[The form Vergilius manifests, with the roiling, raging flow of blood, is almost like that of a warrior. Perhaps he is indeed an angel. He will take Lobelia into his open arms, embrace him, and use his divine sword to banish him to hell as the sinner he is. His own dull heart, so kept under lock and key, isn't even free of the excitement that fills the air.]
[How odd, how very odd. He doesn't have ears like Lobelia does, but he almost swears that he can feel their hearts beating in tandem as the other jumps after him to clash with him in the air.]
[The blood of his new mantle billows like flame - the man attempts to hit, but it reacts in turn like limbs of their own, parrying instinctively. His gladius still is held high, no weaker even by being held by his other hand, as he slashes and strikes where he can. His mouth is open in a snarl, his eyes blazing. There's no restraint. If he can tear into the other man, he will. The wolf no longer has its muzzle.]
[What comes up must come down, though, and gravity starts to shift him down, even as he's turning to launch a heavy, horrid kick at the other's abdomen to try to bring him to the ground first.]
[Brilliant, dazzling, divine. He was right to consider this man his angel of death, his blade burning hotter than the flames of hell, those bloody tendrils effortlessly parrying his every attack. This is Vergilius' true form, isn't it? How lovely he is, done up in so much blood, and Lobelia wants to imagine it's from each and every life he's taken, siphoned from their bodies and forged into something lovely to behold.
Lobelia is forced to take a more defensive position, snaps and whistles catching that blade before it can cleave into his shoulder, the weight of soundwaves slowing its advance to a crawl. The blade still manages to tear into his flesh, but it's nothing that will slow him down— a mere inconvenience, and Lobelia is certain he'll suffer his fair share of those.
He's spoke too soon, clearly, when audiomancy alone is not enough to stop the trajectory of that kick. It's enough to lessen his impact, kicked to the sandy stretch below and cushioning his fall with waves of pressurized noise, the first gaping crater of many to dot the beach.
Propelling himself back upward — and forwards — Lobelia snaps, aims to blow up as many of those bloody tendrils as he can while kiting the shoreline. There has to be a limit to such a power, Lobelia thinks, and that's just as well. This old man can manage to last long enough to satisfy him, can't he?]
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[How odd, how very odd. He doesn't have ears like Lobelia does, but he almost swears that he can feel their hearts beating in tandem as the other jumps after him to clash with him in the air.]
[The blood of his new mantle billows like flame - the man attempts to hit, but it reacts in turn like limbs of their own, parrying instinctively. His gladius still is held high, no weaker even by being held by his other hand, as he slashes and strikes where he can. His mouth is open in a snarl, his eyes blazing. There's no restraint. If he can tear into the other man, he will. The wolf no longer has its muzzle.]
[What comes up must come down, though, and gravity starts to shift him down, even as he's turning to launch a heavy, horrid kick at the other's abdomen to try to bring him to the ground first.]
no subject
Lobelia is forced to take a more defensive position, snaps and whistles catching that blade before it can cleave into his shoulder, the weight of soundwaves slowing its advance to a crawl. The blade still manages to tear into his flesh, but it's nothing that will slow him down— a mere inconvenience, and Lobelia is certain he'll suffer his fair share of those.
He's spoke too soon, clearly, when audiomancy alone is not enough to stop the trajectory of that kick. It's enough to lessen his impact, kicked to the sandy stretch below and cushioning his fall with waves of pressurized noise, the first gaping crater of many to dot the beach.
Propelling himself back upward — and forwards — Lobelia snaps, aims to blow up as many of those bloody tendrils as he can while kiting the shoreline. There has to be a limit to such a power, Lobelia thinks, and that's just as well. This old man can manage to last long enough to satisfy him, can't he?]