by Nayt on Sun Sep 20, 2009 2:10 pm
Metal grinded against metal in hasty precision. A silver metal jutted forth from Gaia's back, at first with the appearance of a blade that ran him through at the shoulder, the left shoulder to be precise, until it snapped at the end, and as if guided by invisible gears, erred downwards at a singular point. It moved and grew like bones, artificial bones, that demanded to be free of Gaia's body--and with as much haste, the pink of muscle swelled from the wound caused by the steel protrusion, and with expert precision, glided across the steel in a dripping, volumous, seething mess, secreting a scarlet fluid as it crafted the artificial limb and the long offshoots on its undercarriage: feathers. Feathers like blades, comprised of perfect, silvery metal, and jutting out with an audible grind.
A wing.
A wing of blades.
And soon, Gaia turned to face Eilert. At that very moment, to Eilert's vision, all would take a horrifying tint of red. It was very slight, but it was a blood red, and as even the yellow faults in the sky took that tint, it would be clear enough that the world itself had not been effected by anything at all, in that single moment--but that Eilert himself, or his consciousness rather, had taken a hefty turn for the worse. There would be, upon that subtle shade of red assaulting his gaze, a slight pain in the back of his skull. Gaia's eyes, especially, gleemed a horror of scarlet.
Eilert's wounds would heal rapidly at that moment. It wasn't that his healing glyph had gone into any sort of overdrive, either; an overdrive would have been a wonderful this. This, on the other hand, was much akin to an infection--a rapid increase of effeciency of glyphs placed upon Eilert, with an excruciating agony left in its wake, as no matter how much he might try, he would no longer heal his skin in this world. Organs, bones, and muscles would replenish, but not his skin. Cracks would even appear upon the marks all over him, where the glyphs of speed and strength commanded his body to act with the utmost efficiency: cracks in his skin, faults much like those of the sky's.
If Eilert recognized what was happening, he would know then what trouble he now faced. Standing still was no longer an option. Playing the defense was no longer effective. Being passive in any way, shape, or form would get him killed--killed, and dying alone . . .
. . . for the inevitability of death was the nature of Plague, an utterly inescapable demise wherein the most viable option was to do as much with one's life with what little time had been allotted for it . . .