Sal cursed inwardly at his patience. Perhaps had he moved sooner to intervene, distract or dissuade, he might have done something to prevent the beating that Savos was currently undergoing. He could only descend the steps now in a panic, fearing he had lingered too long while the influx of adrenaline raced through his veins. It was that feeling that at first was unpleasant, like leaning in a chair that suddenly threatens to give way. But after the initial surge, it coursed and surged like a rampant river, carrying Sal's consciousness on its back like a canoe designed for speed.
Savos would have to endure the first set of blows as best he could. But Sal's delay in getting started did afford him a more tactical advantage, taking in the details of the men and how they plotted their course around the makeshift battlefield. While he watched them in those first few seconds, he fought back various thoughts that popped into his head, like how brazen or stupid those men were for starting this kind of trouble, right where shinya could come round the corner at any moment.
Savos was on his knees now, one man standing like a sentinel over each of his arms while a third had struck him hard from behind. It was a savage blow with some kind of rudimentary club, effective enough despite its crude appearance. This was Sal's chance. He had to make it count, or his pause would have proved detrimental to Savos' well being. Still feeling guilty for making Savos storm from the room, Sal could not in good conscious allow things to proceed as they were. He raced through options in his mind, imagining himself drawing his longsword and hacking at the men before him with reckless abandon. Or was it to be a flying Sal Mander, taking off from the steps and landing among them, arms flailing in an effort to connect with a face or two? Clumsy approaches, both of them. No, what this situation required was a little more finesse. Noting the absence of any shinya or other witnesses, Sal deemed his present coarse of action to be the right one, given the circumstances.
So he began.
To an observer, Sal seemed a picture of cool and collected calm, as he descended the last few steps towards the group of men. His face was devoid of emotion, even his gaze seemed not to settle on his would be combatants, but instead through them. His hands were out before him, palms up and elbows bent as though carrying an invisible box or presenting a sword to a king. His mind was elsewhere. Drawing back inside his mind, he cleared out the noise and imagery of the scene, while in its place he created his world. It had always been a house he envisaged, tall grass lapping at the walls and cracks in the wood panels that spoke of age and weathering. But this time he had gone elsewhere, in an effort to speed up the process.
He was sitting in a chair, in a room whose only light came from a ring of candles around him. With the candles was a smaller inner ring that was in fact a round patch of grass, which began to spread to encompass the chair. Leaves and branches sprouted and formed rapidly, climbing the legs of the chair like ravenous vines. So too did they wrap around Sal's own legs, climbing up until he was completely shrouded from the waist down in foliage of dark greens and earthy browns. Then the next step. With a thought, he knocked over the first candle that created a domino effect, each one falling unnaturally despite their circumference, knocking the next in turn until there was a perfect ring of flame. It burned eagerly as it made contact with the grass, eating and browning it as it spread, sucking up the twigs around the chair legs before gnawing away at the chair itself.
It did not take long. Sal sat on a throne of orange red flame, that by now had grown fierce and determined in its endeavors. The flames enveloped the chair, climbed Sal until it came to his outstretched arms. In a mind bending fashion, it somehow directed along his arms like a sideways waterfall, coming to his palms face up where it began to collect. A small orb in each hand at first, swirling and twisting, a ferocious inferno that showed no signs of stopping. Larger they grew, until each orb began to stretch out in five long tendrils, crackling and flickering, one for each of his fingers, until those too were engulfed, as if he wore some demonic kind of gloves made purely from fire.
Then he was moving back in reality. During the imagining with the chair and the flames, Sal had pulled forth his djed in the form of a translucent gas. It snaked and swirled along his arms towards his hands, and just like in his head, orbs appeared that he willed into flame, the gas consumed and bursting into life. It circled his fingers, causing no burning or pain due to his Azenth nature, though he could still feel the warmth of the flames. He had come behind where the two doomed men holding Savos' arms stood. With one final step, he grabbed each one by the back of the neck, his hands of fire searing into their flesh with terrible efficiency, igniting a chorus of screams and leaving them no choice but to relinquish their grip on the myrian.
Sal did not need to pull or push them further, having already given them the inspiration to retreat as they clutched at their scolded necks. But while he had concentrated his attack on those two, he had left himself open for a counterattack. Distracted for a moment by the metallic taste in his mouth that came from drawing just a little too much of his djed, he did not really register the third man in that moment. There was a loud crack like thunder, as a stubbornly hard object came down hard on his head. It literally made him see stars, bright and fierce ones as his eyes were blinded and dazzled for a few confused moments. Then there was the feeling of a sudden weight upon him, as though some great cloak of darkness made from iron had somehow wrapped itself around him, shrouding him in gloom.
Heavy as the weight was, he felt himself sucked in by the ground, having little choice but to crumple downwards where there lay the promise of respite, so long as he kept going. But rather than respite, there was the thud of the ground rushing up to meet him. Still reeling from the initial attack, hitting the ground seemed to happen in slow motion, and sounded like it was happening off in the distance. Instead, a ringing deafened in his ears, pushing back the cries of those other men and any other sounds that might have been trying to penetrate.
Still now, he lay there feeling drunk and confused. His mind was muddled and beating like a drum, his movements groggy and labored. In that moment, he had forgotten all about Savos, tattoos and anything else of importance. All he could focus on now was the feeling of circling a drain, one that was cast in darkness, though even then he could feel himself swirling round and round the inevitable plug that awaited him at the bottom.
Savos would have to endure the first set of blows as best he could. But Sal's delay in getting started did afford him a more tactical advantage, taking in the details of the men and how they plotted their course around the makeshift battlefield. While he watched them in those first few seconds, he fought back various thoughts that popped into his head, like how brazen or stupid those men were for starting this kind of trouble, right where shinya could come round the corner at any moment.
Savos was on his knees now, one man standing like a sentinel over each of his arms while a third had struck him hard from behind. It was a savage blow with some kind of rudimentary club, effective enough despite its crude appearance. This was Sal's chance. He had to make it count, or his pause would have proved detrimental to Savos' well being. Still feeling guilty for making Savos storm from the room, Sal could not in good conscious allow things to proceed as they were. He raced through options in his mind, imagining himself drawing his longsword and hacking at the men before him with reckless abandon. Or was it to be a flying Sal Mander, taking off from the steps and landing among them, arms flailing in an effort to connect with a face or two? Clumsy approaches, both of them. No, what this situation required was a little more finesse. Noting the absence of any shinya or other witnesses, Sal deemed his present coarse of action to be the right one, given the circumstances.
So he began.
To an observer, Sal seemed a picture of cool and collected calm, as he descended the last few steps towards the group of men. His face was devoid of emotion, even his gaze seemed not to settle on his would be combatants, but instead through them. His hands were out before him, palms up and elbows bent as though carrying an invisible box or presenting a sword to a king. His mind was elsewhere. Drawing back inside his mind, he cleared out the noise and imagery of the scene, while in its place he created his world. It had always been a house he envisaged, tall grass lapping at the walls and cracks in the wood panels that spoke of age and weathering. But this time he had gone elsewhere, in an effort to speed up the process.
He was sitting in a chair, in a room whose only light came from a ring of candles around him. With the candles was a smaller inner ring that was in fact a round patch of grass, which began to spread to encompass the chair. Leaves and branches sprouted and formed rapidly, climbing the legs of the chair like ravenous vines. So too did they wrap around Sal's own legs, climbing up until he was completely shrouded from the waist down in foliage of dark greens and earthy browns. Then the next step. With a thought, he knocked over the first candle that created a domino effect, each one falling unnaturally despite their circumference, knocking the next in turn until there was a perfect ring of flame. It burned eagerly as it made contact with the grass, eating and browning it as it spread, sucking up the twigs around the chair legs before gnawing away at the chair itself.
It did not take long. Sal sat on a throne of orange red flame, that by now had grown fierce and determined in its endeavors. The flames enveloped the chair, climbed Sal until it came to his outstretched arms. In a mind bending fashion, it somehow directed along his arms like a sideways waterfall, coming to his palms face up where it began to collect. A small orb in each hand at first, swirling and twisting, a ferocious inferno that showed no signs of stopping. Larger they grew, until each orb began to stretch out in five long tendrils, crackling and flickering, one for each of his fingers, until those too were engulfed, as if he wore some demonic kind of gloves made purely from fire.
Then he was moving back in reality. During the imagining with the chair and the flames, Sal had pulled forth his djed in the form of a translucent gas. It snaked and swirled along his arms towards his hands, and just like in his head, orbs appeared that he willed into flame, the gas consumed and bursting into life. It circled his fingers, causing no burning or pain due to his Azenth nature, though he could still feel the warmth of the flames. He had come behind where the two doomed men holding Savos' arms stood. With one final step, he grabbed each one by the back of the neck, his hands of fire searing into their flesh with terrible efficiency, igniting a chorus of screams and leaving them no choice but to relinquish their grip on the myrian.
Sal did not need to pull or push them further, having already given them the inspiration to retreat as they clutched at their scolded necks. But while he had concentrated his attack on those two, he had left himself open for a counterattack. Distracted for a moment by the metallic taste in his mouth that came from drawing just a little too much of his djed, he did not really register the third man in that moment. There was a loud crack like thunder, as a stubbornly hard object came down hard on his head. It literally made him see stars, bright and fierce ones as his eyes were blinded and dazzled for a few confused moments. Then there was the feeling of a sudden weight upon him, as though some great cloak of darkness made from iron had somehow wrapped itself around him, shrouding him in gloom.
Heavy as the weight was, he felt himself sucked in by the ground, having little choice but to crumple downwards where there lay the promise of respite, so long as he kept going. But rather than respite, there was the thud of the ground rushing up to meet him. Still reeling from the initial attack, hitting the ground seemed to happen in slow motion, and sounded like it was happening off in the distance. Instead, a ringing deafened in his ears, pushing back the cries of those other men and any other sounds that might have been trying to penetrate.
Still now, he lay there feeling drunk and confused. His mind was muddled and beating like a drum, his movements groggy and labored. In that moment, he had forgotten all about Savos, tattoos and anything else of importance. All he could focus on now was the feeling of circling a drain, one that was cast in darkness, though even then he could feel himself swirling round and round the inevitable plug that awaited him at the bottom.
Also Sal, your Sal Mander to the rescue plans were hilarious 
