Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-25808351-20180615005427/@comment-30014014-20180620161729

The earth; scorched beyond belief. Trees, burnt, galvanized. The air, dense with the aftermath of a thunderstorm. All born, from a single thunderbolt.

When Acheron weaved his way to the young man, he could see him next to the ground zero, where the soil still burns softly. What what seemed like a stroke of miracle, he had nothing impending his physical state...if one was to ignore the slight burn on his hand. Nothing he can't recover from, physically.

Prad's hand, the burnt one was in the air when it stroke, as a mean of protection. A failed one. His breathing is quick and frantic, eyes staring into the open sky in disbelief. He knew not what to say, nor what to do. An unprecedent for him "Why? Why did thing degenerate to such a degree?" He believed he was alone with his words, the clouds receding form the sun...

...only for Acheron's voice to shatter the illusion of solitude. Prad quickly turned to him, unsure of whom had spoken so closely to him before placing his eyes on the undead. Prad was only now calming down, subtly held to recede whatever occured here. He slowly gets himself up, covering his hand with parts of his shroud, looking around, taking in the furious crash.

"Yea...yea...I'm alright. Seems like a thunderstorm passed here..." he speaks, still looking at the damage. Soon enough, however, Prad oddly began walking away, back to the camp. Any human might have taken a bit more time to recover from the fact that they somehow came mostly unscatched from a point-blank bolt crashign in their immediate area. He seemed more intent on...forgetting about it.