Jun 26 2024, 06:10 PM
Becoming a living lightning rod posed many a problem for Ace. Chief among them was the fact no power in the caves could unlock his limbs from their temporary paralysis. Jaws had seized together so tightly that no snarling remark could interject Mirac’s lording over his grounded form, and therefore zero resistance, verbal or physical, could be put up against the oily restraints which lashed him down after bubbling out of blackened sand. The most he could do was channel all his rage into a red glare, the heat behind it never enough to incinerate the Chaos blade tauntingly levitating before him. Until sensation besides searing pain returned to nerves, the Drone was stuck a silent captive, forced to swallow the bitter medicine of ridicule he often eagerly distributed.
Suspended for the time in such a powerless state, the second wash of wish magic over thoughts proved more effective at grabbing full attention than the last, its visitation no longer having to compete with the initial embarrassment of crash landing again. A miraculous and distracting gift, it arrived at the same instant his enemy prepared to resume villainous monologue, saving him from listening to the inane prattle of a corruption-addled mind. This strange force, mystical and unlike the reassuring cold calculations of his Mother’s will, bent close and whispered amazing promises soon to be fulfilled: weak points would be reinforced while pre-existing strengths were amplified to even greater potency than before. Had his face not been fixed in an agonized rictus, surely he would have guffawed at the suggestion his design possessed flaws requiring improvement.
Nevertheless, a traitorous inner voice pointed out his lowly situation at present. Could he be so blind not to recognize a failure in need of rectification? Furthermore, the very idea of achieving unheard of heights in terms of sheer capability was a tantalizing prospect. The chance to doubly pay back the humiliation he’d received dangled in front of him, its trigger the simple act of surrendering to sleep’s all-encompassing embrace.
He didn’t activate it yet, instead folding the knowledge into a discreet corner of his mind for future review. At last the yawning quiet where frenzied rambling of rivalries and war should’ve been caught his notice. Bafflement gave way to vicious satisfaction behind eyes during observation of the uncharacteristic muteness momentarily afflicting Mirac, somewhat clueless to his opponent’s own encounter with the unknown but suspecting he’d had some role in this abnormality.
Speech remained out of reach for now, but each second floated it ever closer to his grasp. Gradually numbness was receding from his body. He’d free himself from these disgusting bonds, slicing his foe down with a sharp tongue and scythe-like arms. Only then would he risk partaking of the well-deserved reward bestowed impromptu upon him.
If it was revealed to be lies—unsightly deformity rather than a soldier's attributes honed to perfection—he would gladly allow his design to be culled. His Mother, as always and forever, knew best.
Suspended for the time in such a powerless state, the second wash of wish magic over thoughts proved more effective at grabbing full attention than the last, its visitation no longer having to compete with the initial embarrassment of crash landing again. A miraculous and distracting gift, it arrived at the same instant his enemy prepared to resume villainous monologue, saving him from listening to the inane prattle of a corruption-addled mind. This strange force, mystical and unlike the reassuring cold calculations of his Mother’s will, bent close and whispered amazing promises soon to be fulfilled: weak points would be reinforced while pre-existing strengths were amplified to even greater potency than before. Had his face not been fixed in an agonized rictus, surely he would have guffawed at the suggestion his design possessed flaws requiring improvement.
Nevertheless, a traitorous inner voice pointed out his lowly situation at present. Could he be so blind not to recognize a failure in need of rectification? Furthermore, the very idea of achieving unheard of heights in terms of sheer capability was a tantalizing prospect. The chance to doubly pay back the humiliation he’d received dangled in front of him, its trigger the simple act of surrendering to sleep’s all-encompassing embrace.
He didn’t activate it yet, instead folding the knowledge into a discreet corner of his mind for future review. At last the yawning quiet where frenzied rambling of rivalries and war should’ve been caught his notice. Bafflement gave way to vicious satisfaction behind eyes during observation of the uncharacteristic muteness momentarily afflicting Mirac, somewhat clueless to his opponent’s own encounter with the unknown but suspecting he’d had some role in this abnormality.
Speech remained out of reach for now, but each second floated it ever closer to his grasp. Gradually numbness was receding from his body. He’d free himself from these disgusting bonds, slicing his foe down with a sharp tongue and scythe-like arms. Only then would he risk partaking of the well-deserved reward bestowed impromptu upon him.
If it was revealed to be lies—unsightly deformity rather than a soldier's attributes honed to perfection—he would gladly allow his design to be culled. His Mother, as always and forever, knew best.
@Mirac
((Finally rolling this further along! Got a little bit busy with Pocket Lessers and working on Ace's mutation design.))