Wafts of smoke drifted lazily around Mercy's bare feet, the yellowed grass puffing into nothing at the heat. The Archon cast his gaze about the wide, crumbling, courtyard, questing about for that familiar cold presence. Nothing moved save the damp breeze that spirited the smoke away and left a greasy feeling on Mercy's skin.
There was something unnatural about that wind, the Archon decided. Still warily scanning the ancient courtyard, he resigned himself to action. Words slipped from his lips like burning pitch, steaming as they grew in intensity. A thin red line was traced on the palm of his right hand, and a wavering golden light began to spill out, luminescence dripping like wax. Emerging from the widening gash was a jag, then a spike, then a long curved blade of shimmering bone, impossibly sharp. It shone wetly.
Something in the shadows at the north end of the court moved, a sinuous, pulsing motion.
There you are, thought Mercy, sword gripped loosely. The pools of golden blood mirrored his watching eyes. His silver wings rustled in the gathering wind, and the thing emerged.
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2 comments:
Sounds pretty good :D
Oh, remind me to give you the "Strange Angel" books.
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