His obsidian gaze seemed to penetrate into Reemush's very soul, swirling with an endless cyclone of screaming, unremitting hatred. Of the utter disdain and revulsion, his kind felt for this mage's sanctimonious defiling of what he would dare call the higher arcana.
Reemush channelled his magic into the writhing black tentacles, willing them to shield him from the relentless flames. The tentacles surged and twisted, a dark, living barrier against the fire's assault. Yet, despite his efforts, the flames continued to consume them, burning through the protective tendrils as quickly as they could regenerate.
Sweat beaded on Reemush's forehead, and his face contorted in concentration and pain. Each time the fire seared through a tentacle, he poured more of his magic into spawning another, a desperate and exhausting cycle. The tentacles writhed and flailed, a chaotic dance of shadow and flame, but the fire's relentless hunger seemed insatiable.
