[The fight seems to last forever, the minutes dragging as he moves through the town, hiding in the shadows and slashing out to quietly discourage the bandits from staying. Only, it doesn't work. The frenzy burning in their blood seems to be fevered and ferocious and the more they fight back, the more the Bouldersnakes strike.
The guns boom throughout the town, the flares of blue fire and the regular snap of rifles and the screams of pain echoing through the darkness. The night alive with the sounds and scents of fighting and the horrors of war.
He lost sight of her early on, the chaos tearing them apart as the weapons flashed and he's been listening to the tether in his chest, to the second heartbeat beating next to his own. To the pull that still comes from her, somehow, guiding him closer. Letting him know that he's not alone here, that she's still out there somewhere, fighting her own battles and there's a flicker of fear in that, in the distraction that she brings as his hands fall over and over, the Cut flying silently towards yet another bandit hellbent on slicing his throat.
The shadow blade sinks in to the man, his already gaping mouth widening as the Cut slicing through his face until his smile reaches from earhole to earhole. The green-skinned alien, his face already lizard-like and scaly, screams as blood flies from the wound and the Darkling moves in, knife in hand, and plunges it in to the soft skin under his neck. The pouch there ruptures and more blood and something viscous and foul-smelling hits his face, painting it with gore.
Sneaking closer to the jeering voices, the Cut already forming between his hands as something barrels in to his chest, dark hair swirling around her face and streaks of darkness on her face but he knows her form against his chest.
Even in the dark, he knows her by touch alone and one gore-encrusted arm slips around her waist as he throws his hand out, the Cut dispatching in tendrils of shadows as a wall of darkness rises before them. Guns are firing, the liquid blue fire splashing across his shield and beads of perspiration tickle down his face from the strain - so much harder than it should be, the fire almost burning through his shadows - dragging clean paths in the blood on his face.]
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The guns boom throughout the town, the flares of blue fire and the regular snap of rifles and the screams of pain echoing through the darkness. The night alive with the sounds and scents of fighting and the horrors of war.
He lost sight of her early on, the chaos tearing them apart as the weapons flashed and he's been listening to the tether in his chest, to the second heartbeat beating next to his own. To the pull that still comes from her, somehow, guiding him closer. Letting him know that he's not alone here, that she's still out there somewhere, fighting her own battles and there's a flicker of fear in that, in the distraction that she brings as his hands fall over and over, the Cut flying silently towards yet another bandit hellbent on slicing his throat.
The shadow blade sinks in to the man, his already gaping mouth widening as the Cut slicing through his face until his smile reaches from earhole to earhole. The green-skinned alien, his face already lizard-like and scaly, screams as blood flies from the wound and the Darkling moves in, knife in hand, and plunges it in to the soft skin under his neck. The pouch there ruptures and more blood and something viscous and foul-smelling hits his face, painting it with gore.
Sneaking closer to the jeering voices, the Cut already forming between his hands as something barrels in to his chest, dark hair swirling around her face and streaks of darkness on her face but he knows her form against his chest.
Even in the dark, he knows her by touch alone and one gore-encrusted arm slips around her waist as he throws his hand out, the Cut dispatching in tendrils of shadows as a wall of darkness rises before them. Guns are firing, the liquid blue fire splashing across his shield and beads of perspiration tickle down his face from the strain - so much harder than it should be, the fire almost burning through his shadows - dragging clean paths in the blood on his face.]
Alina-