Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-25808351-20180615005427/@comment-30014014-20180905040300

The drifters note the ease in which the old one shelters himself from the first one's other-planar assault. Their stance takes a brief moment of ease, going over the sloped poise of cloaked combatants.

Almost as if hearing of his words, they flicker for but a moment on the reality of this realm. The act is not done without the notice of the earth, who wince at their mere fixated presence, inviting a small portion of wherever place they stalk from, tainted in gray and purple at the edge of their feet. They are not welcomed atop this earth.

Surely the old one can take a jab at their appearance in the few seconds they stand still on the realm. Their fleeting presence, soon already eroding to the fold between worlds, devoid of color save for darkness. Their flesh, hindered for the most part by said armor, save for the visages that instead feature seals on the eyes and mouths, brimming with alien power. Shackles surround the seals, almost keeping the things in place. More appear on the torsos. The gauntlets. The greaves. Shackles, twisted and burrowing between the gap of the blackened.

The drifters twitch between movement, the remains of old instincts seeking to be freed, with no avail. A black liquid seep from the masks, the fingers, the feet. A reminiscence of the crimson liquid which flows within humans, obviously eroded.

There is but silence from the drifters, who do not return the words of curiosity to Pramool. They naught but stand, slowly slipping back to the fold of this realm...awaiting the next gap.