Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-26288702-20180310221203/@comment-30014014-20180508062727

Prad gets himself up, the dagger...changed. Warped. He looks at it, the blade. It periodically changes shapes, from metal, to lightning. A solid piece of lightning. And then, as if it didn't belong, the metal sharpness cut away the miasmatic thunder, reclaming its place. ONly to be usurped back again.

Back and forth. Back and forth. Opposite, yet bound together by the same space. The pieces rattle softy, at a low frequency, and yet, its noise, infernal to those able to hear it. The rage of the conflicting pieces are as a calm storm, but woe to who happens to be struck by it.

The young man foolishly tempts a poke at the possessed weapon. A micro, yet painful shock rewards his curiosity. He waves his finger away in the stale air, as if caught in fire, the weapon grinding ever more, inaudible and noisy.

His attention to the words of the twin had been non-existent, his focus on the shadow that briefly appeared before him. He throws the dagger's hand to his best hand, the hurting one, before swinging it midly, a pose of interception taken as he begins covering Praetor's blind spot. Though a novice in this art, the dagger seems to be 'guiding' his movement. The anguished existence demands violence toward his current enemies...and an ill-hand will seldom bring their teeth to the hide of the undeads.