The other thing which nudged him was greeted, again, with no surprise. He hadn't thought it would be so easy. This new old creature before him only made him...angry, though very coldly so. That cold proud anger lasted until it slammed its great dark claw down, bones crunching oh gods and the sudden stench of fresh blood which he couldn't help but enjoy—and then the Brucolac howled with fury, quite silenced by the helm.
Hot defiance rose up like the taste of blood in his mouth. He ripped shades apart as he moved like a knife through the darkness, grappling his way to the altar. It was taller than he was; well, and? Without looking at what he was climbing, what he was using for handholds, he grabbed and hauled himself up. Don't think on it. Don't think on it. Something crumbled, beneath his hand. He shuddered, and kept going. The cruel forest of weeds he had dragged into being scuttling further upwards towards his many-eyed taunter, coated the side of the altar, made footholds and handholds and rope. Where the blood streaming down watered them, they whipped up taller and worse, opening impossible mouths and winding spiked, muscly stems around the fingers of the Leaning Man, of Management.
The Brucolac heaved himself up onto the altar's top. And fuck you, actually, he added, with sudden irrational carelessness, you thieving cunt.
It felt good to say.
The blood-drinking plants were blooming anew. Here, in a pale, fleshy blossom, was born something else. Some last vestige of shape and thought from the blood it had guzzled. It looked a little like a newborn, save that it didn't; it had terrible teeth, and it was one of many.
A child's cry; the Brucolac was foolish enough, then, to look across, and right by the huge creature there they were. The girl lay quiet and wide-eyed, staring frightedly around. He knew her scent. The boy he had never seen, but knew, from the look of his eyes and how his cries were joined by tiny puffs of fire.
He threw himself straight at the many-eyed visage, cold blue fire sparking along the ridges and barbs of his armour. Each toothed flowerchild took a disparate eye, sucking and gnawing. The Brucolac ran for the thing's great maw. In front of it, Ishtar began to cry in tandem with her brother.
no subject
Hot defiance rose up like the taste of blood in his mouth. He ripped shades apart as he moved like a knife through the darkness, grappling his way to the altar. It was taller than he was; well, and? Without looking at what he was climbing, what he was using for handholds, he grabbed and hauled himself up. Don't think on it. Don't think on it. Something crumbled, beneath his hand. He shuddered, and kept going. The cruel forest of weeds he had dragged into being scuttling further upwards towards his many-eyed taunter, coated the side of the altar, made footholds and handholds and rope. Where the blood streaming down watered them, they whipped up taller and worse, opening impossible mouths and winding spiked, muscly stems around the fingers of the Leaning Man, of Management.
The Brucolac heaved himself up onto the altar's top. And fuck you, actually, he added, with sudden irrational carelessness, you thieving cunt.
It felt good to say.
The blood-drinking plants were blooming anew. Here, in a pale, fleshy blossom, was born something else. Some last vestige of shape and thought from the blood it had guzzled. It looked a little like a newborn, save that it didn't; it had terrible teeth, and it was one of many.
A child's cry; the Brucolac was foolish enough, then, to look across, and right by the huge creature there they were. The girl lay quiet and wide-eyed, staring frightedly around. He knew her scent. The boy he had never seen, but knew, from the look of his eyes and how his cries were joined by tiny puffs of fire.
He threw himself straight at the many-eyed visage, cold blue fire sparking along the ridges and barbs of his armour. Each toothed flowerchild took a disparate eye, sucking and gnawing. The Brucolac ran for the thing's great maw. In front of it, Ishtar began to cry in tandem with her brother.