[center][img]http://orig04.deviantart.net/992f/f/2016/274/0/9/blackblood_by_fenixking13-dajgrkh.png[/img][/center] [center][color=1b1464]Mithril Blackblood[/color] [color=aba000]The Golden Sword[/color][/center] [@Lucius Cypher][@ADamnFiddle][@liferusher] Time held no meaning here, in the total void of his mind, as the spirit of Mithril Blackblood watched through his own eyes the calamity he would unleash. In here the moment seemed to last an eternity as the fire swelled at his feet. How many times had he done this particular channeling? How many lives had it taken over the years. The shackles that imprisoned him, bound tight about his heart and soul, gripped tighter still as he pleaded not to continue. The horrible sound of laughter echoed all around him, imparted from the sword directly to him. The cruel laughter of the thousand men and women who had been consumed by the swords true nature. It had no voice but still he heard it, behind the wall of voices and wails, he heard it. Black as night and colder than anything he would likely experience. [b][color=ed1c24][i]YOU HAVE NO CHOICE, BLACKBLOOD. YOU ARE MINE. FINISH WHAT WE STARTED.[/i][/color][/b] --------- If Malakaus' swings could be measured in the space of a mere 3 seconds then the ball was still in the madmans more than capable hands. Under the weight of that most oppressive of evils, the lumbering giants strikes would always fall short. Merely standing in its radius was all it took for the swords aura to overcome him in every way. With The others fleeing the rooftops before the calamity struck, it was hard for anyone to imagine someone with a sane mind standing alone against what was coming. In the time it took to blink, the fight would be over. It was a surreal experience for those who could see it occur, to live it so thoroughly, and yet all would claim it the will of the universe. Chaos meant anything could happen for any reason. Such had been and always would be the case for a madmans plans. A fluke, pure luck, undependant on the skill of the wielder or the creed of his heart. It would be a matter of circumstance. Malakaus' axe cleaved forward, at a seeming crawl in the window of a second, as Mithril spoke the trigger. [color=0072bc]"Al Goa."[/color] Both hands raised in front of him, the fire scorched an angry white path forward from his open palms. The sheer explosive force was too much for his weakened state, having only one hand still in working condition. A single boot with a thin coat of ice on the heel cost him his balance at such a precarious moment. Unable to withstand his own force, he was thrown bodily away. The axe cleaved forward but found nothing but air as the limp form of the caster was thrown from the rooftops. A line of dancing white motes of flame lingered in the air to stretch between Malakaus' current position well over to where the three warriors had stood mere moments before. Condensed flames turned white from their own heat expanded in an instant. The resulting inferno lit the nights sky in a chain reaction of explosive force, a pyroclasmic detonation meant to end any fight in a shower of fire. The beauty was how quick the spell was to react once cast. Had the others not chosen to retreat the moment he had begun, they would have simply been incinerated. The trail of white hot doom would likely have taken Mithrils life as well, had circumstance been different. When the dust cleared the destruction would reveal itself like a blooming flower. Both rooftops had been blown away, scattered and scorched, leaving nothing but the smoldering scar trailing down the supporting walls. The top floor of both houses graced the nights sky as the ashes fell upon the streets. Mithril had fared lucky, ropes and lines had been hung between the buildings to dry laundry in the day time and he had unwittingly fallen through them, his foot getting caught in one such rope that swung him hard into the nearby wall before snapping. Depositing him the last few feet to the hard ground. His shoulder had taken most of the damage from the fall, resulting in his left arm hanging limp and torn at his side. Clothing was equally torn and a his right gauntlet had been thrown off in the tumble. Broken but not beaten he simply laid down in the shadow of the alleyway, away from the view of the others, and glanced up at his handiwork as he ran in unarmored right hand across his stomach to feel the fresh cut. Apparently Malakaus' axe had clipped his stomach.. [color=0072bc]So much for luck[/color] He mused. He failed to notice that the sword no longer rested upon his back. Cruel fate had dislodged the blade from his back to tumble and clatter into the streets.. Just a few feet away from Tani Harumi.