Blade scraped fur.
Purple glares shone—bright, blazing with heat.
Silhouettes charged, chased and chasing, as they weaved across the rural neighborhood, past the stalls and posts, over shops and booths.
Light trails streaked; all objects in sight were destroyed, rended, and sundered; pure anarchy exemplified.
Glossy gray soon glistened, polished steel. A metal thirst for blood, the guts, and a death.
"Bastard rat… stay damn still," Alistair roared, halting, shifting to a stance.
Gray-sword traced an arc forth, curved sinuous lightning chased after Ragnör.
Many fled; citizens scampered from the aêtheric blast's path.
An explosion.
A burst riddled the expanse. Debris scattered. Fire swayed, wobbled; teetered to the dust as it soared.
The Nêtheric heat feasted.
Fire stuck to walls, to the cabins and shacks, burning without an end—or a limit—to be seen.
