The knight gripped his wrist with a wiry strength, lifted his green-wreathed hand -- and Gaultier offered no resistance, happy to step into any link in the chain of command. The beast screamed, and his narrow-featured face twisted with concentration.
The scream cut through the air like a knife. It was still a scream to Gaultier's ears, not of wroth but of agony, soft and full-throated and feminine.
But fear had long been his friend; and fear of failure had been more motivating for him these long years than any fool's frail hope. Underneath his gauntlets, the bones of his hands clenched so hard they ached, and teeth grit, and in a muttered rush he begged it to burn him through so long as it might work at all. It crackled, flashed pale light -- and the creature was upon him.
In a strange double-vision, he saw the shadow of the monster. But closer, so bright and stark that everything else around it seemed a dream, he saw realized the shape of a fear that made him suck in a breath of shock.
"Do not falter! Break its legs, or aim for the belly!" the stranger warned, but his sword had slackened a little in his grip. Even his raised fist lowered, fingers beginning to splay like one meaning to beg forgiveness. But the demon had no need of forgiveness, and rose one of its many spindle-pointed legs, punching it through the place where his breastplate failed to cover the soft skin above his hip. It was a forceful blow, and cracked through his body, and the back of his armor.
Its many other segmented arms clicked on the knight's armor as they gripped him close as a meal, awful mouth opening wide.
Whatever the creature expected, it was not that its prey keep moving. The terrible wound shed no blood, and shocked from the reverie of fear, Gaultier levered the point of his sword up underneath cloth-covered joints in the chitin on its chest, grunting with effort as he pushed the blade through and through until it came out the creature's back with a grating sound. It wailed and screeched and its insectoid limbs scrabbled on armor for enough purchase to tear, awful hands flying for his face as if it might try to rend it off.
"Cleave off its head!" He called, bearing the assault to twist his sword and make the creature squirm, given up on the green light. Now the reverie of fear was broken, he might well have seemed... very queerly unperturbed to have been gripped close as a lover by a gibbering horror.
forgive me for the long post!
The scream cut through the air like a knife. It was still a scream to Gaultier's ears, not of wroth but of agony, soft and full-throated and feminine.
But fear had long been his friend; and fear of failure had been more motivating for him these long years than any fool's frail hope. Underneath his gauntlets, the bones of his hands clenched so hard they ached, and teeth grit, and in a muttered rush he begged it to burn him through so long as it might work at all. It crackled, flashed pale light -- and the creature was upon him.
In a strange double-vision, he saw the shadow of the monster. But closer, so bright and stark that everything else around it seemed a dream, he saw realized the shape of a fear that made him suck in a breath of shock.
"Do not falter! Break its legs, or aim for the belly!" the stranger warned, but his sword had slackened a little in his grip. Even his raised fist lowered, fingers beginning to splay like one meaning to beg forgiveness. But the demon had no need of forgiveness, and rose one of its many spindle-pointed legs, punching it through the place where his breastplate failed to cover the soft skin above his hip. It was a forceful blow, and cracked through his body, and the back of his armor.
Its many other segmented arms clicked on the knight's armor as they gripped him close as a meal, awful mouth opening wide.
Whatever the creature expected, it was not that its prey keep moving. The terrible wound shed no blood, and shocked from the reverie of fear, Gaultier levered the point of his sword up underneath cloth-covered joints in the chitin on its chest, grunting with effort as he pushed the blade through and through until it came out the creature's back with a grating sound. It wailed and screeched and its insectoid limbs scrabbled on armor for enough purchase to tear, awful hands flying for his face as if it might try to rend it off.
"Cleave off its head!" He called, bearing the assault to twist his sword and make the creature squirm, given up on the green light. Now the reverie of fear was broken, he might well have seemed... very queerly unperturbed to have been gripped close as a lover by a gibbering horror.