Out of Character:
Bunnies are certifiably guaranteed kosher by Syaoran, Grin, and Kryos.
I'm cashing a lightning barrage (and subsequent topographic giggles) as a Miracle. All other players (and a mod) have approved.
Come around, come around, in the currents of oil all slippery dark and the bubbles of lead that go boom, echo boom, don't wake up, don't wake up...
This war is bigger than you think.
The tar and ink and waves of mountains, feathers made of mud, can't see a thing.
This storm is bigger than you think.
Crashing and pounding and bigger than everything can't see a thing—
But I am in the storm. I direct the thunder.
Pain and light and sharp and cold wake up wake up—
I have made a way.
Up up up up—
Follow me.
Wake wake wake!
Move.
MOVE!
Jericho's eyes snapped open as the roar of wind and thunder crashed on his consciousness like an ocean. Dim light, a storm? The fight, a flash...
Shield.
Don't think just listen no time. The air glowed gold as something leapt out of the dark, and points of contact sparked over the barrier like a ten-starred constellation. Claws?
Blood. He sat up, pressing the shield back against his attacker with both hands. The smell of blood. Kryos?
Lightning. Three shadows caught in the flare of light, glints of armor, the flashing arc of a sword.
Stop him.
He threw the shield with everything he had. The clawed shadow slid along the stone with the grace of a martial artist, but the wave caught the other assailiant unawares. With a phenomenally loud clang, the giant fell. The third shadow scrambled to his feet. Kryos. There was blood.
A blast of wind and movement. The clawed one was charging back, and armor grated as the giant got to his feet.
I am in the storm.
A surge flowed through his nerves, his blood, his fur.
I direct the thunder.
He lifted the staff without knowing why. The clawed shadow darted closer, twice as fast as any man should move, gauntlets gleaming.
I have made a way.
For a tiny moment as he held the staff over his head, the force of the Voice flowed over him like the static anticipation of a thousand lightning strikes. Then the staff came down like a gavel, and he realized it had been exactly that.
The world exploded in enough light to burn the sea, enough thunder to cleave mountains. Seven bolts struck the disk at once, and the disk shook and groaned with the impact. When the blaze faded, Jericho was already running.
“Kryos!” With a sound like something dying, the platform started to move. The marble sheared apart along its red hot metal seams, breaking into sections while electric arcs leapt between the fissures. Some of the blocks began to lift above them while others dropped below. “Kryos, run!”
He ran, he jumped, the thick ozone stinging his lungs. The very stone smelled burnt, and as he vaulted a gap between fragments of the platform he saw why the thunder reverberated through the disk. No ground beneath the stone—only boiling clouds.
He ducked under a levitating slab, hurdled the bottomless trench it had left behind. A block of marble the size of a small hill rose up in front of them, and his hooves skidded along the slick surface as he turned left to follow the new wall toward the edge of the platform. He chanced a look back at their opponents. They had regrouped, lifted skyward on a floating cube of stone.
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