And what if I said that there is a slowly mounting foreshadowing that Alastor might eventually lose an arm? What THEN, fellow clutching-at-imaginary-straws theorists?
Not to mention we JUST watched Emily lose a wing too. It’s not outside the realm of possibility.
Why else is this man’s upper extremities having MULTIPLE close calls in such short notice? If he isn’t two inches away getting something lobbed off with an angelic axe, he’s getting chunks of his extensor muscles ripped out by a shark-dog. SOMETHING is bound to happen one of these days, mark my words.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
There are 3 or 2 phalanges per finger, that's 14 on one hand/foot, overall 56 if you count their toes too. Do with that information what you will. Maybe get a guy and whenever they misbehave just chop one off. Until they dont have anything left. A long way to go, but sure possible!
not putting this one under a read-more since it's not too bad.. just blood (and angst). also here's the prompt list i'm going off of (i skipped day 5 for now because i don't feel like doing it lol)
Writing continues under the readmore because oops this got LONG!!
--
He hasn't left her side since she was brought in from the battlefield.
Truthfully, Commander Thira didn't know the Slayer very well. Most of what she did know about him came from reports of his exploits in battle, or the few times she was able to witness them for herself.
When he fought against his fellow Man, it was always with a truly impressive amount of restraint given what he's capable of, regardless if he was urged to spill more blood by any bystanders.
But against the demons, that restraint dissolved into vicious, cold-blooded brutality. It wasn't mindless violence fueled by blind fury, but something sharper, burning hotter and brighter than mere rage; frighteningly precise, deadly efficient, he raked through the inhuman hordes like a great leviathan parting the sea in twain.
He didn't seem to be close to anyone save for a select few. He gave respect to his peers and masters alike, but aside from that he didn't interact very much with his fellow Sentinels. He seemed to prefer solitude and quiet, away from the commotion and noise of where his brethren tended to gather in their downtime. She could count the number of exceptions to this on one hand; the Seraphim, Halla (and sometimes the child under his guardianship), and Serrat.
Before the Slayer came, she was a wild, untamable beast. Riddled with scars in both body and spirit, she refused the advances of any worthy Sentinel that tried to tame her, and those that pushed their luck would meet their demise between crushing teeth or were reduced to ash. The only reason she was allowed to remain within the Drakhelm was because she didn't disturb the other dragons (and because nobody could really force her to leave.)
When the Slayer was deemed worthy to join as a member of the Order of Aerum, it had come as a surprise when the formerly nameless dragon had chased off the competition just to come inspect him. She didn't accept him right away at first, but instead of trying to push her limits, the Slayer was content to allow her to warm up to him. Progress was slow, but successful; in the span of a week, he'd gone from merely sitting in her presence to being allowed to touch her scales. And even then, he always treated her with care, respect, reverence even. He prioritized her comfort and needs over his own, and perhaps that sort of care was what Serrat truly needed from a rider.
There were hidden facets under the scarred and bloody surface that was the Slayer's character. But Thira wouldn't get the chance to see those same facets gleaming through until today.
The Battle of the Black Pyres was one of the most brutal and bloody conflict in the war against Hell, if the after-action reports were anything to go off of. Demons had swarmed the battlefield in such great numbers that by the time the Sentinels had pushed them back, the ground had been rendered into crimson mud by the sheer amount of blood soaked into it. It was only due to the Slayer's intervention atop Serrat that had turned the tides... but it had come at a terrible cost.
The wounds his steed had received were brutal and certain to be fatal without intervention. Her wings were mangled beyond repair - even if they were able to mend the torn membranes, they had been all but torn off her body in a fight between some unspeakable demonic monstrosity that had been unleashed upon the battlefield. Not to mention that same monstrosity taking one of her arms, gouging an eye from her skull. And even then, despite such grievous injuries, Serrat had fought with just as much rage and fury as what her rider was capable of until the blood loss was simply too great for her to bear, and she finally collapsed into the mud.
The Slayer's reaction was shocking, to put it lightly.
He had staggered in, still soaked in blood and still bleeding from untreated wounds even as a gaggle of medics were frantically trying to guide him away for treatment. He stormed up to the Commander, dropped to his knees, and pleaded with her (the Great Slayer! begging her!) to save Serrat, that there had to be something they could do to help her.
At first she didn't know how to react, simply from the shock of witnessing the Slayer's seemingly unbreakable spirit crumble so harshly before her. But the look in his eyes told her everything, because she had seen this before, in distraught Sentinels frantic to save their brothers-in-arms still bleeding out in their arms.
This was a man who had suffered unspeakable loss, unthinkable hardships, a man who had lost so much, too much. The idea of losing anything else was unthinkable, inconceivable, insurvivable.
She remembers how the Slayer had all but collapsed with relief when she gave the order to retrieve and treat Serrat. He hadn't sobbed, but the way his voice cracked when he spoke suggested he was on the verge of cracking apart; "Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you."
They had the technology to bring Serrat back to combat capability. The finest cybernetic prosthetics would return what had been (literally) torn away from her, though the eye couldn't be rebuilt. That was fine. A dragon was still a terrible force to be reckoned with, even when half-blind.
The Slayer had visibly sagged with relief when she gave the order, and only then did he let himself be dragged away to treat his injuries. Now, he was curled up by the dragon's side where she rested in a quarantine-stable. He was still in the armor save for the helmet, his hand stroking over the worn scales of her muzzle while she slept off the sedation drugs, murmuring sweet words under his breath to his companion.
If this was how the Slayer acted when nearly losing his companion... then may the Maykrs have mercy on whoever makes the mistake to take her from him.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Tags: Unethical Experimentation, Necromancy, Torture, Magical Surgery, Amputation, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat
Summary:
When the love of your life and greatest obsession is dead, what is there to do but try to rebuild him?
[ID - a decorative divider]
The male strapped to the table is a pretty young thing with the wrong coloured eyes. They dart around the laboratory in fretful anguish, leaping from Vizaeth to the workbenches to the door, and if they were the right colour, Vizaeth would resent such excessive rolling, but they’re not, so it doesn’t matter. The arms and legs are what he wants from this one—the rest is so much offal.
On the workbenches—two great slabs repurposed from a grand zurkhwood dining table—his project lies beneath carefully crafted stasis fields, the complex spellwork a weaving of necromancy gleaned from the Thayan tomes lining the shelves he hauled up from the lower levels. The stalactite’s previous owners saw fit to keep their library at the narrow tip of their hanging estate; Vizaeth prefers to work nearer the top. As far from the city as he can get without leaving it.
“Please don’t please no let me go please please let me go—”
The male is babbling. Vizaeth tunes it out. It all gets to be the same after a while. The same words, the same rhythm. He’d savoured it at first, the luxury of being begged, instead of being the one begging. Now it’s just irritating.
“You’re pathetic,” he rasps over his shoulder as he lowers the stasis fields in preparation for today’s work. “You’ve hardly suffered at all, yet you’re whining like a child. You’re Menzoberranyr. Have some self-respect.”
it wouldn't be a proper knightverse movie if it didn't open with the secondary cast experiencing the most traumatic shit of their life to establish character
Below the cuts for discussion of amputation and morbid thoughts.
What happened to Maedhros’s hand after the amputation? I assume it was left in Thangorodrim attached to the manacle which was chained to the mountain, since that metal was unbreakable. Or maybe they would have been able to get the hand out of the chain once it was no longer attached to an arm?
