[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]

[@liferusher][@Lucius Cypher][@ADamnFiddle]



Mithril rested with his back against what he assumed was the opposing buildings wall, his functioning hand was held against the large open wound he had suffered at the hands of Malakaus and a helping hand from gravity. It had torn open rather painfully just a few inches more and had begun to bleed rather profusely. Though his name was Blackblood it was nothing more than a moniker given to him somewhere along the road of his life, the blood flowing out was a deep crimson.
The wound would be fatal if he didn't staunch the blood flow quickly. 

Standing up with a light grunt, the pain was unfelt thanks to his years in demented service to that horrible blade, he put his right hand a few inches from the wound. Having mastered the art it wasn't necessary to perform a chant for this particular effect. 

"Goa.." 

His voice was almost a whisper but the flames would always hear. His hand ignited for a brief instant before he slammed the mass of flames onto his wound. Over the next minute or so he coaxed the flames across his wound, the sick smell of cooked flesh and burning hair assaulted his senses until at last the wound was sealed. Shaking his hand to dissipate, he finally took a glance at his surroundings. 
The fog was dissipating but it wouldn't be long before a group caught up to him. They hadn't been all that far away to begin with. Already he could hear shouts and hollers for aid and a group to round up and capture him. At least that's what he assumed. 

The sword was throbbing in his mind even now, demanding he retrieve it at aNY and all costs. It would not be wielded by another swordsman after having bonded for so long with his mind. 
The domination of Mithril Blackblood had been difficult but beneficial. One of the few welders that still fought back against the oppressive will of its cruel master. It enjoyed crushing his stubborn spirit at every turn.

Mithril moved quickly as the fog finally dissipated. Without the caster in sight to sustain the spell it had no choice but to fade, but the swordsman knew such spells could be tracked by the original caster. That same feeling guided him to where the sword was relentlessly. 
Through a backdoor he entered the nearest building, blissfully unlocked in the commotion as an older man fled the home after realizing the roof had caught fire along with the wooden beams on the top floor. His panic was Mithrils opportunity. 

Closing and locking the door behind him, the mage rushed to the stairs and followed them up before spotting an open window looking out across the alleyway, the very same one he had leapt across earlier when he had been forced to reposition, and saw the wreckage he had caused with but one of his castings.
Down below in the throng of people gathering was the sword.
His sword. In the hands of that very young Knightess he had used as a springboard in his flight. 
The opposition was getting close and he had to hurry. Backtracking his way to the still smoldering roof he ran and leapt, just barely crossing the threshold and into the blackend scar of the first building into a chaotic roll as he slid across the ash covered planking on the top floor. Getting to his feet, he cast a glimpse at his limp arm and grimaced. 
With a dull aching SNAP he slammed his shoulder into the nearest sturdy surface and sighed in relief as he tested his arm. It would need time to heal properly. For now it would have to serve.

Mithril reached into his coat and pulled out the two daggers he kept stashed there. The opportunity to strike would come. for now he whispered in his mind for patience.