Help
Anyway, this is one of my shorter stories, and its only point is to deliever one of those scenes that just sticks in your mind, accompanied by the "That was badass" tag.
Hope you guys enjoy, and feel free to tear it apart for me.
Losfer Words
Anybody searching for action
Anything to fill the emptiness inside
Any place that the streets are empty
Any takers wanna pour out their lives
With fire and lightning shooting from my hand
And desolation written across my eyes
My itchy finger on the hairpin trigger
My tempers hot and my patience's taken flight
-Play for Blood
Megadeth
Barael’s arm was limp at his side, most likely broken. His gleaming blade was held aloft before him, energy crackling along its surface. The cynical side of his brain laughed at the feebleness of the gesture; the blade had no effect on the creature and he was already half dead. The eight-headed beast in the arena had seen to that.
What is this thing? His mind raced. Is it a daemon of the Skulls? Did that traitor release it upon us?
Whatever it was, it made the Blademaster’s skin crawl. It was huge, looming well over eight feet, and was almost as thick. Its flesh looked to be comprised of writhing shadows in constant motion. Two pale eyes stared out from above a multi-hinged jaw.
Barael rested his legendary blade, bane of the daemon lord and slayer of the spider freaks, on his shoulder. The creature was immobile, as if it was paralyzed. The Blademaster recognized the opportunity to attack, but he didn’t have the strength. So he stood, and waited.
All at once the creature moved. It blurred towards him, its meaty fists falling like rain. Barael turned each aside each attack with his hand and a half sword, the steel crying out. The beast made no sound, it simply attacked and attacked, never seeming to tire or slow. As Barael ran out of breath, the thing’s foot shot upwards, sending him flying through the air. He landed on his useless arm, and darkness threatened to overtake him.
A few seconds passed before the Blademaster forced himself to his feet, leaning heavily on his blade. The creature stalked towards him, its slow pace almost speaking of arrogance. The shadows coating its hands elongated into knife like projections.
Barael prepared numerous quick fire incantations, ready to release every bit of power he had through his blade.
This thing will walk no further. If it takes my life, I will see it dead.
A intense pressure forced him to his knees, and threatened to drive away his consciousness. Every blade spell his mind had garnered had fallen away. Fury rose within him, until he heard the beast’s moans. It had stopped again, its head twisted in a sickening manner and angled upwards. Barael followed his gaze, and his fury returned.
The traitor!
A single figure stood on the rooftops, his arms crossed. Twin scimitars rested at his hips, partially concealed by a tan overcoat. Power poured from the man in waves, forming the crushing pressure. A man of legend, a man who stood at the center of a thousand stories…
Hyuga, Dihn of the Laughing Skulls.
“Darkhor, beast of the Black Ninth, who has freed you from the Doomsday Machine?” the newcomer asked, his voice soft. The Darkhor’s keening intensified, which Barael recognized as some kind of challenge. The shadows on its body flowed in maddening patterns, moving faster and faster.
The creature was fidgeting; it was eager.
“You wish to test yourself against me?” the man asked, his hands falling to his blades. “You Choasborn are all the same…I suppose I have no right to deny you.”
The scimitars embraced the air with a cry of their own, a sound Barael hadn’t heard for a long time.
Not since you abandoned us, you bastard, the Blademaster’s mind screamed. Not since you left us to burn…for what? You started your own Empire, and now you seek to conquer us, is that it? You and your Laughing Skulls? I won’t let that happen…you were ever my better, but I will destroy you if you try and take the throne from Anders.
The tension in the air swelled. The Darkhor began to ooze its own power outwards, an answer to Hyuga’s aura. The Skull shrugged his shoulders, and then vanished.
He reappeared above the creature, slamming downward into its face. Cobblestones beneath them shattered and shot skywards. The Darkhor brought its great fists together, finding nothing but air.
Hyuga appeared and disappeared, a blur of after images. He swirled around the Darkhor’s feet, his silvery blade lashing out. At any given time Barael could see a dozen of the man.
The Darkhor swung its fist savagely, and Hyuga met it with his. The air flashed as the ground underfoot erupted upwards. Both were blown back by the clashing power.
Hyuga skidded to a halt a few feet in front of Barael. He flourished his blades as he turned to regard the kneeling Blademaster.
“Have you answered my question yet?” the Skull asked, his eyes turning back to the reeling Darkhor.
You have to ask yourself what you want more…to be remembered, or to actually be a hero…
“No, you traitorous bastard!” Barael hissed.
“Traitor…oh, Misirlou, what lies has Anders been feeding you?”
“My king need not speak what is so painfully clear to one’s eye! You left us in the middle of a war to form your own Empire!”
“I warned you, all three of you, that one day I would have to leave, that one day the Laughing Skulls would return, and I would once again run with them. I am sorry, friend, but the only chains I bear reside with them.”
“We were brothers…”
“Barael, it isn’t like you to moan. Besides, you make it sound like this was the first kingdom I forged.”
Barael felt his eyes widen.
“Xandu, Cygnus, Tor, and La Villa Strangiato, all weapons forged through my blood and sweat. And now Burned Bridges is mine, ready to head the Empire I have painstakingly built over these last two centuries.”
Barael’s jaw was hanging. He had heard the legends, the mention of the name Hyuga having a hand in the creation of every great city, but no believed that the man seen in Strangiato could have been the myth. It was…impossible.
“Now, go, bring my words to your king. The Laughing Skulls come to save my city from the creatures you so foolishly set free from the Doomsday Machine.”
The man turned and pulled Barael to his feet, shoving him away.
“Go, now!” he growled, the words an overpowering command. Barael stumbled off, confused and lost.
Hyuga turned back to the Darkhor, who was now flanked by two massive hounds, easily as large as horses.
“We….were warned….of you,” the Darkhor’s voice slithered, its sound feminine and twisted.
Warned? How? By who? Who stands in my path now?
As the questions raced through his mind, he felt more malignant presences near him. The entire legion that had been stored within the Machine’s outer workings were closing in on him.
And the monster those chains were wrought for still sleeps. When Animus awakes…heh…then the fun really begins.
“We…suggest you pray, mortal…for your soul,” the Darkhor hissed. “For if we get it…we will…not be kind…”
An insane grin consumed Hyuga’s face. He removed the glove from his left hand, thunder without sound filling the air. Buildings shattered under the awesome pressure radiating from Hyuga.
A tattoo covered Hyuga’s left hand, a skull, eternally frozen in mid laughter amidst a field of flames. The Skull once again sank into his fighting stance.
“Who can a god slayer pray to?” Hyuga asked as he swirled his power. “No, this is the way I ensure the safety of my soul.”
He charged.
