RT5

A cry of passion, the swing of brave desperation brought down the expression of their being unto the form of flame and bone and stopped its cutting, blocked by void and nothing but what it intended to strike.

So HE stood in blazing glory to reach and grasp the neck of the whimpering deity. The thing’s sickening innocence would spare its being from pain only for so long. A cloth of red, once the jacket of this entity, rose to the heavens alit with hellfire and pain.

She stumbled, HE stood. HE challenged. HE beckoned.

They rose.

HIS hands were empty of flesh and existed as naught but bone and deflected the tools of these entities with wanton grace and carelessness. One with glasses aimed to strike from where HE could not see and struck the dirt, so swift was his lifted and descending leg.

It was not a kick that launched her, but a careless shuffle. A name was cried. But HE sees through all illusions. HE has no eyes to see, no ears to hear, no skin to feel, no nose to smell, no tongue to taste.

HE sees their trepidation and strikes, breaking the arms of the Venetian doctor. HE hears their cries of distress and disables the grasshopper with the swiftest motion of a single arm. HE feels a blade move through cloth and strikes no flesh, feels the realization of the star-haired man and breaks the demon over HIS knee. HE smells their fear. He tastes their souls.

Too innocent. Too pure.