#thyunalloyed

By the Brass Blades of Khorne, could the fates not conspire against me for just a moment?

The once-Bloodthirster of Khorne feels exasperation more than rage, noticing a very tall and very blond figure morphing in from the corner of his eyes. Luminous, beautiful, a being clearly apart from the mortals of this wretched world. A Daemon, Kha'xanzyr has to assume, and one of the Prince of Delights at that.

"Do you want to know I find most loathsome about your kind?" The Bloodthirster rumbles. His blade sits in his lap, the tip buried in the dirt, callous red hands fingering the pommel thoughtfully. Kha'xanzyr's brow creases. He feels the other being more than he sees him.

" Your lack of honor. The glee at which you engage creatures that are already--"

Wounded. Reeling, from the loss of patrons both new and old. Kha'xanzyr is a low-burning fire, a mighty beast with a festering scar, but he can still scorch the hand of any who dares to harangue him. His tail gives a lash and at last he looks up, blue eyes burning into the intruder.

"What do you want, odious spawn of the Prince?"

❛[ Send 🐾 to boop my muse! ≻ highly accepting !

EDGE OF THE NEEDLE IS BATHED WITHIN THE GREEN GLOW OOZING FROM THE PRINCE. It lets it get close, closer, closer still. Limb grabs the hand that SEEKS TO BLIND // and actually pulls it closer. When the tip is near brushing along the outer lens does it proceed to swallow the orb with the very same lid holding it. Teeth drop from atramentous gums dripping ink, and a thread-thin tongue slips out to worm around the needle. A yank // AND THEN IT CONSUMES THE OFFENDING OBJECT. The eye does not return at that moment, a cold breath cascading from the creature that need not breath. “&– - Perhaps your meager tool will meet what it seeks within the void it now floats within.” // @thyunalloyed

The pulley crossbow's mechanisms fly, and a volley of bolts shoots simultaneously, in rapid precision. They each strike a tree from fifty yards - burying themselves into wood. It is so easy to see how that wood might instead be a body.

Miquella's fingers settle against the wooden stock. He sets the crossbow upon the ground, delicately, before Khax'anzyr.

" Intelligence is no chaff to be cast away. The pen is, indeed, mightier than the sword. Never have I lifted a weapon to another, and yet armies bow to mine will. "

" You did not make this."

Kha'xanzyr's snout wrinkles into an ugly vision of anger and derision. He approaches, eyeing the bow hatefully and lifting his hoof. Down the limb comes, infernal force crushing the weapon, smashing it to splinters. Kha'xanzyr gives a snort, at it then at Miquella. " Some servant fashioned it for you, perhaps after brushing your hair or oiling your skin."

The tree isn't spared either. Kha'xanzyr calls upon his sword and throws the zig-zagged blade. It causes far more damage than a few measly bolts, eating through the wood and then burning through it as the daemon's hatred turns the timber into ashes. Kha'xanzyr recalls his nameless sword with a twitch of his claws.

The Reaper stares. Everyone does.

The figure before them looks more at home on the Elven isles than the hellish wastes. And once the spell of the moment breaks, Skarbrand laughs. Throws his head back, and outright laughs, a harsh, barking sound that is taken up by every other daemon and warrior.

He points at axe at the blond one.

"A maiden! Surely you are lost. Lost and mad." The Reaper chides, stepping forward. Of course, he knows this is no woman, let alone a mortal. But, he has appearances to maintain, and a position to reinforce.