, coming from every direction save for her own lips. No, they hung agape, drooling in debased ecstasy, her eyes emptily taking in the sight of Zucroas' silhouette through the implosion. Her joints crunched and snapped wetly as she disobeyed the conventions anatomy demands; hoisting herself to a half-stand as her knees rotated in the opposite direction to pivot upright. The false halo hovering above the woman's head had since ceased being an addition to her garment, and unfurled into a collection of 6 golden blades of various western ethnic style. The Swords of Hekate. Those blades, fashioned of a metal with the density of neutron star matter with a quarter the weight, they thrusted forward upon their own initiative to bury themselves into his skull, save for 2 which made to run through his traps to dismember Zucroas adjacent to the shoulders all the way down through the ribs. The woman leapt back, evidently unbothered by the incorrectness of her legs, like the vectors of her motion were moving in Kintar's stead. In that same illogical way, the curvature of spacetime conformed around her weapons, for their sheer mass and density were enough to grant them their own orbital fields. Nevermind how much force they had to generate to move themselves at subsonic speeds, their mere presence was enough to disorder the geometry of the dragon's flesh and yank him into their flight path with his inertia compounding into it.

Zucroas' serpents surged into the abyss, the realm of death. An afterlife known as [u]Hell.[/u] A realm of aught terrible, where the damned torment each other in absence of God. There was no light in this stinking pit of black-burning fire and brimstone, and their luminous into it shone upon those 'eyes', revealing their true nature. They were all an endless swarm of ashen skinned men and women, ferally clawing over and onto each other amidst the stink of their own feces and urine. Various wounds adorned their flesh like the paintings of a sadistic child, leaving them to reach for the serpents which acted with pure malice. The red dust spilled amongst the masses as that astral plasma rendered them into entropic slime, ripping and tearing through the still-moving carcasses of deadmen. But, as was the natural order of things, Hell is paradoxically a place of imbalance and contradiction. The Karma of this place stunk of Kintar's deceitful dominion, and imbued onto the formless ones a purpose, and if not a purpose, a form, for one begot the other and with neither there was only the opportunity for renewal. Their inherent uselessness was fed to the other accursed like pig-slop, strengthening them; bolstering them with infernal might. With each evisceration, with each man or woman turned to goo, the masses grew more potent in their workings as they sought to crush the serpents beneath the clutching and ripping tide of their misery. 

[b]Meanwhile, in the mental realm.[/b]

Zucroas outputted enough psychic might to pop the brains of countless psions into grey sludge, but it was all for naught. This was no meeting of minds, but a flame that devoured his psyche. His mental energy. What he did was tantamount to pouring gasoline into a fire, which he may as well of done, for that was the literal outcome here. The psy-flame was emboldened by this outcome, if not held at bay briefly, before flowing back into the corridors of his wrathful mind to render his sacred mind palace to a rundown hovel. Though, two other things were of note here. Firstly, his mind registered the attack, but imprinted the response onto a caricature of the woman which his mind conjured up in that exchange. This created effigy soon blossomed into an instance of the real thing, to his detriment. Much like the Kintar in front of him, it glutted itself upon his Wrath, and used his inherent sin as a gaping hole in his supernatural defenses to exploit for the sheer presence of it. The creature swam within pyroclastic flows, and danced upon slipstreams, finding nourishment upon his anger; infesting his mind with his malignant touch, until eventually it proliferated enough to try and cut-off his mind-body connection, infiltrating into his nervous system to shut down his motor controls. 

"Mmm, KiKi likes you very much." It whispered, its sultry voice like a finger trailing down Zucroas' spine, and a breathy moan into his neck.