Erm. MadamButterfly? Tina, dearie, thanks for the review. For what you
asked for, it's simple. Check out the second chapter. Thank you.
Once, as a child, he had climbed the high training platform above his village, as the trees were tossing their fronds, and the waves battered at the crumbling rock of the beach, rain pelting down into his eyes, and lightning cracking insanely about the heavens.
There, he had stood, and shivered in the tumultuous downpour, his skinny frame battered by the driving storm, not really knowing why he was up there, only that the energy called him, sang to him, and ordered him to join it.
Tension crackled in the air around him, and as he lifted his hands to the skies, he felt the wind whip him about and plaster his clothes to his body. His hair rose eerily atop his head and arms, and the air sang around him, then the world exploded into light, and pain, and sweet, sweet joy.
They had found him the next morning, burned and confused, sprawled atop the tower, and they had said he was like one taken by the War God. They had patched him up, and reprimanded him lazily, and the matter had been forgotten.
But now- with the energy blazing insanely about his fist, snapping and twisting in the air around him, buoying him up with amethyst wings and fine, strong armor that twisted about him as elegantly as silk, he felt that same crazed power within him, and he flexed his iron claws, and sliced his wings through the air, and felt truly strong.
And it sang! Oh how it sang, howling crazily in his blood and he felt the urge to bellow along with it, the energy rising, rising, an erotic blend of potential and pure ferocity of movement!
A flash of light, a crack of thunder, and he took that ball of blazing ore and arched his back as lithely as any dancer, muscles straining, then hurled it at his enemy with cold cruelty, his splendid, bass voice rising in a feral yell of triumph.
The aftermath crackled in the air, and his hair stood on end from every follicle, and he alighted on the ground, tired, but excellently so, as if after a hard practice session, or an entire night of lovemaking, or of besting a foe you could not defeat until now. His body trembled, then was still, as the armor faded back into the nothingness from whence it came, and the violent spirit glinted in its pouch, and Haschel felt powerful.
Once, as a child, he had climbed the high training platform above his village, as the trees were tossing their fronds, and the waves battered at the crumbling rock of the beach, rain pelting down into his eyes, and lightning cracking insanely about the heavens.
There, he had stood, and shivered in the tumultuous downpour, his skinny frame battered by the driving storm, not really knowing why he was up there, only that the energy called him, sang to him, and ordered him to join it.
Tension crackled in the air around him, and as he lifted his hands to the skies, he felt the wind whip him about and plaster his clothes to his body. His hair rose eerily atop his head and arms, and the air sang around him, then the world exploded into light, and pain, and sweet, sweet joy.
They had found him the next morning, burned and confused, sprawled atop the tower, and they had said he was like one taken by the War God. They had patched him up, and reprimanded him lazily, and the matter had been forgotten.
But now- with the energy blazing insanely about his fist, snapping and twisting in the air around him, buoying him up with amethyst wings and fine, strong armor that twisted about him as elegantly as silk, he felt that same crazed power within him, and he flexed his iron claws, and sliced his wings through the air, and felt truly strong.
And it sang! Oh how it sang, howling crazily in his blood and he felt the urge to bellow along with it, the energy rising, rising, an erotic blend of potential and pure ferocity of movement!
A flash of light, a crack of thunder, and he took that ball of blazing ore and arched his back as lithely as any dancer, muscles straining, then hurled it at his enemy with cold cruelty, his splendid, bass voice rising in a feral yell of triumph.
The aftermath crackled in the air, and his hair stood on end from every follicle, and he alighted on the ground, tired, but excellently so, as if after a hard practice session, or an entire night of lovemaking, or of besting a foe you could not defeat until now. His body trembled, then was still, as the armor faded back into the nothingness from whence it came, and the violent spirit glinted in its pouch, and Haschel felt powerful.
