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Shrike Vardan Nuir
Afanas' mind recoiled at the intensity of the metaphysical backhand it had to suffer, but the ivory-skinned male stood firm, his fingers clutching the hilt of the sword with such fervor that their knuckles threatened to turn whiter than usual. The sword seemed to provide some protection against the mental assault. The length of its blade oozed black radiance, almost completely engulfing Afanas.
Afanas, who had previously stood with his feet shoulder-width apart, pushed one foot forward so that its toes were facing Shrike, while leaving the other foot at a 45-degree angle.
With his mass now evenly distributed between his two bottom extremities, he bent his knees in a way that an uneducated observer would find difficult to make sense of.
His hands rose, holding the sword hilt beside his head at temple level, the tip directed at a position between Shrike's brows, a few centimeters above the bridge of his nose. He advanced, meaning to strike out against Shrike, all the while the blackblade attempted to feed itself on the evil miasma emanating from all directions. It was a ravenous, horrible thing, with no regard for good or evil, concerning itself only with the matters of how and when to satiste its bottomless appetite.
Afanas' palms turned clammy. He didn't appreciate this specific brand of malevolent force, and he especially didn't enjoy how the blade kept pumping some of the leftovers into him.
Grunting, he reluctantly acknowledged that he was at least partially safe while near the black blade, yet, the fear of corruption permeated his mind all the same. What didn't outwardly harm him could still twist him in ways he wouldn't see coming.
Afanas' mind recoiled at the intensity of the metaphysical backhand it had to suffer, but the ivory-skinned male stood firm, his fingers clutching the hilt of the sword with such fervor that their knuckles threatened to turn whiter than usual. The sword seemed to provide some protection against the mental assault. The length of its blade oozed black radiance, almost completely engulfing Afanas.
Afanas, who had previously stood with his feet shoulder-width apart, pushed one foot forward so that its toes were facing Shrike, while leaving the other foot at a 45-degree angle.
With his mass now evenly distributed between his two bottom extremities, he bent his knees in a way that an uneducated observer would find difficult to make sense of.
His hands rose, holding the sword hilt beside his head at temple level, the tip directed at a position between Shrike's brows, a few centimeters above the bridge of his nose. He advanced, meaning to strike out against Shrike, all the while the blackblade attempted to feed itself on the evil miasma emanating from all directions. It was a ravenous, horrible thing, with no regard for good or evil, concerning itself only with the matters of how and when to satiste its bottomless appetite.
Afanas' palms turned clammy. He didn't appreciate this specific brand of malevolent force, and he especially didn't enjoy how the blade kept pumping some of the leftovers into him.
Grunting, he reluctantly acknowledged that he was at least partially safe while near the black blade, yet, the fear of corruption permeated his mind all the same. What didn't outwardly harm him could still twist him in ways he wouldn't see coming.
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