The human is largely incoherent, and Illyria quickly realizes to her disappointment that she has wasted her time saving a profoundly unskilled warrior.
In a matter of heartbeats, the small mortal thing has been seized by the latest hungering beast and hauled screaming into the air.
Perhaps the label of 'warrior' is too generous.
She is sorely tempted to let the monster have its meal. It is the human's own fault for becoming so distractible, and only the mightiest of conquerors can be allowed last in this hellscape. And yet. Illyria has made her vow. Standing idly by to watch mortal things be slaughtered is no better than participating in the slaughter herself.
She does not mind the combat, at least. She will engage this new enemy with enthusiasm. It is simply a matter of wrapping her shell's arms around the tentacle dangling its prey overhead and pulling.
With a sickening, tearing squelch Illyria separates the appendage from its owner and casts it aside. She takes frustrating care not to damage its mortal cargo despite its loud and therefore aggravating sounds of discomfort. The detached limb thrashes on the ground, gelatinous discharge from the fresh injury puddling around it. The human will need to get clear of the great tossing, dying thing to avoid being crushed by its convulsions, but she has not the patience to warn it of such things at the present time. The tentacle's former host is giant and shrills its displeasure at this latest development. The pitch of its cry grates at her shell's ears in a frequency that Illyria finds most disagreeable.
"Quiet," orders the God-King angrily. She simply plunges her shell's fists into the beast's wound, burrowing past the ropy strands of flesh until she reaches the soft, quivering organs within.
These objects are caged. She will liberate them.
It is only when the tentacled monster's interior biology is piled in a slippery, steaming heap at its corpse's side that Illyria turns back to the mortal she has reluctantly saved. It seems it possesses no apparent skill other than an absurd amount of luck.
"Avoid the blood," she tells it flatly. "It burns the skin of vermin it touches."
let's just put a general thread warning for gore
to her disappointmentthat she has wasted her time saving a profoundly unskilled warrior.In a matter of heartbeats, the small mortal thing has been seized by the latest hungering beast and hauled screaming into the air.
Perhaps the label of 'warrior' is too generous.
She is sorely tempted to let the monster have its meal. It is the human's own fault for becoming so distractible, and only the mightiest of conquerors can be allowed last in this hellscape. And yet. Illyria has made her vow. Standing idly by to watch mortal things be slaughtered is no better than participating in the slaughter herself.
She does not mind the combat, at least. She will engage this new enemy with enthusiasm. It is simply a matter of wrapping her shell's arms around the tentacle dangling its prey overhead and pulling.
With a sickening, tearing squelch Illyria separates the appendage from its owner and casts it aside. She takes frustrating care not to damage its mortal cargo despite its loud and therefore aggravating sounds of discomfort. The detached limb thrashes on the ground, gelatinous discharge from the fresh injury puddling around it. The human will need to get clear of the great tossing, dying thing to avoid being crushed by its convulsions, but she has not the patience to warn it of such things at the present time. The tentacle's former host is giant and shrills its displeasure at this latest development. The pitch of its cry grates at her shell's ears in a frequency that Illyria finds most disagreeable.
"Quiet," orders the God-King angrily. She simply plunges her shell's fists into the beast's wound, burrowing past the ropy strands of flesh until she reaches the soft, quivering organs within.
These objects are caged. She will liberate them.
It is only when the tentacled monster's interior biology is piled in a slippery, steaming heap at its corpse's side that Illyria turns back to the mortal she has reluctantly saved. It seems it possesses no apparent skill other than an absurd amount of luck.
"Avoid the blood," she tells it flatly. "It burns the skin of vermin it touches."