Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-25808351-20190303210034/@comment-30014014-20190509035528

The bolts, proven to target Pramool's mass constitution he calls an army, all narrowly avoid him, spreading at his front to horizontal positions meters away from the tide.

Host-Prad's hands had gathered at his center, waiting on the flight, the spread of his bolts. Seeing them cast adrift from each other, he violently separates his fingers from the center.

Disgrateful fall

The bolts suddenly bloat and fatten up to a bursting point before rupturing into five equally charged statures, all falling over the mass like descending stars. Their velocity forces a schreech out of the sky, torn asunder as they lash out in the air...and on earth.

Dozen over dozen of lightning-attuned detonations follow the bolts' violent demise, leaving no flesh unflayed. No muscle unburnt. No bone disintegrated. They scatter on the horizon, producting a line of thunder and static air over their synched detonations.

Host-Prad watches the orchid chain of explosions bombarding the mass from left to right. His hands tremble with delight, aching to send so many more to oblivion. The clouds over his head churned lightning, resonating with his satisfaction over the dead tallied, waiting on his movement.