Hector- Vs. Slotha

“I enjoyed our time together, Boarlord,” said Slotha, smiling, unable to resist one last slap. Her clawed fingernails raked across Hector’s face, leaving bright red ribbons of torn flesh in their wake. The magister broke free of the Ugri’s grasp, raising both his hands, gloved fingers splayed wide, the manacles taut. The prince jumped back in his throne suddenly, the old Lucas coming to the fore as he growled defensively. But if he feared Hector might attack him, he was mistaken. The Boarlord had another target.

The Vincent-vile flew from his grasp, fast as an arrow, whipping around the enormous throat of Lady Slotha. Her huge jaw hung open as the spirit coiled around her thick neck, slipping between the folds of her chin like an invisible garrotte. She stumbled toward the throne, staggering up the dais steps, hands grasping at Lucas. The prince leaped up to stand on the stone chair and lashed out, striking her hands away. He roared to try and warn her off, but she was wild beyond reasoning.

The Ugri warriors realized what was happening, the magister’s hands moving as they manipulated the space before him, black leather fingers throttling thin air. They leaped, but not quickly enough; Opal was before them in a flash, her face shifting into that of the Werepanther, clawed hands ready to rip into them if they moved an inch closer. The Ugri stepped back, neutered and helpless as their mistress fell to her knees.

Her tongue lolled from her mouth now, purple and snakelike, as her bulging eyes rolled in her head. The tusks of the Walrus jutted down, ivory sabers that sawed vainly at the air. Hector yanked his hands back, as if pulling a rug from beneath a giant’s feet, hauling the vile back with all his might. The neck of the Werewalrus made an awful, wet cracking sound as her huge head collapsed into her shoulders. With a wheezing death rattle, the queen of Tuskun fell to the flagged floor with a loud thud.

B3 P6 C6