W A N D E R
THE FATAL WOUND
If she had lungs, and were they full of air, she would have been winded - the crushing force of a telekinetic thrust to her center mass flung her from her descent, her sabers, just moments prior held forwards like two fangs, now pushed back over her head as she was thrown backward through the air, losing the momentum, or so it seemed, that she had been building up. But it was a matter of fiction to believe that she had been such an easy target to quash, even wounded and dying as she was now - seeds flung through the air, seeds which expanded with a surge of life through an ability that mirrored her own as its polar opposite. The air shimmered as the plant matter erupted forth with hungry flower-like maws, their vines, as though limbs, lashed out like tendrils to ensnare her - air that erupted into a thunderous applause with the furrow of her molten brow, lightning, natural and raw, crashing against the vines with the force comparable to the raw explosive force felt from the blow of a turbolaser.
Nature, as
Spencer Varanin
was most certainly aware, was a domineering mistress - and she was its mother.
She landed feet first into the soft sand of the Dubrillion shore, casting granules into the air around her - granules that never settled back down, but were rather joined by the hellish storm of wind and sand that circled around her. She lifted a hand that was beginning to lose its definition, the boundary between limb and air blurring as it had begun to fade, and cast towards her foe a wall of skin-tearing sand and wind - a sandstorm of sorts, though not one meant to last beyond the breadth of several seconds. Already her hand, that which had risen, was turning translucent - tiny fragments of her existence simply vanishing from reality as she approached the inevitable.
But she would not go down quietly.
If she had lungs, and were they full of air, she would have been winded - the crushing force of a telekinetic thrust to her center mass flung her from her descent, her sabers, just moments prior held forwards like two fangs, now pushed back over her head as she was thrown backward through the air, losing the momentum, or so it seemed, that she had been building up. But it was a matter of fiction to believe that she had been such an easy target to quash, even wounded and dying as she was now - seeds flung through the air, seeds which expanded with a surge of life through an ability that mirrored her own as its polar opposite. The air shimmered as the plant matter erupted forth with hungry flower-like maws, their vines, as though limbs, lashed out like tendrils to ensnare her - air that erupted into a thunderous applause with the furrow of her molten brow, lightning, natural and raw, crashing against the vines with the force comparable to the raw explosive force felt from the blow of a turbolaser.
Nature, as
Spencer Varanin
was most certainly aware, was a domineering mistress - and she was its mother.She landed feet first into the soft sand of the Dubrillion shore, casting granules into the air around her - granules that never settled back down, but were rather joined by the hellish storm of wind and sand that circled around her. She lifted a hand that was beginning to lose its definition, the boundary between limb and air blurring as it had begun to fade, and cast towards her foe a wall of skin-tearing sand and wind - a sandstorm of sorts, though not one meant to last beyond the breadth of several seconds. Already her hand, that which had risen, was turning translucent - tiny fragments of her existence simply vanishing from reality as she approached the inevitable.
But she would not go down quietly.