careful of its long teeth. He punched its plate-sized eye with one hand, sinking his fist into its gelatinous structure. His hand latched onto the edge of its eye socket and his sword arm went to work hacking lines of red from its back. Blood spurted out of the wounds as Walter jabbed with his sword.
The beast rose up and threw him into the air, tumbling. He saw its body flash past, wide and as long as a street. He had only seen its head. As he rolled through the air, he slashed at something else and felt his sword cutting through flesh. Then he was falling back to the ground head first, directly into a yawning mouth as wide as a door, lined with stalagmites for teeth. He sucked in hot air, its mouth falling open. Waiting.
He reached his arms out, both hands rigid around his shattered blade. He writhed in the air and twisted his body. He managed to slide alongside the closing mouth and cut a long streak down its side before falling between a pair of black eyes. The wide mouths snapped at him from every angle, missing him by a millisecond. He could only make out the white of their teeth, framed in by flitting shadows. He landed on something fleshy and was jolted off, tumbling in the air again. His grip was like iron on his weapon.
The ruby skulls met his back, bouncing and sliding down a mountain with unstoppable speed. He dug his heels in, pressed against them with his free hand. He felt his palm rip open, finger popping as he tried to hold onto a bony knob. The skulls were merciless, beating his muscles and thudding into his bones. He collided with the mound of them and rolled over on his side, weightless in the air. A long, terrible second later, he fell into liquid.
He pushed himself up, moaning, baptized in blood. He was in a lake of it, stopping at his ankles and stretching as far as his eyes could see. There were strange looking rocks in it. He blinked, seeing they weren’t rocks but bodies. Bodies everywhere. Interspersed between them were swords, spears, and shields, abandoned.
Pain stabbed at his shoulders, knees, back and fingers. It urged him to lay down and fill his lungs with the awful blood. He sniffed and his lips trembled. He sheathed his sword, letting out a soft snicker at seeing the belt still intact. His pants were in tatters, showing more of his skin than they covered.
He wound his fingers into fists. Blood fell off of him in cascading sheets, thick and sticky. He screamed in agony, at the horror, at the gut-wrenching disgust of all that blood. He screamed and screamed, his voice cracking and throat tearing. He tried to scream it all away. All the blood. All the unburied dead. It felt like there was a vice in his stomach, clamping down and the screw ever tightening.
Chapter Three
New Friends
“Forging Black Blades of Ruin: This spell demands that the user have mastery over the Dragon. Procure the following components: the blood drained from the bodies of three children, a pinch of Red Blossom (considered extinct at the time of this writing), and a demon willing to take on the form of the sword. The sword must be a blade forged from Milvorian steel and its core forged in the Black Furnaces of The Nether. When the spell is cast, a tear between worlds appears in the form of a blade that swallows light and consumes the souls it slays. The blade has a strength and minds of its own, aiding the wielder in its survival. Blades of ruin can easily pass through most forms of armor and magical shields.” - The Lost Spells of Zoria
J uzo grunted , wiping a drop of blood from the corner of his white lips. He pressed his palm against his abdomen, snuffing out the threads that still burned on his coat. The edges of the wound tingled as the skin started to heal. New strings of skin pulled over the blackened flesh as if imaginary hands were sewing it together.
He stared down into the dead eyes, fixed and wide with surprise. A shiver coursed its way down from his neck to his fingertips. He must’ve had that
The beast rose up and threw him into the air, tumbling. He saw its body flash past, wide and as long as a street. He had only seen its head. As he rolled through the air, he slashed at something else and felt his sword cutting through flesh. Then he was falling back to the ground head first, directly into a yawning mouth as wide as a door, lined with stalagmites for teeth. He sucked in hot air, its mouth falling open. Waiting.
He reached his arms out, both hands rigid around his shattered blade. He writhed in the air and twisted his body. He managed to slide alongside the closing mouth and cut a long streak down its side before falling between a pair of black eyes. The wide mouths snapped at him from every angle, missing him by a millisecond. He could only make out the white of their teeth, framed in by flitting shadows. He landed on something fleshy and was jolted off, tumbling in the air again. His grip was like iron on his weapon.
The ruby skulls met his back, bouncing and sliding down a mountain with unstoppable speed. He dug his heels in, pressed against them with his free hand. He felt his palm rip open, finger popping as he tried to hold onto a bony knob. The skulls were merciless, beating his muscles and thudding into his bones. He collided with the mound of them and rolled over on his side, weightless in the air. A long, terrible second later, he fell into liquid.
He pushed himself up, moaning, baptized in blood. He was in a lake of it, stopping at his ankles and stretching as far as his eyes could see. There were strange looking rocks in it. He blinked, seeing they weren’t rocks but bodies. Bodies everywhere. Interspersed between them were swords, spears, and shields, abandoned.
Pain stabbed at his shoulders, knees, back and fingers. It urged him to lay down and fill his lungs with the awful blood. He sniffed and his lips trembled. He sheathed his sword, letting out a soft snicker at seeing the belt still intact. His pants were in tatters, showing more of his skin than they covered.
He wound his fingers into fists. Blood fell off of him in cascading sheets, thick and sticky. He screamed in agony, at the horror, at the gut-wrenching disgust of all that blood. He screamed and screamed, his voice cracking and throat tearing. He tried to scream it all away. All the blood. All the unburied dead. It felt like there was a vice in his stomach, clamping down and the screw ever tightening.
Chapter Three
New Friends
“Forging Black Blades of Ruin: This spell demands that the user have mastery over the Dragon. Procure the following components: the blood drained from the bodies of three children, a pinch of Red Blossom (considered extinct at the time of this writing), and a demon willing to take on the form of the sword. The sword must be a blade forged from Milvorian steel and its core forged in the Black Furnaces of The Nether. When the spell is cast, a tear between worlds appears in the form of a blade that swallows light and consumes the souls it slays. The blade has a strength and minds of its own, aiding the wielder in its survival. Blades of ruin can easily pass through most forms of armor and magical shields.” - The Lost Spells of Zoria
J uzo grunted , wiping a drop of blood from the corner of his white lips. He pressed his palm against his abdomen, snuffing out the threads that still burned on his coat. The edges of the wound tingled as the skin started to heal. New strings of skin pulled over the blackened flesh as if imaginary hands were sewing it together.
He stared down into the dead eyes, fixed and wide with surprise. A shiver coursed its way down from his neck to his fingertips. He must’ve had that
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