Falling? How about bloody Sleeping?
I DID NOT WANT TO WRITE THIS NOW. I WANTED TO GO TO BED. CHOOSE A LESS CATCHY CHALLENGE WORD NEXT TIME. >_<
It was a transition like shattering glass. For one teetering moment, a nation was still there; then it smashed. Thousands of lives went skittering in different directions.
He was already losing grip on the sky, an awkward corkscrew drop on dead wings, but the guns below were still barking. More blooms of iron-pain seared into his shoulders, into his stomach. The florid blue blood sprayed up close past his flared eyes, allowing him to trace some of the droplets leaping and following him down.
In flashes he could see Nahobe, swooping away, and Tamandar, diving after him. He could hear Nahobe calling for flight and Tamandar wailing for a god to catch him. He knew both had no hope.
In flashes he could see the men of iron, metal beetle-shapes scuttling across the hilltop and still firing, firing, firing. He could hear the guns, barely. The groans of stonework and the screams of the city were still very loud.
Take it back, was the only thought that had time to penetrate the iron numbness. Take it back, take it back, take it back.
It didn't work that way. None of it did. Deeds, orders, bullets, death, gravity.
The Circle turned only forwards. He only fell.
His body was already drowning in pain-rapids. Impact with the ground was nothing but a freshened current, swamping him and drawing his senses further down.
A few moments later, Tamandar dropped to earth beside him, iron-wings crushing beneath tangled limbs. He had no face.
There was still a raging clamour all around, the sound of the city's wounds up close, and the sound of soldiers' voices shouting to each other - hungry, circling dogs. It took Arathalian a few moments more to realise that all Inyaron had died in the fall, but he had not.
Instantly he arched back and screamed, lashing out with a voice that should have ripped every one of the ironbloods apart, if only the iron hadn't frozen his blood as well. He cursed them in words that flowed without magic, shrieking each note until he could hear them scattering, then cursed them in their own language for cowards who would not shoot.
But they would not shoot.
Voice and hope died in his throat. He let his head drop and his eyes roll back towards the sky, watching small, winged shapes falling from the smoky grey.
... now it's 3:30am and I really AM GOING TO BED.
GoodNIGHT.
It was a transition like shattering glass. For one teetering moment, a nation was still there; then it smashed. Thousands of lives went skittering in different directions.
He was already losing grip on the sky, an awkward corkscrew drop on dead wings, but the guns below were still barking. More blooms of iron-pain seared into his shoulders, into his stomach. The florid blue blood sprayed up close past his flared eyes, allowing him to trace some of the droplets leaping and following him down.
In flashes he could see Nahobe, swooping away, and Tamandar, diving after him. He could hear Nahobe calling for flight and Tamandar wailing for a god to catch him. He knew both had no hope.
In flashes he could see the men of iron, metal beetle-shapes scuttling across the hilltop and still firing, firing, firing. He could hear the guns, barely. The groans of stonework and the screams of the city were still very loud.
Take it back, was the only thought that had time to penetrate the iron numbness. Take it back, take it back, take it back.
It didn't work that way. None of it did. Deeds, orders, bullets, death, gravity.
The Circle turned only forwards. He only fell.
His body was already drowning in pain-rapids. Impact with the ground was nothing but a freshened current, swamping him and drawing his senses further down.
A few moments later, Tamandar dropped to earth beside him, iron-wings crushing beneath tangled limbs. He had no face.
There was still a raging clamour all around, the sound of the city's wounds up close, and the sound of soldiers' voices shouting to each other - hungry, circling dogs. It took Arathalian a few moments more to realise that all Inyaron had died in the fall, but he had not.
Instantly he arched back and screamed, lashing out with a voice that should have ripped every one of the ironbloods apart, if only the iron hadn't frozen his blood as well. He cursed them in words that flowed without magic, shrieking each note until he could hear them scattering, then cursed them in their own language for cowards who would not shoot.
But they would not shoot.
Voice and hope died in his throat. He let his head drop and his eyes roll back towards the sky, watching small, winged shapes falling from the smoky grey.
... now it's 3:30am and I really AM GOING TO BED.
GoodNIGHT.