10-21-2016, 04:14 PM
The shaved man, his ghostly pale skin draped in the shadows cast by the light on the ground, brought his hatchet down and removed the oni's head, completing the strike of his sword and arterial blood sprayed out in black jets.
And then the only thing that could be heard was the sound of their breathing. Armande too was winded after his exertions- more than he cared to admit, after the last two days- strength and the rush of the fight leeching from his body, draining away as the blood drained from the now dead oni's neck. The woman spoke quickly, her oddly accented Russian firm and in command. The light from his flashlight lantern put odd shadows on her face as well and she seemed to be crowned with a mass of long dark hair. But that was not what had his attention.
He listened in fascination as she spoke. Her Russian was archaic. Not зверь, beast. Not животное свирепый, fierce creature. Индрик-зверь, the mythical indrik beast. But the over tones of the word had changed. There was no sense of fear to the word, the hushed trepidation that had accompanied it when the outlandish tales were told. The oni was merely a resource to them, here, deep in the tunnels.
His eyes narrowed, remembering the hushed whispers of those above speaking of something or someone dangerous deep in the tunnels. There was something on the bald man's face, not completely visible in the light. He and the others moved in obedience to the woman's command while a third grunted. Then, a finger was pointed at him, accusation and sentencing all in one swift move, the other hand holding the still dripping hatchet menacingly. All sense of camaraderie vanished as quickly as it had come.
Armande smiled darkly, his eyes ice, feeling the light grip on his carbon steel sword, firm and perfectly balanced, a weapon that would dance when he swung it, an extension of his arm forged from decades of use. Despite his exhaustion, he prepared himself. Four heads would just as easily drop to the floor as one.
The girl crooked a finger at him in command, her gaze firm, demanding he come before her. A contemptuous sneer pulled at his lips as he stepped into a position just next to his lantern so they were all in front of him. His eyes glittered blue fire, the hard hilt of his sword gripped and ready. He was no supplicant, begging for his life. His voice, hard and sonorous, filled the room, "I do not come when beckoned, girl" One of the men hissed, but he ignored him, fixing her with his cold blue stare.
Edited by Regus, Oct 21 2016, 05:21 PM.
And then the only thing that could be heard was the sound of their breathing. Armande too was winded after his exertions- more than he cared to admit, after the last two days- strength and the rush of the fight leeching from his body, draining away as the blood drained from the now dead oni's neck. The woman spoke quickly, her oddly accented Russian firm and in command. The light from his flashlight lantern put odd shadows on her face as well and she seemed to be crowned with a mass of long dark hair. But that was not what had his attention.
He listened in fascination as she spoke. Her Russian was archaic. Not зверь, beast. Not животное свирепый, fierce creature. Индрик-зверь, the mythical indrik beast. But the over tones of the word had changed. There was no sense of fear to the word, the hushed trepidation that had accompanied it when the outlandish tales were told. The oni was merely a resource to them, here, deep in the tunnels.
His eyes narrowed, remembering the hushed whispers of those above speaking of something or someone dangerous deep in the tunnels. There was something on the bald man's face, not completely visible in the light. He and the others moved in obedience to the woman's command while a third grunted. Then, a finger was pointed at him, accusation and sentencing all in one swift move, the other hand holding the still dripping hatchet menacingly. All sense of camaraderie vanished as quickly as it had come.
Armande smiled darkly, his eyes ice, feeling the light grip on his carbon steel sword, firm and perfectly balanced, a weapon that would dance when he swung it, an extension of his arm forged from decades of use. Despite his exhaustion, he prepared himself. Four heads would just as easily drop to the floor as one.
The girl crooked a finger at him in command, her gaze firm, demanding he come before her. A contemptuous sneer pulled at his lips as he stepped into a position just next to his lantern so they were all in front of him. His eyes glittered blue fire, the hard hilt of his sword gripped and ready. He was no supplicant, begging for his life. His voice, hard and sonorous, filled the room, "I do not come when beckoned, girl" One of the men hissed, but he ignored him, fixing her with his cold blue stare.
Edited by Regus, Oct 21 2016, 05:21 PM.