The struggle - WIP
He sits in the shadows, spinning his tendrils carefully. This particular human has been very helpful to him. No point in ruining him by being careless and leaving him a ruined hulk of a man. His tendrils are deeply entrenched in the puppet's brain stem.
He has come too far to fail now. All his machinations have been towards this moment, this point in time. He has foreseen every eventuality, every possible angle, every possible.........
Angle. Every angle, but the obvious one. Oh hell.
The glow seems to come from everywhere and nowhere. The angel softly settles down, without even disturbing the dust in the dirty alleyway. Her eyes never leave his, even as he redoubles his efforts to maintain the tendrils moving in the pattern he wants them to. She is, for now, someone else's problem.
That someone else, a certain Mr. Haldwell, is currently perched about 20 feet higher than the angle. He is perfectly hidden in the shadows. He is as much a part of them as they are of him. So, when he drops, there is no sound. Only the hard crunch of a heel meeting a face. Haldwell's body describes a beautiful arc before coming crashing down a few feet away from the smirking angle.
Haldwell was his protector, his muscle, the Obelix to his Asterix. And now, he seemed to be down for the count. The sweat begins to bead on his forehead, as his concentration begins to waver. A small gesture, almost careless, ignites a spark a few feet away from the angle, growing almost instantaneously into 8 feet of densely packed muscle and .....pretty much only muscle. This is his next gambit. Throwing a svert into the game.
The svert would have torn him apart, except for the fact that the folks from perdition hate the divines more than they hate the infernals. The svert makes only momentary eye contact with the crouched figure of the puppet master, before it sniffs the air and turns to face the angle.
The battle is short and bloody. The svert fades from this existence, with the angle continuing to smirk. Well, the meeting is almost done. There is nothing more to it. It is all upto fate now. He withdraws his tendrils, and turns to face the angle.
"And who are you?", he begins casually, just in time to avoid a roundhouse kick to the face. No bloody manners these days, he muses. Its all business with the new generation. However, etiquette is etiquette. So he makes a small bow.
"Where are my manners, ma cherie.", he almost purrs. Six invisible tendrils spread around her, ready to strike at his command. "I ask you to introduce yourself, without introducing myself first. You must forgive......" The rest of that sentence is lost in incoherent gargling, as her kick hits home.
Hell, that hurt. He struggles to stand.
------
WIP story. Will finish later.
He has come too far to fail now. All his machinations have been towards this moment, this point in time. He has foreseen every eventuality, every possible angle, every possible.........
Angle. Every angle, but the obvious one. Oh hell.
The glow seems to come from everywhere and nowhere. The angel softly settles down, without even disturbing the dust in the dirty alleyway. Her eyes never leave his, even as he redoubles his efforts to maintain the tendrils moving in the pattern he wants them to. She is, for now, someone else's problem.
That someone else, a certain Mr. Haldwell, is currently perched about 20 feet higher than the angle. He is perfectly hidden in the shadows. He is as much a part of them as they are of him. So, when he drops, there is no sound. Only the hard crunch of a heel meeting a face. Haldwell's body describes a beautiful arc before coming crashing down a few feet away from the smirking angle.
Haldwell was his protector, his muscle, the Obelix to his Asterix. And now, he seemed to be down for the count. The sweat begins to bead on his forehead, as his concentration begins to waver. A small gesture, almost careless, ignites a spark a few feet away from the angle, growing almost instantaneously into 8 feet of densely packed muscle and .....pretty much only muscle. This is his next gambit. Throwing a svert into the game.
The svert would have torn him apart, except for the fact that the folks from perdition hate the divines more than they hate the infernals. The svert makes only momentary eye contact with the crouched figure of the puppet master, before it sniffs the air and turns to face the angle.
The battle is short and bloody. The svert fades from this existence, with the angle continuing to smirk. Well, the meeting is almost done. There is nothing more to it. It is all upto fate now. He withdraws his tendrils, and turns to face the angle.
"And who are you?", he begins casually, just in time to avoid a roundhouse kick to the face. No bloody manners these days, he muses. Its all business with the new generation. However, etiquette is etiquette. So he makes a small bow.
"Where are my manners, ma cherie.", he almost purrs. Six invisible tendrils spread around her, ready to strike at his command. "I ask you to introduce yourself, without introducing myself first. You must forgive......" The rest of that sentence is lost in incoherent gargling, as her kick hits home.
Hell, that hurt. He struggles to stand.
------
WIP story. Will finish later.
Comments