The Heir to Thunder
Prince Faen Lokison
The behemoth pounded down the alleyway, each footfall like a miniature earthquake, rocking the surrounding streets and buildings with titanic force, nearby car alarms going haywire. Now mere yards from Faen, it threw itself into the air, all six of its meaty fists raised, ready to come crashing down with all the crushing force of a freak rockslide. He smashed downwards, bellowing a war cry, and Faen …
Faen melted into a cloud of grey-green moths, his form melting into hundreds and hundreds of winged insects, scattering like a maelstrom around the six-armed fighter, who grunted in confusion, casting around wildly for the Asgardian mage. The Hellhound, which had managed to disentangle itself from the bird-skeleton, pawed forwards to sniff at the ground where Faen had been standing.
“What the Hel?” Hissed the Dökkálfar, just as surprised by the turn of events as her sturdier companion.
“Yes, I can’t say I’m all that impressed myself.” Came Faen’s voice from by her shoulder. The Dark Elf’s eyes widened in surprise, but quick as a whip she spun around and away, bringing her knife to bear in a backwards defensive grip, dropping to the balls of her feet, ready to fight or flee.
“They were supposed to be butterflies,” the Prince of Lies continued conversationally, brow furrowed in annoyance.
“Oh well, better luck next time, eh? Anyway, the real pay-off is the bit that happens afterwards. Observe!” The half-breed clicked his fingers with a resounding crack, the army of moths that had been flurrying around the behemoth and the Hellhound spurring into action, winging their way towards the six-armed giant and alighting on his form, who glanced at them sceptically, as if to say
‘really? You’re attacking me with magical insects? Really?’ The faintly mocking expression faded as the moths began to merge into each other, their lines blurring as they slowly dissolved into a thin, membranous blob, forming a second skin over the monsters own. He grunted first in surprise, then roared in rage, then finally cried in fear, as he realised that try as he might, he could not break out of the moth-mold. The noise was cut off when the gelatinous blob enveloped his face and mouth.
The behemoths allies and Faen alike looked on in horror at the spectacle. It was a spell of his own devising, but he hadn’t expected it to be so frightfully effective. Definitely not a trick to use at parties then.
“Gross” He conceded. A stillness fell over the combatants then, as the invaders realised that Faen wasn’t going to be quite the pushover they expected. The momentary calm ended when a blonde man, an unfortunate civilian by the looks of him, walked past the alley mouth. Instead of taking one glance at the combatants and high-tailing it as fast as he could in the opposite direction, the fool stood there and gawped, pushing his hands into his pocket while he did so. No doubt going for his phone to try and film the spectacle.
“No witnesses,” the Dökkálfar spat at the Hellhound, which threw itself at the newcomer, pouncing in a gnashing fury of teeth and claws, ready to eviscerate him were he stood.
“Run, you bloody lackwit!” Faen shouted at the civilian, though his attention was suddenly grabbed by his own predicament, coming in the form of the Dark Elf woman hurling herself at him knife-first. Faen's greatest weakness and fear combined, angry women with pointy things.
Suddenly he really wished he'd let Beta Ray Bill handle this after all.