Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-25808351-20190303210034/@comment-30014014-20190613164708

That became the time for his act. Host-Prad sought now to make a sunder in the dead one's rotten flesh. His feet twist and move in accordance to one preparing his body. And thus, it begins...

One of his feet land on the soil, firmly fixated, yet elastic enough as to allow the momentum of his movement to counteract the plates adorning his host's frail body.

His hand holding the impostor spear moves forward in an accelerated thrust, aided by his other arm acting as a foci balance, making full use of the eons' worth of machination to input the human body with the uncnny ability to hurl objects with precision.

His fingers lessen their grip, chagred with galvanizing thunder acting as no less than a rail for the spear he hurls, launching it at speeds all too much for the naked eye to see.

The trail of particles gestating from its flight patterns an arc of lightning, falling directly on the dead one's shoulder.

Feeling the impact of ancient flesh pierced by its edge, the spear products what looks to be caps, locking it in place on Pramool's shoulder. Were he to look in Host-Prad's direction, he'd see not the young boy he once offered a death wish. Nor a frightful young man shivering unde rhis newly anointed armor.

No, nothing less than another possessing his body, gazing back with a malevolent glee in the eerie shine peering beyond the man's helmet. A specter he spoke once, now raising a hand to the heavens of his making.

Litany of a dead legion

His hand snaps. The spear shine in frying light. The sky resonates, seeking a literal litany of spears numbering in the thousands, hurling straight toward and around Pramool as guided by unseen hands shimmering in another plane.

Each javelin punctures the soil. Punctures the rocks, trees, corpses of beasts, anything and everything near the undead god, deeply spilling their electric poison in the likeness of a corrosive matter. And yet, the litany was but started.

Silence befell the place for seconds spanning an eternity. But then, they lit up as the genesis of their fall did. Tethers string among themselves and their maker, the first one, embedded on Pramool, giving rise to a lightning cage. A cage soon dethroned by a symphony of volatile power bursting forth from the galvanized links.

The air crackles and fills with electricity, the which  turning anything unable to afford protection to molten electrified slag of what they once were. And even this...is but the crescendo to a final accumulation...