Bullet snapped at the first target's shoulder, he dropped lifelessly and cried. '-He's paralyzed,' figured Igna, slash after slash – blood bled and gathered – spiraling into a crimson apple. *Crunch,* a force of hundreds dropped, he bit and ate all the while survivors ran for the grated gates, "-OPEN!" they cried, the distant boom of the devil's footstep amplified, fear grasped the heart and silence – splatter against the gate and outside.
"Here we are," a nonchalant swing cleaned the dulled blade, '-good work,' he thought, '-Orenmir,' a mist of agony rose from its scabbard – handle clicked, the sword sheathed.
Theon skipped onto the relatively clean courtyard, "-I heard screams," he said with a maimed finger in hand. Igna frowned, "-oh, my apologies," he quietly hid the item, "-I like to take a souvenir from my best works. The melt-off was one of the best I've ever seen."
