It looks, in God's holy estimation, pretty badass honestly. He gives a low little whistle, and picks himself back upright with all the grace of a nobody: like he's just a man, like he's somebody's dad. For fleeting moments he seems comically out of place in an arena of death, which is at least funny to him.
"Here's take two, then."
The skeletons screw their heads back on, reattach their arms, put on their feet like wacky shoes. Then, as one lurching and clattering horde, they charge.
They're still just canon fodder. Even given the opportunity, none do anything more than claw and grapple harmlessly for their target: they're all bark. It'll be more of the same if he doesn't spice things up a bit, so he spreads his hands like the maestro of an orchestra.
All the half-dried blood here in the sand, the abandoned waste of past fights, stops being dry. It stops being waste. Warmblood's easiest, resists him the least, so he grabs it as his chosen clay and starts to craft something useful.
From the sand, beads of dark red blood rise as though magnetized; they form a trickle, then a lattice; and suddenly it's not unlike something Maul might have seen in an old dream, faced with a Pthumerian Queen. A net of tacky blood weaves itself into existence and tries to ensnare Maul, tries to take him to his knees. Among the riot of skeletons, everything is maroon and white, lit by the flash and sizzle of the saber.
Oily black smoke simmers at God's heels, but he can keep her down for a little while yet. So long as he doesn't spill any more pain and blood and life, anything to excite her into frenzy; so long as he can start to wrap this up...
Somewhere out of sight, there is a groan of metal as blood and bone shear the lock off a monster's cage.
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"Here's take two, then."
The skeletons screw their heads back on, reattach their arms, put on their feet like wacky shoes. Then, as one lurching and clattering horde, they charge.
They're still just canon fodder. Even given the opportunity, none do anything more than claw and grapple harmlessly for their target: they're all bark. It'll be more of the same if he doesn't spice things up a bit, so he spreads his hands like the maestro of an orchestra.
All the half-dried blood here in the sand, the abandoned waste of past fights, stops being dry. It stops being waste. Warmblood's easiest, resists him the least, so he grabs it as his chosen clay and starts to craft something useful.
From the sand, beads of dark red blood rise as though magnetized; they form a trickle, then a lattice; and suddenly it's not unlike something Maul might have seen in an old dream, faced with a Pthumerian Queen. A net of tacky blood weaves itself into existence and tries to ensnare Maul, tries to take him to his knees. Among the riot of skeletons, everything is maroon and white, lit by the flash and sizzle of the saber.
Oily black smoke simmers at God's heels, but he can keep her down for a little while yet. So long as he doesn't spill any more pain and blood and life, anything to excite her into frenzy; so long as he can start to wrap this up...
Somewhere out of sight, there is a groan of metal as blood and bone shear the lock off a monster's cage.