Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-25808351-20180615005427/@comment-30014014-20180825211829

Prad's burnt hand tightens around his still pristine dagger. The blade screams amidst its lightning fuel, unspent for so long.

"You are unfit to combat the elder returned from oblivion" speaks the armored individual, hidden from sight to all but his carrier.

"Perhaps, but they're all doing something. I can't just...stare..." Prad responds, daring a step agianst the encroaching miasma of auras conflagrated against one another. His irises simulate the sound and colors colliding. How the crimson's is rapidly taking over them. His miniature power stands not to last against a force of nature. Something the presence besides him emphasizes on.

"I see you still step forward, a fledging trying to tamper a monsoon over a small boat. What action do you think will win you the day? In your state especially? What will the aftermath of your sacrifice do? The strength from your arm has yet to return. How will you manage your crippled mobility? The white-haired one's lacerating legacy still stands in defiance on your left leg. What fortress do you hope to build upon yourself? The gemini has left your body gaping and aching in every area. Your innards still has yet to muster my dampened gift borrowed previously from my presence. I can hear it, even in the gap that separates us both. Their reeling".

Prad gathers what remnants of strength he has throughout his body, causing his legs to falter and give in, resulting in his kneeling collapse. Heavy breathing follows as his hand fleebly raises the dagger, yet unused. A gesture that does little to impart sympathy from the gray one "This is but a feint of power you carry. WHere it might have held ground against the previous animals, the entity will see it as naught but a brief distraction..."

Prad slowly gets himself back on foot, gazing at the flash of explosion manifested by Armata. Clinging to the tree on which he holds himself, he raises the dagger once more, this time, at the center of the explosion. The knife powers up, prompting a small gathering of clouds focused on the approximate area where he stands.

The gray one watches as Prad musters the will to yield the miniature clouds to his order, resulting in his dagger glowing somewhat brightly. Not enough to outshine the continuous stream of flame Armata was assailing the progenitor of undeads. Which was the idea. To sneak his charge, subtly, by comparison.

'"You seek to consolidate this little orchid to the animal. An abject failure..." 'spits the gray one, his arms crossed, very sure of his words.

"Perhaps, but still, I must try something..." responds the battle-worn man, feeling dust of power gathered in his dagger. His arm. HIs eyes. The lightning took its payment in the shape of additional injuries riding on his burnt uarm. Prad did not care. He stood, defiant of it. The blade now fully dyed.

Harrowind descent.

A singular bolt leaps from the clouds that, themselves die immediately after. The bolt travels straight to the ground, riding it like an ambient serpent. Its size grows until bloated in its own size. Arriving at the pinpoint of attack, the bolt breaks into a circular tunnel. A tunnel of fork-shaped bolts. All directed at Armata's center of attack: Pramool.

The moment the bolt struck, Prad's legs gave way, his strength spent, as well as having more damage to deal with. Damage he covers under his torn shroud. He turns to the back of the tree, hiding, waiting for pain to stabilize.