The smoke monsters are gone - vanquished with little evidence to their existence - but the jagged movements of human-like, porcelain bodies twitch into the moonlight.
He still puts up a fight in that muddy corner of the forest, a ferocious one with his back up against the water. That massive blade lands with devastating force, sending each Nightrender shrieking back into the darkness to nurse its wounds. In a contest of pure physical strength, the answer was clear enough: he would beat every single enemy into the ground til daybreak. He would break them. But the creatures weren't only dangerous for their claws and their voracious hunger.
Visions flash in the mind's eye: A solar eclipse against blood red. A sky of anguished faces staring down at the puny mortals on the earth below. Gore, broken bones, blood, pained eyes, gnashing teeth. An unspeakable well of anguish, hate and rage.
Back in reality, he staggers forward, leaning against the sword, trembling with the overwhelming emotion. His armor begins acting differently, the black plates slithering over his arms to form sharp gauntlets. A canine face begins to writhe in the cape, forming an upper jaw to swim up the cloth.
"Shut up!" he yells, at no one in particular, desperately trying to hold back the tide. If he is lost now, he'll be dead. There'll be no return to Elfhelm. The moment of weakness allows the circle of Nightrenders their chance, closing in on their prey. One leaps on his back, another nearly rakes its claws accross his face leaping on the flat of the sword.
Something was about to give, between him or the horde in front of him.
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He still puts up a fight in that muddy corner of the forest, a ferocious one with his back up against the water. That massive blade lands with devastating force, sending each Nightrender shrieking back into the darkness to nurse its wounds. In a contest of pure physical strength, the answer was clear enough: he would beat every single enemy into the ground til daybreak. He would break them. But the creatures weren't only dangerous for their claws and their voracious hunger.
Visions flash in the mind's eye: A solar eclipse against blood red. A sky of anguished faces staring down at the puny mortals on the earth below. Gore, broken bones, blood, pained eyes, gnashing teeth. An unspeakable well of anguish, hate and rage.
Back in reality, he staggers forward, leaning against the sword, trembling with the overwhelming emotion. His armor begins acting differently, the black plates slithering over his arms to form sharp gauntlets. A canine face begins to writhe in the cape, forming an upper jaw to swim up the cloth.
"Shut up!" he yells, at no one in particular, desperately trying to hold back the tide. If he is lost now, he'll be dead. There'll be no return to Elfhelm. The moment of weakness allows the circle of Nightrenders their chance, closing in on their prey. One leaps on his back, another nearly rakes its claws accross his face leaping on the flat of the sword.
Something was about to give, between him or the horde in front of him.