- Posting Speed
- One post per week
- Online Availability
- 5-11 EST weekdays, anytime weekends.
- Writing Levels
- Give-No-Fucks
- Adept
- Advanced
- Douche
- Adaptable
- Preferred Character Gender
- Primarily Prefer Female
- Genres
- Superhero, urban fantasy, space opera, crime thriller, supernatural
Hanselt could have sworn he felt the bitter embrace of steel for a brief moment, Bellerophon wailing and rebelling against its master, before the mass of silver dashed skull and brains alike into bone-shards and jelly.
Then he awoke.
Alarmed, his upper-body thrust upwards, as his arm searched for something upon his torso, something he had forgotten but that must have been important, to worry him so. His delicate fingers felt the warped, calloused scar-flesh, and then he remembered. Orion Knights. The imagery of bone and brain-matter revisited him; the Orion that he had dashed asunder with Bellerophon. He should have died, and yet he did not.
Astana. The one with the lattice of oceans. And the boy with the shadows.
They must have won.
And yet, surrounded by the remains of their fallen enemies, Hanselt did not feel like this was a place of victory.
He ascended the steps of the Scribe, the acrid smell of flames and smoke jolting his mind to wakefulness. The Fire Acerbii must have made their marks known. Already, he could begin to sense Bellerophon recoil, as if some involuntary reaction to approaching the site of the flames. Sometimes it confused him; was it Hanselt reacting, or the quicksilver mass itself?
The scent only grew worse as he reached the main floor of the Scribe – but that was far from the only problem.
Ah. They did not win, after all.
He stepped over bodies to exit the Scribe, charred and frayed, only to enter a veritable inferno. Bellerophon squirmed beside him, its form reduced to the consistency of gruel and wet dough. And amidst the flames, the Orion still stood, as if unafraid for their very lives. Children cried, women screamed. This became larger than just a matter of Acerbus, and yet – essentially – that was what it was.
"Tel'Naire." Hanselt spit.
Without Bellerophon, Hanselt was neutered in such a situation. Useless. He cursed his dainty form and his clumsy arms, as well as the prospect that occurred to him; he did not, at all, wish to find haven in the sewers. Something about the liquids did not appeal to him. And yet.
He gathered the ruined form of Bellerophon, and made his way to safety.
Then he awoke.
Alarmed, his upper-body thrust upwards, as his arm searched for something upon his torso, something he had forgotten but that must have been important, to worry him so. His delicate fingers felt the warped, calloused scar-flesh, and then he remembered. Orion Knights. The imagery of bone and brain-matter revisited him; the Orion that he had dashed asunder with Bellerophon. He should have died, and yet he did not.
Astana. The one with the lattice of oceans. And the boy with the shadows.
They must have won.
And yet, surrounded by the remains of their fallen enemies, Hanselt did not feel like this was a place of victory.
He ascended the steps of the Scribe, the acrid smell of flames and smoke jolting his mind to wakefulness. The Fire Acerbii must have made their marks known. Already, he could begin to sense Bellerophon recoil, as if some involuntary reaction to approaching the site of the flames. Sometimes it confused him; was it Hanselt reacting, or the quicksilver mass itself?
The scent only grew worse as he reached the main floor of the Scribe – but that was far from the only problem.
Ah. They did not win, after all.
He stepped over bodies to exit the Scribe, charred and frayed, only to enter a veritable inferno. Bellerophon squirmed beside him, its form reduced to the consistency of gruel and wet dough. And amidst the flames, the Orion still stood, as if unafraid for their very lives. Children cried, women screamed. This became larger than just a matter of Acerbus, and yet – essentially – that was what it was.
"Tel'Naire." Hanselt spit.
Without Bellerophon, Hanselt was neutered in such a situation. Useless. He cursed his dainty form and his clumsy arms, as well as the prospect that occurred to him; he did not, at all, wish to find haven in the sewers. Something about the liquids did not appeal to him. And yet.
He gathered the ruined form of Bellerophon, and made his way to safety.
