Cyclone
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Lord Zee
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Bio
Back when dinosaurs ruled the Earth, I got started with writing online on the Spore forums. Man, those were the days. We're talking like 12 years ago 2010-ish!
I've been here on and off for almost as long, and have GM'd a bunch of different things to varying success.
I've been here on and off for almost as long, and have GM'd a bunch of different things to varying success.
Word of my splendor:
Most Recent Posts
Inevitably there will be times in this style of RP where you aren't directly interacting with others. Think of this as a collaborative novel with each of us writing chapters for different characters, because that's essentially what it is.
Hmm, with school having started my posts have become more sparse and without time to reread them very thoroughly, no doubt more errors have been slipping in. I will commit myself to creating a text wall this weekend, and actually proofreading it well for once.
Fire. Death. The foul mingle of the odors of burned flesh and the waxy smoke of wood. That was all that remained of the battling archdruid and champion once Soran's fire magic incinerated them in an instant. The demon advanced closer to see his handiwork. A few scattered, charred bones were all that remained of the champion, his skeleton splintered into a thousand pieces by the explosion's sheer force and his flesh turned to ash. Where has the damned archdruid scurried off to? the demon wondered to himself. Something rolled against his foot. The demon looked down in alarm to see a charred, wooden head.
He stooped down to pick it up, and examined the thing closely. Its dense, mossy hair had been mostly singed off. The back of the head was charred, but the face that was buried in the mud was unscathed. Still recognizable. The lips moved and twitched, perhaps in an attempt to say something, but no words came out of the detached head. Fangir stared into the construct's face, his dying gaze conveying an emotion that the general would never know for sure until his smoldering heart was naught but cold ash. Indignation? Hatred? Perhaps even peace, apathy?
After a few moments, the face's movements ceased. The spark in its eyes vanished. The great archdruid was no more. Soran dropped the head into the bog. Soran was wont to spit on the ground, but in death the human had finally earned a begrudged respect. The construct turned and resumed his wild charge towards the temple. Many more scattered defenders stood in his way. The first few he incinerated with fire magic, ending their miserable lives as easily he might that of a fly. Soon enough a few dozen pain elementals flew down to stamp out the last vestiges of opposition, sparing the general the effort of fighting his way through.
===---_---===
Shaige passed through the magical barrier he had created at the temple's entrance, the one thing between the thousands of vermin cowering inside and the ravenous spirits feasting on the life force kin outside. A great mound of rubble blocked the way deeper into the temple. The temple had suffered a fair bit of damage, both from the runic magic that had exploded with enough force to send Ifrit flying and from the false sun's violent explosion.
The wraith gestured towards the loose rocks and clenched a shadowy fist. The debris glowed with a sinister red light, and then it came alive. Pebbles and grains of sand flew; the whole thing shuddered and shook, animated by destructive magic. The Keeper felt a strange sensation creeping through his form. Anger? Disapproval? It took the wraith some time to comprehend: it was not his own emotions, as he was rarely moved outside of his cool, calculating manner, and when he was the result was a violent upheaval. Rage. An inferno of hatred. Not a small, smoldering fire creeping in from outside.
This disapproval was resonating from the flow of destructive magic into his body. No doubt the Ripper was less than pleased with his rather extravagant displays of power when there had hardly been imminent threat. The wraith was amused, if anything, by the Ripper's fury. It was not he that had come begging for power; the Ripper had gotten Its little deal, and now It was doing Its part. He intended to more than repay the debt, unless this new ally proved to be too much of a nuisance.
Shaige threw his clenched fist forward. Where there had been a been a few tons of fallen stones just a few moments ago, there was now only a pile of dust. The wraith waved a hand, and a deathly smoke bearing the reek of death surged forward, scattering the choking dust and inducing a hacking cough on any ambushers that might have been waiting on the other side. The keeper advanced, Soran and the zealots following in his wake now that they had caught up.
There were thousands of them, people filling every possible space inside the grand temple. They had all thought of honor and bravery and valor, determined that they would never be slaves or cravens, that they would honor their fallen by fighting to the end with their fists if nothing else. Those foolish notions vanished the instant that they beheld Shaige. The wraith was not large, little more than a dark silhouette in the now dimly lit temple. The mystery, the inability to even see the great enemy that had destroyed their tribe. That invoked a fear deeper than anything else beneath the stars.
There was an air of utter silence. Collective dread. Impending doom. Shaige had an aura of power, a way of breaking the weak of mind and effortlessly imposing his will upon them. Right now, the wraith willed them to be silent. Obedient. At last, the air itself reverberated the judgement of their conqueror. "Your warriors chose to fight. Noble of them. The strong will try, but in the end, the weak will suffer what they must."
They were utterly in his choking grasp, shrinking into the shadows in frenzied terror as they expected a death sentence to follow. That was not quite what came. "I have defeated you. By your own ways, that means that you are mine. I generously offer you a chance of salvation: life in exchange for mere death. Devote yourselves to my servitude. Give me the bodies of your slain. Then, I shall allow each of your lives to continue. Refuse, and your fate shall be much worse."
Looks of terror might have changed to outrage, for denying their fallen kin the burials that they deserved was beyond reproachful. But what was tradition, what were the dead, when compared to the needs of the living? Given the current situation, there was no question to be asked. They took the only choice that they had, and did so with no regrets.
More quietly, in a tone that was more commanding than declarative, he continued, "Accept my offer, serve in willingness, and your lives will not be so bad. You will march to my domain as free Mutari, for that is your new tribe. You are the Mutari. You are mine. The journey to your new home is wearisome, so you shall not bear the burden of shackles. You march as free Mutari. Those that betray my good will and attempt to escape will be excommunicated. No longer Mutari. Mere maggots, fit to be enslaved or executed."
He stooped down to pick it up, and examined the thing closely. Its dense, mossy hair had been mostly singed off. The back of the head was charred, but the face that was buried in the mud was unscathed. Still recognizable. The lips moved and twitched, perhaps in an attempt to say something, but no words came out of the detached head. Fangir stared into the construct's face, his dying gaze conveying an emotion that the general would never know for sure until his smoldering heart was naught but cold ash. Indignation? Hatred? Perhaps even peace, apathy?
After a few moments, the face's movements ceased. The spark in its eyes vanished. The great archdruid was no more. Soran dropped the head into the bog. Soran was wont to spit on the ground, but in death the human had finally earned a begrudged respect. The construct turned and resumed his wild charge towards the temple. Many more scattered defenders stood in his way. The first few he incinerated with fire magic, ending their miserable lives as easily he might that of a fly. Soon enough a few dozen pain elementals flew down to stamp out the last vestiges of opposition, sparing the general the effort of fighting his way through.
===---_---===
Shaige passed through the magical barrier he had created at the temple's entrance, the one thing between the thousands of vermin cowering inside and the ravenous spirits feasting on the life force kin outside. A great mound of rubble blocked the way deeper into the temple. The temple had suffered a fair bit of damage, both from the runic magic that had exploded with enough force to send Ifrit flying and from the false sun's violent explosion.
The wraith gestured towards the loose rocks and clenched a shadowy fist. The debris glowed with a sinister red light, and then it came alive. Pebbles and grains of sand flew; the whole thing shuddered and shook, animated by destructive magic. The Keeper felt a strange sensation creeping through his form. Anger? Disapproval? It took the wraith some time to comprehend: it was not his own emotions, as he was rarely moved outside of his cool, calculating manner, and when he was the result was a violent upheaval. Rage. An inferno of hatred. Not a small, smoldering fire creeping in from outside.
This disapproval was resonating from the flow of destructive magic into his body. No doubt the Ripper was less than pleased with his rather extravagant displays of power when there had hardly been imminent threat. The wraith was amused, if anything, by the Ripper's fury. It was not he that had come begging for power; the Ripper had gotten Its little deal, and now It was doing Its part. He intended to more than repay the debt, unless this new ally proved to be too much of a nuisance.
Shaige threw his clenched fist forward. Where there had been a been a few tons of fallen stones just a few moments ago, there was now only a pile of dust. The wraith waved a hand, and a deathly smoke bearing the reek of death surged forward, scattering the choking dust and inducing a hacking cough on any ambushers that might have been waiting on the other side. The keeper advanced, Soran and the zealots following in his wake now that they had caught up.
There were thousands of them, people filling every possible space inside the grand temple. They had all thought of honor and bravery and valor, determined that they would never be slaves or cravens, that they would honor their fallen by fighting to the end with their fists if nothing else. Those foolish notions vanished the instant that they beheld Shaige. The wraith was not large, little more than a dark silhouette in the now dimly lit temple. The mystery, the inability to even see the great enemy that had destroyed their tribe. That invoked a fear deeper than anything else beneath the stars.
There was an air of utter silence. Collective dread. Impending doom. Shaige had an aura of power, a way of breaking the weak of mind and effortlessly imposing his will upon them. Right now, the wraith willed them to be silent. Obedient. At last, the air itself reverberated the judgement of their conqueror. "Your warriors chose to fight. Noble of them. The strong will try, but in the end, the weak will suffer what they must."
They were utterly in his choking grasp, shrinking into the shadows in frenzied terror as they expected a death sentence to follow. That was not quite what came. "I have defeated you. By your own ways, that means that you are mine. I generously offer you a chance of salvation: life in exchange for mere death. Devote yourselves to my servitude. Give me the bodies of your slain. Then, I shall allow each of your lives to continue. Refuse, and your fate shall be much worse."
Looks of terror might have changed to outrage, for denying their fallen kin the burials that they deserved was beyond reproachful. But what was tradition, what were the dead, when compared to the needs of the living? Given the current situation, there was no question to be asked. They took the only choice that they had, and did so with no regrets.
More quietly, in a tone that was more commanding than declarative, he continued, "Accept my offer, serve in willingness, and your lives will not be so bad. You will march to my domain as free Mutari, for that is your new tribe. You are the Mutari. You are mine. The journey to your new home is wearisome, so you shall not bear the burden of shackles. You march as free Mutari. Those that betray my good will and attempt to escape will be excommunicated. No longer Mutari. Mere maggots, fit to be enslaved or executed."
Do you want me to control the ice demons? I just did that one post as an entry for you, intentionally leaving the characters rather vague under the assumption that you would just take over them. But if you want I could write another few posts from their perspective, if you're willing to wait. It might be another day or two since real life has me busy and I really need to wrap up Shaige's stuff and do a subplot with that William guy from a page or two back.
I'd say that they would be rather weak to it, but casting fire magic would be awfully hard in a realm where the air is indescribably frigid and the sheer cold and wind could kill you in seconds.
There floated two prismatic sapphires amidst a sea of milk. The gems might have been beautiful, were they not glazed with a layer of frost. A glacial, deathly chill would radiate through every part of Emily's body. It was unnatural, magical, sedative. The sheer cold would blind her eyes, creep into her lungs and stifle her frantic breathing, pierce her chest and slow her heart. Its savage bite tightened the muscles and rendered one barely able to move.
After a mere instant of that sharp pain upon being pulled through the portal, Emily would be in bliss. All her woes, all her pain, gone in a moment. A most welcome change would occur, starting on her extremities and exposed skin but rapidly spreading. It was a heavenly warmth, the feel of a hearth inside a warm cottage, sweet as molasses. The ice demon's magical cold was so powerful that Emily's body was nearly frozen. Her damaged nerves conveyed a feeling of robustness, when the cold was already nibbling at her flesh. Her algific flesh would feel a warmth from outside. Her own body was shutting down, already colder than the air around, so she perceived it as cozily warm.
There floated two prismatic sapphires amidst a sea of milk. As the magically induced cold began to overtake Emily, forcing her into a deep sleep, the last thing she would see were the gems. They were strangely beautiful to a sleepy mind, though alien in a way. Emily would no doubt be saddened that her eyes would too foggy to see anything around the gems. That was all just a blur, though the gems appeared strangely clear in her vision. They were serene, deep, azure, like the ocean. Rolling waves, lapping on a sandy shore. The rogue being would fall into a deep slumber with thoughts of that picturesque scene filling her mind.
There floated two prismatic sapphires amidst a sea of milk. The flesh around them was a pallid blue, the color distorted by a layer of rime. Yet even hidden beneath the skin of ice, the demon's visage was heinous. Its face, long pallid from lack of blood and blue from cold, was perpetually locked in an eery expression of contentment and glowing warmth, warped and made sinister by the coating of hoarfrost. That look was the stuff of nightmares; sadistic in the happiness that it displayed as the demon chilled its victims until their blood froze. It mockingly mirrored the looks of those that fell victim to its ice magic, lulled into a sleep and left to thaw in a slave pen, or simply chilled until their blood froze.
The demon, clad in armor of crystalline ice frozen harder than steel, reached down towards Emily's slumbering form. Though it might have once had humanoid hands, the demon's fingers had blackened as its blood had flown to such extremities before freezing for good. The lifeless, frostbit things had then began slowly falling off. What stubby fingers remained had sharp, jagged edges like broken glass. The claw-like hands snatched up the rogue being. Hefting her over his shoulder, the ice wraith trudged away. They were in the courtyard of a great castle, though the bleak redoubt was erected of ghastly ice rather than stone. Kokytos' winds screamed through gaps in the fortress's outer walls, the bricks of ice packed beneath no mortar save loose snow.
The demon carried the girl through the courtyard. The esplanade was desolate, for no plants could ever grow in this frigid hell where the oceans were imprisoned beneath miles of ice and the flensing winds stripped the flesh could strip the flesh off bones. The ice wraith walked with a lurching gait through a doorway, and then navigated the labyrinth of identical, glacial passageways. At long last, they came to a throne room where a demon of massive proportions presided over his domain.
The ice devil and its master spoke for a brief time. Their tongue was harsh and quick. The sounds that reverberated from deep within their chests were akin to the booming cracking of ice, the shrill howling of blizzards, and the deep rumble of an avalanche. The floor shuddered as the great warlord stood. Unlike his servant, the warlord did not take the resemblance of a frozen humanoid. He was a giant, covered in wooly fur, with two great curled horns coming from his head. His arms were great and brawny while his legs were disproportionately short. Jagged, dagger-like teeth stuck out from his maw, giving the warlord a dim and utterly savage appearance. Yet beneath that facade the yeti-demon possessed a low cunning. It was not through sheer strength, but by wicked treachery and careful planning that he had become a warlord and come to control a small swathe of land in the vast realm that was Kokytos.
The ice devil was dismissed with a wave of a hand. The lesser demon skulked away, back to its post outside the fortress. With a few heavy steps, the warlord closed the distance between himself and the sacrifice that had been carelessly strewn on the floor. The warlord's brawny fingers wrapped around Emily's torso, that one hand easily able to lift her off the ground. He dangled the girl in front of his face to examine. He stared down the girl long and hard, wondering what use she would be. Her frail body was battered and weak, and the warlord already had thousands of slaves. He began to contemplate whether Emily would make a good meal, or be an amusing plaything. It was then that the ice devil's magic began to wane. Emily's slumber began to end, though the cold hadn't left her. When she opened her eyes, she would find herself held in front of the gigantic warlord's eye. There floated one prismatic sapphire, amidst a sea of milk.
===---_---===
The Carver heard Zadok. How had Its nemesis been able to devise and set into motion such an elaborate plan, while evading the notice of an equally omnipotent being in the vicinity? It was in the anti-keeper's memories that the guardian found the answer; the empyrean meteorite that Carver had summoned and hurled at the Ripper must have been corrupted. The Ripper was devious, and through Its wretched plotting It might grow powerful enough to win. That could not be allowed.
The Carver redoubled Its effort, gaining a second wind as the realization sunk in that this battle was far from decided. "I sense it now. The monster's mind is preoccupied, it responds sluggishly and has went on the defensive. I will press the advantage that I still have while the Ripper is distracted. You must do whatever is necessary to cripple Its efforts. Your memories reveal that the meteorite has splintered into many pieces. You must locate the largest chunks, for those will undoubtedly have been sent to the most promising sources of power.
Ensure that the Ripper receives no aid. Exterminate or convert any that would align with Its vile goals. If at all possible, it would be prudent to channel energy of creation and holy magic into the unholy artifacts. I suspect that attempting to assimilate such magic will harm the Ripper."
After a mere instant of that sharp pain upon being pulled through the portal, Emily would be in bliss. All her woes, all her pain, gone in a moment. A most welcome change would occur, starting on her extremities and exposed skin but rapidly spreading. It was a heavenly warmth, the feel of a hearth inside a warm cottage, sweet as molasses. The ice demon's magical cold was so powerful that Emily's body was nearly frozen. Her damaged nerves conveyed a feeling of robustness, when the cold was already nibbling at her flesh. Her algific flesh would feel a warmth from outside. Her own body was shutting down, already colder than the air around, so she perceived it as cozily warm.
There floated two prismatic sapphires amidst a sea of milk. As the magically induced cold began to overtake Emily, forcing her into a deep sleep, the last thing she would see were the gems. They were strangely beautiful to a sleepy mind, though alien in a way. Emily would no doubt be saddened that her eyes would too foggy to see anything around the gems. That was all just a blur, though the gems appeared strangely clear in her vision. They were serene, deep, azure, like the ocean. Rolling waves, lapping on a sandy shore. The rogue being would fall into a deep slumber with thoughts of that picturesque scene filling her mind.
There floated two prismatic sapphires amidst a sea of milk. The flesh around them was a pallid blue, the color distorted by a layer of rime. Yet even hidden beneath the skin of ice, the demon's visage was heinous. Its face, long pallid from lack of blood and blue from cold, was perpetually locked in an eery expression of contentment and glowing warmth, warped and made sinister by the coating of hoarfrost. That look was the stuff of nightmares; sadistic in the happiness that it displayed as the demon chilled its victims until their blood froze. It mockingly mirrored the looks of those that fell victim to its ice magic, lulled into a sleep and left to thaw in a slave pen, or simply chilled until their blood froze.
The demon, clad in armor of crystalline ice frozen harder than steel, reached down towards Emily's slumbering form. Though it might have once had humanoid hands, the demon's fingers had blackened as its blood had flown to such extremities before freezing for good. The lifeless, frostbit things had then began slowly falling off. What stubby fingers remained had sharp, jagged edges like broken glass. The claw-like hands snatched up the rogue being. Hefting her over his shoulder, the ice wraith trudged away. They were in the courtyard of a great castle, though the bleak redoubt was erected of ghastly ice rather than stone. Kokytos' winds screamed through gaps in the fortress's outer walls, the bricks of ice packed beneath no mortar save loose snow.
The demon carried the girl through the courtyard. The esplanade was desolate, for no plants could ever grow in this frigid hell where the oceans were imprisoned beneath miles of ice and the flensing winds stripped the flesh could strip the flesh off bones. The ice wraith walked with a lurching gait through a doorway, and then navigated the labyrinth of identical, glacial passageways. At long last, they came to a throne room where a demon of massive proportions presided over his domain.
The ice devil and its master spoke for a brief time. Their tongue was harsh and quick. The sounds that reverberated from deep within their chests were akin to the booming cracking of ice, the shrill howling of blizzards, and the deep rumble of an avalanche. The floor shuddered as the great warlord stood. Unlike his servant, the warlord did not take the resemblance of a frozen humanoid. He was a giant, covered in wooly fur, with two great curled horns coming from his head. His arms were great and brawny while his legs were disproportionately short. Jagged, dagger-like teeth stuck out from his maw, giving the warlord a dim and utterly savage appearance. Yet beneath that facade the yeti-demon possessed a low cunning. It was not through sheer strength, but by wicked treachery and careful planning that he had become a warlord and come to control a small swathe of land in the vast realm that was Kokytos.
The ice devil was dismissed with a wave of a hand. The lesser demon skulked away, back to its post outside the fortress. With a few heavy steps, the warlord closed the distance between himself and the sacrifice that had been carelessly strewn on the floor. The warlord's brawny fingers wrapped around Emily's torso, that one hand easily able to lift her off the ground. He dangled the girl in front of his face to examine. He stared down the girl long and hard, wondering what use she would be. Her frail body was battered and weak, and the warlord already had thousands of slaves. He began to contemplate whether Emily would make a good meal, or be an amusing plaything. It was then that the ice devil's magic began to wane. Emily's slumber began to end, though the cold hadn't left her. When she opened her eyes, she would find herself held in front of the gigantic warlord's eye. There floated one prismatic sapphire, amidst a sea of milk.
===---_---===
The Carver heard Zadok. How had Its nemesis been able to devise and set into motion such an elaborate plan, while evading the notice of an equally omnipotent being in the vicinity? It was in the anti-keeper's memories that the guardian found the answer; the empyrean meteorite that Carver had summoned and hurled at the Ripper must have been corrupted. The Ripper was devious, and through Its wretched plotting It might grow powerful enough to win. That could not be allowed.
The Carver redoubled Its effort, gaining a second wind as the realization sunk in that this battle was far from decided. "I sense it now. The monster's mind is preoccupied, it responds sluggishly and has went on the defensive. I will press the advantage that I still have while the Ripper is distracted. You must do whatever is necessary to cripple Its efforts. Your memories reveal that the meteorite has splintered into many pieces. You must locate the largest chunks, for those will undoubtedly have been sent to the most promising sources of power.
Ensure that the Ripper receives no aid. Exterminate or convert any that would align with Its vile goals. If at all possible, it would be prudent to channel energy of creation and holy magic into the unholy artifacts. I suspect that attempting to assimilate such magic will harm the Ripper."
Heh, those five champions a Runescape reference much?
It's okay. Shaige was largely inspired by Zaros.
It's okay. Shaige was largely inspired by Zaros.
The latter sounds about right. I was going to write a decent amount from the perspective of the demon that pulled her in, but didn't have the time. You could either wait for me to get around to that or just flesh out the demons yourself.
Fangir grew increasingly desperate as his throw had failed, even though he had ripped the hair out of his assailant's scalp. The champion rambled about something, though the archdruid was no longer listening, and hardly would have been able to respond what with Soran's breath choking him. As Fangir began wildly stabbing backwards, he felt the blade jam into something hard, presumably a rib. Triumph washed over him, though the feeling was short lived. He suddenly found that arm being encased in ice similar to his back.
Heaving violently as his lungs struggled to free themselves of the demonic smoke and largely immobilized, Fangir simply collapsed into the muddy ground face-forwards, dragging the champion down on top of his due to the ice that attached the two. His time was running out, he knew. His face buried in mud and the smoke above impossible to breathe anyways, it was only a matter of time before he would suffocate, assuming that the champion didn't kill him first. Still, he might as well try to drag the damned Klug warlord down to hell with him.
He concentrated, willing with all his might that all the dirt and stone within ten yard fling itself into the air, before falling back down to bury the two beneath a few tons of earth. The ground began to twitch, slowly warping, and then all hell broke loose. Soran had arrived, and upon spotting some bestial-looking Klug looking at something on the ground, he cupped both his hands together. With the champion distracted by Fangir, Soran was able to take a few moments to conjure a fireball. The thing was small, hardly bigger than a head, but within it was an inordinate amount of energy. The construct prepared to hurl the projectile. So much as a glancing blow would make the fireball explode with enough force to blow apart a statue. Even beneath the champion and shielded by the very mud and ice that trapped him, Fangir would probably be incinerated along with his enemy if the fireball struck its target.
===---_---===
Emily would receive no response from Shaige. With a featureless face and a partially incorporeal body, physical speech was impossible. His magic was potent enough to manipulate the air around him to form words, as he had done minutes ago before obliterating the false sun, but such magic inevitably took a considerable toll. The Keeper was not about to waste his energy communicating with the wretch before him, and nor did he have any desire to restore a telepathic link and be forced to suffer seeing the woman's accursed thoughts.
So it was in silence that he grabbed her by the neck and suspended her a few feet above the ground, his ghostly body showing no signs of strain from the physical activity. Then, with a forceful throw he sent the rogue being flying towards the portal. The icy claws caught her, mere contact from them being enough to numb flesh. The demon reaching through the portal dragged Emily into the frigid hell that was Kokytos, and then the rift closed. Satisfied that he had condemned her to a horrible death, either as a sacrifice for use in some infernal magic, or worse, as a slave, Shaige turned to see the temple.
The last ragged remnants of the Klug that had tried to defend the temple were now being surrounded on all sides by a horde of flying pain elementals. The zealots, having hacked their way through the army that had been retreating from them, were now free to march up to the temple. With a telepathic command, the Keeper ordered the pain elementals to stay outside of the temple. Otherwise, they would have been more than content to relieve themselves by inflicting torturous deaths on all the Klug cowering inside.
Heaving violently as his lungs struggled to free themselves of the demonic smoke and largely immobilized, Fangir simply collapsed into the muddy ground face-forwards, dragging the champion down on top of his due to the ice that attached the two. His time was running out, he knew. His face buried in mud and the smoke above impossible to breathe anyways, it was only a matter of time before he would suffocate, assuming that the champion didn't kill him first. Still, he might as well try to drag the damned Klug warlord down to hell with him.
He concentrated, willing with all his might that all the dirt and stone within ten yard fling itself into the air, before falling back down to bury the two beneath a few tons of earth. The ground began to twitch, slowly warping, and then all hell broke loose. Soran had arrived, and upon spotting some bestial-looking Klug looking at something on the ground, he cupped both his hands together. With the champion distracted by Fangir, Soran was able to take a few moments to conjure a fireball. The thing was small, hardly bigger than a head, but within it was an inordinate amount of energy. The construct prepared to hurl the projectile. So much as a glancing blow would make the fireball explode with enough force to blow apart a statue. Even beneath the champion and shielded by the very mud and ice that trapped him, Fangir would probably be incinerated along with his enemy if the fireball struck its target.
===---_---===
Emily would receive no response from Shaige. With a featureless face and a partially incorporeal body, physical speech was impossible. His magic was potent enough to manipulate the air around him to form words, as he had done minutes ago before obliterating the false sun, but such magic inevitably took a considerable toll. The Keeper was not about to waste his energy communicating with the wretch before him, and nor did he have any desire to restore a telepathic link and be forced to suffer seeing the woman's accursed thoughts.
So it was in silence that he grabbed her by the neck and suspended her a few feet above the ground, his ghostly body showing no signs of strain from the physical activity. Then, with a forceful throw he sent the rogue being flying towards the portal. The icy claws caught her, mere contact from them being enough to numb flesh. The demon reaching through the portal dragged Emily into the frigid hell that was Kokytos, and then the rift closed. Satisfied that he had condemned her to a horrible death, either as a sacrifice for use in some infernal magic, or worse, as a slave, Shaige turned to see the temple.
The last ragged remnants of the Klug that had tried to defend the temple were now being surrounded on all sides by a horde of flying pain elementals. The zealots, having hacked their way through the army that had been retreating from them, were now free to march up to the temple. With a telepathic command, the Keeper ordered the pain elementals to stay outside of the temple. Otherwise, they would have been more than content to relieve themselves by inflicting torturous deaths on all the Klug cowering inside.
Hmm. The paragraph where this happened is this:
"Fangir might have a chance to recognize what was really going on now, as the real Champion materialized out of the mist behind him and slammed a gauntlet into his now slowed flesh from behind, while the illusion veiled ice sculpture in front of him, designed to guide Fangir's attacks towards Soran, melted instantly away. The gauntlet, though unable to penetrate the oaken flesh, sent mystic ice flooding over his limbs to restrict Fangir's form and magic. The Champions form also began armoring itself in ice, as though he expected to whether an attack."
The phrasing 'slammed his gauntlet into his now slowed flesh from behind' made me think of it as a punch. The thing about punches is that it would be hard to keep your fist in contact with what it hit even if you were to try, because the force almost always propels the person backwards to an extent while Newton's Third Law of Motion would mean that the blow itself would push your fist back towards you.
That was just the reasoning behind my interpretation, anyway. It makes sense that if ice appeared upon contact, the gauntlet could stick and contact could be maintained. The issue then is that if it's stuck really good the champion will have a hard time getting his hand free, whereas if it isn't then Fangir could probably break loose with ease.
"Fangir might have a chance to recognize what was really going on now, as the real Champion materialized out of the mist behind him and slammed a gauntlet into his now slowed flesh from behind, while the illusion veiled ice sculpture in front of him, designed to guide Fangir's attacks towards Soran, melted instantly away. The gauntlet, though unable to penetrate the oaken flesh, sent mystic ice flooding over his limbs to restrict Fangir's form and magic. The Champions form also began armoring itself in ice, as though he expected to whether an attack."
The phrasing 'slammed his gauntlet into his now slowed flesh from behind' made me think of it as a punch. The thing about punches is that it would be hard to keep your fist in contact with what it hit even if you were to try, because the force almost always propels the person backwards to an extent while Newton's Third Law of Motion would mean that the blow itself would push your fist back towards you.
That was just the reasoning behind my interpretation, anyway. It makes sense that if ice appeared upon contact, the gauntlet could stick and contact could be maintained. The issue then is that if it's stuck really good the champion will have a hard time getting his hand free, whereas if it isn't then Fangir could probably break loose with ease.
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