03-07-2023, 12:31 AM
Stumbling through the portal is like the popping of pressure at a high altitude. The discomfort of a layer between oneself and the rest of the world: thick, sometimes painful, mostly strange. The pressure lowers slowly around Animus. He sucks in a breath instinctively moments before his newest reality pops, the sensation almost painful but mostly prickling—a lift of his upper lip the only sign of a response, a sneer he wears as he steps quietly onward.
Strangely—or perhaps not so strangely to Beqanna—the changing of worlds is the most disturbing part to Animus. It is not exactly a casual look in Animus’ eyes as he observes the carnage around him, but he does seem particularly relaxed. The red glimmer in his gaze matches the blood spilled all over the ground around him; he flicks his ears at a dying scream just behind him. Animus attempts a few steps forward, the squelching beneath his hooves imagined only too-perfectly in his head.
Incorporeal and utterly alien, the demon flicks a single ear in the direction of his sprite. Not even a passing glance is spared in their direction—too enamored with the passing of war and his freshly-noticed, ghostly companions. Around him are translucent faces ranging from shock to indifference. Animus merely blinks slowly, exhaling out a long, quiet breath. A minuscule turn of his head reveals a crushing blow to a Baltian’s windpipe, the last bits of their life blinking
silently from their eyes.
Yet another ear twitches in the sprite’s direction once it begins speaking. Almost begrudgingly, Animus turns to peer at them, his scales so clean that they reflect a warped image of the dying warriors around them.
Why? he muses to himself. Why bring us here? He feels a flash of empathy for all those around him, past warriors and ghostly newcomers alike. As if the brash images of the most carnal of violence will enlighten any single one of them. What true answer lies within this past? Animus, born of some of the worst-imagined kinds of violence, rolls his eyes for the first time since he was young, young boy.
He’s seen violence.
Passion.
The way they collide as if they were simultaneously meant to meet and never meet.
“Is this just history repeating itself?”
Animus turns an almost angry gaze upon the sprite.
“Accidental death, both too dead to tell the tale?”
Strangely—or perhaps not so strangely to Beqanna—the changing of worlds is the most disturbing part to Animus. It is not exactly a casual look in Animus’ eyes as he observes the carnage around him, but he does seem particularly relaxed. The red glimmer in his gaze matches the blood spilled all over the ground around him; he flicks his ears at a dying scream just behind him. Animus attempts a few steps forward, the squelching beneath his hooves imagined only too-perfectly in his head.
Incorporeal and utterly alien, the demon flicks a single ear in the direction of his sprite. Not even a passing glance is spared in their direction—too enamored with the passing of war and his freshly-noticed, ghostly companions. Around him are translucent faces ranging from shock to indifference. Animus merely blinks slowly, exhaling out a long, quiet breath. A minuscule turn of his head reveals a crushing blow to a Baltian’s windpipe, the last bits of their life blinking
silently from their eyes.
Yet another ear twitches in the sprite’s direction once it begins speaking. Almost begrudgingly, Animus turns to peer at them, his scales so clean that they reflect a warped image of the dying warriors around them.
Why? he muses to himself. Why bring us here? He feels a flash of empathy for all those around him, past warriors and ghostly newcomers alike. As if the brash images of the most carnal of violence will enlighten any single one of them. What true answer lies within this past? Animus, born of some of the worst-imagined kinds of violence, rolls his eyes for the first time since he was young, young boy.
He’s seen violence.
Passion.
The way they collide as if they were simultaneously meant to meet and never meet.
“Is this just history repeating itself?”
Animus turns an almost angry gaze upon the sprite.
“Accidental death, both too dead to tell the tale?”