Kalloway peers at the pile of rubble in suspicion. The force behind that last hit was enough to probably kill any normal human, but it feels too easy considering that his enemy was an orc. He isn’t willing to take any chances no matter how far they are from the influence of the Prithian continent, so he uncaps an explosive vial and prepares to toss it.
Evidently his caution is correct, because the rubble blasts out towards him in a wave of smoke and debris, his greatsword rushing back at his face with at least twice the speed as when he had first sent it out.
Even with the rocket thrusters at full blast, there’s simply too much momentum to stop the sword before it slams into him. Instead, he activates only the thrusters to one side, sending it careening still towards him, but now in an arc. At the same time, he jumps in the opposite direction, just barely avoiding getting his legs turned into paste as the sword skids past him and into the ground, creating a massive gash in the earth larger than most people were tall.
He barely has time to come out of the roll before a hand rushes past his peripheral vision and tries to clamp around his throat. It only just manages to grab onto his shirt collar, which is instantly ripped away to shreds. The explosion vial drops from his hand, and he curls himself into a ball, back facing the vial.
He can hear the whistling of displaced air indicating a fist coming down towards him. Instincts scream at him to get out of the way before he gets pulped, but he ignores them and stays hunched over, just in time for the vial to explode.
For a short eternity, his vision is entirely white, almost as if he were dozing with the sun shining directly onto his eyelids.
Then his body slams back onto the floor, and he scrambles himself back into a defensive stance. The orc is a ways off, bloodied with one hand held over his side, probably due to a broken rib or two.
He weighs his options.
Running was certainly viable, but he’s fighting a fucking orc, and he’s not entirely sure if a cracked rib can stop him from getting caught in seconds if he turns around to run, even with a city block’s worth of distance separating them.
Fighting was also viable, but it would only take one stray punch or kick to turn him into juice, whereas it would take many strong, solid hits from his end just to incapacitate him.
That being said, the orc probably isn’t aware of how his sword works, seeing that he was slowly shuffling to block him off from the gash in the ground that it was currently embedded in.
That was good. Just a few more steps and he’d be directly in front of said gash.
And…
Now.
He activates all of the back thrusters on the sword at once, and sends it hurtling out of the rock and towards the orc’s back.
It tears through his body like paper mache, blood and guts spilling out and staining the sword as it flies back towards him. He’s still dazed from the earlier explosion, and fumbles trying to catch it. The blood and guts on the sword end up slathered all over him, and he tries to ignore the pungent, sweet smell of it.
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Wait… what? Sweet?
He sniffs the blood again, except it’s dragonfruit juice. He runs over to check the body, and it's just a pile of roots and flowers.
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Bedivere tries and fails to not panic. The rapier had somehow managed to phase through the boot she had brought up to intercept it, the material turning from a pitch black into a pale, ghostly hue.
She just barely manages to twist out of the way, though it still manages to pierce her calf. She can feel the wetness of blood pooling beneath her greaves, and the area has instantly become numb. An intense cold also starts traveling up her leg.
Cloudshadow Ore meant that this assailant was probably a Mah’tatski tribeswoman from the Swallowed Isles.
If Caltomarra was the one behind this, then there were some… disturbing implications.
She uses her other leg to do a small hop, turning along with the twist and transitioning the original roundhouse into a spiraling drop kick. Her soles slam into the attacker’s chest, sending her skidding backwards towards the alleyway exit.
The rapier, once again black, is slammed into the walls of an adjacent building, putting the backwards momentum to a halt.
Knocking her backwards wasn’t good enough, she needed to somehow get past her with Gibet and escape to the main street.
Her right leg is still numb though, and the attacker knows, so she is rushed at, rapier pointed directly at her heart.
Only, the attack suddenly changes trajectory at the last second, and suddenly she is jumping over her, rapier now aimed at Gibet who is still too busy coughing up blood and organs to defend himself.
It was specifically Gibet who was the target.
She is crouched against the floor in a defensive grappling stance, and her arm cannot reach in time to stop the attacker. As a last ditch effort, she activates her metronome.
The world goes into a gray monotone, life halting into an endless procession of gears. In place of flesh now lies automata. She no longer breathes, for she is no longer living, nor does she need to be defined as ‘she’, as it is now a living manifestation of the will of the stone and iron lying beneath Genkov itself.
Analysis: Enemy cannot currently be reached based on the physical dimensions of the current vessel.
Extending vessel…
Its arm reaches outward, disassembling its internal structure in order to add extra length, fingers and knuckles coiling inwards in endless spirals that feed bone, ligament, and flesh to the elongating forearm.
Still not long enough.
The internal structure of the arm itself must now be sacrificed for length. The forearm bone is too heavy for this new limb, so it will be converted into length. The vessels and muscles are also no longer necessary, so those can also be used.
The newly made appendage is long, thin, and hollow. It lashes out like a snake, whipping around the assassin's leg in a vice grip.
Its arm hurts.
The appendage is snapped backwards, forcefully slamming the enemy onto the floor. It fights through the agony, pulling itself onto the enemy, remaining arm and legs locked into place as it prepares itself to ensnare the enemy into a cage of limbs and joints.
She fights back hard, clawing and scratching and screaming in futile horror as she attempts to escape the grapple.
Noise is a factor. Outsiders cannot discover this. Eject blood from the facial orifices into her mouth. She cannot scream if she is drowning.
It grips harder.
She gurgles into its face, bones shattering under the grip of an industrial press.
It grips harder.
She bashes her head against the floor in an attempt to escape the pain through death. It sees nothing but the flurry of blue hair, waving incompetently back and forth.
It grips harder.
Her arm hurts, but who is she? The vessel, the assassin, and Bedivere blend into a single vortex of blood and bone.
It grips harder.
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She wakes up in the same alley choking on a puddle of blood. She rolls over to face the sky, and gore slogs off of her like mud.
She tries to sit up, and promptly tumbles onto her side. There was only one arm to push her up. The other one is gone up to the elbow.
What remained was a bloodied mess of string-like tendons attached to a still leaking stump. All around her, she sees bits and pieces of skin, bone, fingernail, and various other parts of what used to be her arm.
There was also no assassin.
Or at least, there was no longer one, judging by the strands of blue hair running up and down her body and the floor. There is a cracked piece of what looks like a femur, but she still has both of her legs intact.
What has she done? She cannot remember.
The world spins like a cog.
She tilts again, but this time there is an arm that catches her. She hears voices, but they are muffled.
She closes her eyes and sleeps.