10-20-2016, 04:16 PM
Suddenly, the oni turned, and for a moment, Armande only saw its broad leather hide, shadowed for standing in front of the lantern as it lurched and twisted. The light from the lantern could have been from a roaring fireplace for all the flickering shadows that suddenly lit up the room. For a moment, Armande didn't know what was going in.
He heard the roars and chants of men singing, deep and sonorous. The language was Russian, but old. He didn't have time to pay too much attention to it. The oni was slashing at the arrivals as they darted in and out, slashing at legs and torso, then another and then another, dancing about it as if this were game.
Armande had seen pack hunts before. He had seen dances before. He had done both. What he saw was something he would not have expected, outside of an Atharim team with years of working together. One robe clad man came into view, wicked hatchet flashing, hood falling back to reveal a bald white shaved head.
He wasted no time trying to figure out what was going on, beyond the obvious. He felt himself soaking in the sound of their chants and singing, echoing off the walls, combining with the roars of the oni, as if it were strength and life and energy. With a roar he rushed forward, suffused with power, renewed as if he'd slept for a week, the tip of his blade flashing as it struck at the creature from behind. He went for the softer spots- behind the knee, under the arm, behind its tusks. No one strike was enough immediately to bring it down, but now, between the strikes of his new companions and his own blade, blood fanned from a dozen places.
The creature did not know where to concentrate, though its claws and powerful limbs swung around wildly. Where they caught the flash of a robe or cowl, immediately one of the others struck to draw its attention away.
And through it all, he saw a demon, death made flesh. A woman who moved with grace and ferocity, at the forefront. If they were the sword, she was the point. And he felt a sense of elation. It had been a long time since he'd been part of a group hunt. Aside from earlier this day- or perhaps it was yesterday now- everything he'd done over the last few years had been alone. He'd not participated in this in years. And he felt the years melt away.
He did not know that the renewed energy he felt translated into movement, as he became a whirling dervish, reliving all those years in the deserts, hunting and killing the enemies of mankind. Muscle memory made every flick and slash and parry like the darting of a serpent, quick and deadly.
The creature slowed, bleeding from scores of places. At one point it fell to a knee, bellowing a roar of pain and agony at its many wounds and its helplessness, the back of its head to him, presenting himself to the others.
Without thinking he began a downward stroke, all his strength and weight behind the blow, intending to at last deliver a killing blow.
A pity. He wanted the shot at the eye.
He heard the roars and chants of men singing, deep and sonorous. The language was Russian, but old. He didn't have time to pay too much attention to it. The oni was slashing at the arrivals as they darted in and out, slashing at legs and torso, then another and then another, dancing about it as if this were game.
Armande had seen pack hunts before. He had seen dances before. He had done both. What he saw was something he would not have expected, outside of an Atharim team with years of working together. One robe clad man came into view, wicked hatchet flashing, hood falling back to reveal a bald white shaved head.
He wasted no time trying to figure out what was going on, beyond the obvious. He felt himself soaking in the sound of their chants and singing, echoing off the walls, combining with the roars of the oni, as if it were strength and life and energy. With a roar he rushed forward, suffused with power, renewed as if he'd slept for a week, the tip of his blade flashing as it struck at the creature from behind. He went for the softer spots- behind the knee, under the arm, behind its tusks. No one strike was enough immediately to bring it down, but now, between the strikes of his new companions and his own blade, blood fanned from a dozen places.
The creature did not know where to concentrate, though its claws and powerful limbs swung around wildly. Where they caught the flash of a robe or cowl, immediately one of the others struck to draw its attention away.
And through it all, he saw a demon, death made flesh. A woman who moved with grace and ferocity, at the forefront. If they were the sword, she was the point. And he felt a sense of elation. It had been a long time since he'd been part of a group hunt. Aside from earlier this day- or perhaps it was yesterday now- everything he'd done over the last few years had been alone. He'd not participated in this in years. And he felt the years melt away.
He did not know that the renewed energy he felt translated into movement, as he became a whirling dervish, reliving all those years in the deserts, hunting and killing the enemies of mankind. Muscle memory made every flick and slash and parry like the darting of a serpent, quick and deadly.
The creature slowed, bleeding from scores of places. At one point it fell to a knee, bellowing a roar of pain and agony at its many wounds and its helplessness, the back of its head to him, presenting himself to the others.
Without thinking he began a downward stroke, all his strength and weight behind the blow, intending to at last deliver a killing blow.
A pity. He wanted the shot at the eye.