Out of Character:
Kryos coughed, deep billows rippling through the thick, gray fog like curtains. The particles, the remnants of the fallen man before him, penetrated his lungs with each inescapable pull and seemed to stick to his mouth and throat like powdered mucus. His eyes widened and he dropped to his knees, hands clenched and pressing into the yielding earth. Revulsion rolled up through his spine and his shoulders hunched with the recoil, storing it as it searched desperately for an outlet. Silently, but with agonizing horror, his gut heaved as he gagged, trying to expel the vile dust which inevitably brought on more coughing as the cadaver, or what was left after its unexplainable combustion, entered his system. His arms locked, and he tried to endure tides of disgust that boiled beneath his skin wherever the lifeless miasma touched. It was as if the decaying smog seeped in through his pores, eroding and desecrating his life’s spark. He had seen the gruesome scenes of battle before, but this . . . this was beyond words. His whole being fought against the suffocating fog, and time stretched endlessly.
Soon though, the unceasing rain that fell from the brooding heavens managed to thin the layers of corrosive vapor. Little by little, he gained control over his body. He rose, sword tip dragging over the clay and dried plant life, water streaking down the edge and washing the crimson from its cold surface. The urgent demands for clean air sent him stumbling away from the haze. In his stunned state, he barely noticed the unnatural, stone-like surface of the now dead trees and vines. Didn’t realize what that meant for him, even as his legs ached from placing one foot before the other. He didn’t notice anything at all, until he heard it–a snarling that sent tendrils of power streaking past him, giving him an instant’s warning, enough for him to turn his head. Surging toward him came a ring of thundering blue electricity, blasting the trees and vines apart into deadly projectiles. His arm strained as it raced to bring his weapon up in time. The world washed white.
His body slammed into the ground, thrown back from where his blade met the arcing light, right hand and arm on fire with shredding pain. He blinked, clearing his blurred vision, eyes no longer simmering orbs of silver and taking in the blackened canopy above that dripped water. Where was his sword?
Groaning as his sat up, he spotted it a little ways ahead of him and to his right, alight with the sputtering fires that appeared in the wake of the attack. Clenching his teeth against the pain, left hand clutching his throbbing right arm, he staggered forward through the dark rain and flashes of light.
The sword lay embedded in the ground, steaming and smelling of burnt ozone. Though he wished he could do otherwise, he wrenched it from the earth with his uninjured hand. He wasn’t as skilled left-handed, but using his right would hinder him even more.
Body aching from his exertions, he stood still, shoulders slumped, letting the rain beat at his fatigue. He needed to move on, needed to find his other opponent. He couldn’t give up. Even without his eyes’ abilities, Kryos knew his target was close. It was just a matter of finding him.
A yell of fury and hopelessness sounded from beyond the tangles of vines and trees, and Kryos’ heart filled with dread.
Jericho!
He lurched into action, stumbling past the roots and shattered branches and fires toward the sound. Closer to where the lightning had spread from. As he went, the fires became more frequent until he was illuminated by the glare.
I should never have left him alone, he berated himself.
He rounded a fallen tree, branches dancing with flames and air rumbling with dying thunder. The scene brought chills to his spine.
Another giant, this one even larger than the one he had just killed, stood surrounded by fire, although his form was darker than black. A shadowy wraith of the most terrifying kind, blades extended from his forearms. The warrior took large, sure steps away from Kryos and stalked ever closer to the slight form of Jericho.
What is he doing?
The elk looked like he had been through hell and back, battling demons far worse than the adversary that stood wreathed in flames before them now. His clothes were nonexistent, just blackened strands of cloth that sparingly embraced him, and beneath the flickering shadows of the jungle, dark streaks covered Jericho’s body. The charred fur, seared skin, and still oozing wounds, heinous in any circumstance, sent a wave of guilt through Kryos’ gut. More forceful than that, however, was the disappointment he felt; the injuries could have easily been avoided, if only the elkin had been more careful. Yet despite the agony which his comrade surely felt, he swung a loaded piece of cloth over his head in quick circles before loosing a stone toward their foe. But the behemoth mearly deflected the stone with his weapon–a blade extending from his forearm–before continuing his advance, dark as night. Jericho didn’t stand a chance. Not alone.
Kryos sprang into action, pressing his seared arm tight against his body as he ran as silently as he could. He concentrated, harnessing the power of his soul, pulling it, condensing it until it appeared in the physical realm. Ebon flames rivaling the darkness of the giant raced into existence along the length of his blade. The effect wouldn’t do much against the huge muscles that gripped the giant’s bone, but it might give them the moment they needed to stand firm. As long as the titan had a soul . . .
He swung right, coming in for a direct attack just as Jericho, holding his staff before him and backing away slowly, disappeared behind the monstrous form. Kryos’ narrowed eyes flashed against the rain and he gritted his teeth against the pain that tore at his body. Legs heaving with a surge of energy and will, he brought his sword across his chest.
He struck with all the power his battered body could muster, eyes fierce and hoping that fate would see him safely to Jericho’s side.
Submit Thread for Judgment