Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-26288702-20180310221203/@comment-30014014-20180419053453

"Guess it's my turn now..." utters Prad, now counting two instead of one. His index and lower finger joined in a targeting sequence, his thumb drops down to it in a ripple of silence from the heavens.

Serrated Sprint.

A singular bolt wiggles itself from the tear in the sky, coiled and serpenting, almost sentient. The light is dim and polluted, drafted in royal purple. And yet, any and all light is briefly devoured by its presence, blanketing the surrounding world in oblivion for but a milisecond. Its path, to scorch the earth until it registers the caster's finger, pointed at the two.

In a split-second, it groans with the grinding of metal against metal as it strike the surface of the soil, permanently permeating it in a black aftermath. The lightning, now grounded, rushes straight at Marcus and Barghest like a feral animal in a berserker trance, grinding the soil with every meter crossed. Earth screams in response, infested by the black touch of the lightning, spreading backward as to flee from the malevolant element.

Prad, at this point, had his other hand deprived of its sheltering bandages. His palm instead held a bundle of lightning mid section. His demeanor, blank. Another bolt peeks from the tear, eagerly awaiting its leap toward whatever target he points, should he will it.