Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-25808351-20180615005427/@comment-30014014-20180716014734

He stops, looking all around. A flood of darkness trying still to feast on him. The accumulated ashes are indeed becoming problematic. Silence mutes the man. He has nothing else to speak to the voice. Her voice sounding to him like gargling on delusion and the fostering hope that whatever she is trying to summon would not put her at the pyre.

Like so many before with the rise of heros, champions, kings, avatars and gods. Their faithful, sacrificed with no second thought. He could speak of those who suffered for their faith in the first eon. Or the second. Or the third.

Pointless time, he summarizes. True or not, this sort of thing seemed not to reach him, unlike the swarm. A problem for their kind. But this little incident he was finding himself in, this did require a degree of attention, lest his surrogate succumbed.

Fire had proven good at cleansing. Alas, with numbers, even its tide had a limit cap. He was not to wait for this limit to reach its peak, the surrogate wouldn't survive. It barely struggles to keep itself whole. Whole against the tide of bites. Whole against previous injuries. Whole against itself.

Roaring thunder screams across the heaven as the orchid flame that inhabitated the room subsided. It vanished, leaving what little light it provided to choke in the darkness. So did its caster. Prad was nowhere to be seen, purged from the immediate area.

Soon enough, another thunderous roar crashes agianst the side of the prison, leaving an alien light briefly filling the room before it also died. Then, another. And another. Every bolt struck against the dark room, fueled with increased rampant destruction.

High in the heavens, Prad glides, hands crossed, deep in the foreign power he once used to fly, feet and arms. A congregation of cloud summoned behind him, awaiting their master. Bolts sliding at the edge of their home, waiting to be hurled.

From the sky, his eye was briefly turned to the land of fire and brimstone. A primal worm and lycanthrope standing amist its aftermath. Indiscriminate destruction wrought on the land. All this serves to convey is indifference. The land was dead the moment they had set foot here.

WIth Threnody, Prad points down to the hole left by his very lightning crashes. He utters two words, once spoken in this land, a prelude to a lightning storm.

Harrowing descent.

One of the countless bolts dancing among the dark clouds rushes with teeth, falling near the building. It breaks into only slightly smaller stride of bolts, tunneling to the dark place he once descended in a jagged circle. Numbers are meaningless now. If fire is his more controled state, then lightning is unwarranted destruction anywhere he pointed at. And right now, the dark prison was his target.