09-14-2016, 06:45 PM
His eyes, if he had eyes, were liquid pools of lava. His hair, if he had hair, sizzled around the red-hot metal of the Arcus Band, burnt like a branding iron against his skull. His wrist, if he had a wrist, bubbled beneath the links of a searing hot, tungsten watch. The room, if there was a room, was filled with chaos: with the yell of war cries and the dust of settling debris. He should have choked on the dust, if he was breathing. He didn't even know if he was breathing. And the room was not a room at all. It was a tomb; a future mausoleum encased within the bowels of the earth and filled with fire. So much fire.
The power flowed like the sun. Like ten thousand suns, pouring through his body. His soul should have ripped apart, the physical body should have disintegrated long ago, but something sustained both.
The mist buffered him. It would buffer him until it was done, then let the suns consume him. It couldn't happen. Must not happen. He tried to focus on surviving. He had to outlast it. But the power was so painfully glorious. God himself would weep with it.
Then the world lurched. Like he had been hurling through the universe at light-speed only to slam upon a marble wall, shattering it with his body with the full-stop. The power was cut away, and whipped back upon him like a whip. He gasped at the sharpness of its sting cutting into his soul. A hand gripped him, and Nikolai groaned as though the gentle touch had slapped the burn of his right red arm.
Noises descended. Yells. A woman screaming. A throbbing pulse upon the air. The dust. The ceiling.
But the mist was gone. Its gone.
A turn of the head and he saw Marcus hovering. The bubbles and burns weeping from his skin turned Nikolai's stomach, but he focused on the whites of the other man's eyes. And a growl grew deep in his belly.
Regus.
Nikolai rolled to his stomach, arms and legs weak, body broken by the power that it had held. There was a snarl of madness on his lip as he beheld the back of the man.
"ARMANDE NICODEMUS,"
his voice thundered. With all his might, he clutched the barest tendrils of the power, a candleflame compared to the ten-thousand suns of before, and whips of Aether snagged the man like tentacles, wrenching him backward.
Nikolai would not be prone before the defiler of the Atharim. He would show the man just how insignificant he was. He would suffer as Nikolai suffered, for daring what he had dared. For daring to dethrone the god in the heart of his kingdom. This room would be Armande's tomb.
He staggered to one knee. Then the other, and heaved upright, unfolding himself. His legs were liquid, his eyes bottomless pits of darkness. The Regus of the Atharim was dragged before him, and Nikolai would look upon his face and watch with satisfaction as the life was drained away.
But something slammed into his chest. He yelled, staggered, then fell.
And laid beside Marcus, he saw his own blood spill out beneath him.
With his final moments of lucidity, he finally remembered to utter the command to activate help. "Zenith Advanced Reliancers engage."
The power flowed like the sun. Like ten thousand suns, pouring through his body. His soul should have ripped apart, the physical body should have disintegrated long ago, but something sustained both.
The mist buffered him. It would buffer him until it was done, then let the suns consume him. It couldn't happen. Must not happen. He tried to focus on surviving. He had to outlast it. But the power was so painfully glorious. God himself would weep with it.
Then the world lurched. Like he had been hurling through the universe at light-speed only to slam upon a marble wall, shattering it with his body with the full-stop. The power was cut away, and whipped back upon him like a whip. He gasped at the sharpness of its sting cutting into his soul. A hand gripped him, and Nikolai groaned as though the gentle touch had slapped the burn of his right red arm.
Noises descended. Yells. A woman screaming. A throbbing pulse upon the air. The dust. The ceiling.
But the mist was gone. Its gone.
A turn of the head and he saw Marcus hovering. The bubbles and burns weeping from his skin turned Nikolai's stomach, but he focused on the whites of the other man's eyes. And a growl grew deep in his belly.
Regus.
Nikolai rolled to his stomach, arms and legs weak, body broken by the power that it had held. There was a snarl of madness on his lip as he beheld the back of the man.
"ARMANDE NICODEMUS,"
his voice thundered. With all his might, he clutched the barest tendrils of the power, a candleflame compared to the ten-thousand suns of before, and whips of Aether snagged the man like tentacles, wrenching him backward.
Nikolai would not be prone before the defiler of the Atharim. He would show the man just how insignificant he was. He would suffer as Nikolai suffered, for daring what he had dared. For daring to dethrone the god in the heart of his kingdom. This room would be Armande's tomb.
He staggered to one knee. Then the other, and heaved upright, unfolding himself. His legs were liquid, his eyes bottomless pits of darkness. The Regus of the Atharim was dragged before him, and Nikolai would look upon his face and watch with satisfaction as the life was drained away.
But something slammed into his chest. He yelled, staggered, then fell.
And laid beside Marcus, he saw his own blood spill out beneath him.
With his final moments of lucidity, he finally remembered to utter the command to activate help. "Zenith Advanced Reliancers engage."