Suddenly a thick, oily sensation settled just beneath his skin. The general breathed a nearly imperceptible gasp; the auric energy eased over his senses with such familiarity that he relaxed into its presence.
Youma. Monsters. Kindred spirits.
The broken husks of countless souls who cracked or shattered or withered away under the pressure of a war far before their time. The posthumans that fed on their own, cannibalized those who lingered in their atrocious, paltry routines, seemingly oblivious of the growing threat in their final evolutions. These monsters phased in from shadows, and with them came a hunger so insatiable that mass extinction could not sate their needs. Yes... youma soon approached his location. Only a few, he noted, and weak ones at that. Beggars, maybe. Vagrants. Turncoat soldiers. Deserters.
Soon they advanced on his location. Soon their shadowy claws dug into the brick, peeling away whole chunks of mortar on their ascent. Windows broke beneath potent claws. Makeshift shutters broke beneath the weight of strong, sinewy limbers that propelled the creatures towards the roof. And soon, Bischofite noted, hands loaded with ten fingers apiece sprawled over the lip of the building like tidal waves.
And soon he realized they weren't hands a all. No larger than a sizable house cat, a six-legged beast with a serpentine body hoisted itself over the precipice and paused. Another of its kind appeared not long after, which seemingly startled the first into approaching the general. Soon enough, the pair sat transfixed before him, each staring transfixed into the intricate beading laden in the dreamcatcher. Their abnormally small, dead eyes never blinked. No, the two sat wholly hypnotized by the artifact that Bischofite beheld so lackadaisically before. The general would've smiled.
He would've smiled were it not for a festering, hateful unease borne from a familiar and equally wrong auric energy in his periphery - one he recognized as unnatural to this world. One of the Dark Mirror Court now skulked through the night, likely seeking to steal away energy to support their miserable, dilapidated shell of a family. Ares' broken dolls...
With the dreamcatcher tucked away into the folds of his robes, Bischofite rose to his full height and perched atop the precipice in hopes that the wretched little scab might possess the audacity to approach him. If not... he was no stranger to chase.
Verithe
so sorry this took so long! let me know if this start is adequate.
