[It seems their pause was only mere hesitance, not a lack of fear. Dion leaps down from the tree next to his lance, propping his boot against its throat as he wrenches his weapon free from its flesh. A second antelope comes at him, not fast enough to avoid his pirouette, slashing the lance's edge across this beast's legs; it crumples with a cry that sounds, horribly, like the wail from a human throat.
Dion leaves Geralt to his own devices; he is content, his blood flaring hot, among several of the creatures with his lance in hand. They circle him instead of fleeing; testament to their tenacity of predators, he realizes, combined with the gore staining their muzzles and fangs.
Certainly not the gentle, fearful antelopes he knew from the grassy knolls of Storm.
Dion moves around several of the herd, cutting another one down just as a third leaps in and closes vicious, carved fangs onto his arm. A happenstance it only bites down where there is pure, hard stone; the fangs break and the animal makes a grotesque scream, suddenly jerking away before he can slice across its throat. As his lance embeds in the stomach of one of the largest antelopes, another darts in, low to the ground, to close teeth around his thigh.
With a grunt of pain, he pulls his lance free once more and spins to slice straight through that one's legs. Two fallen to the ground, but living still with their wretched screams. Dion leaps back to take an assessment: the more he cuts down, the more appear from the dark. Certainly he has made a dent in them, and several have finally run.
So it was a scouting party, perhaps -- or more have come from the sound of their cries.
Very well. All the better. He summons more light, which sparks to life around him in a series of flares that appear like will o'wisps. Dion protects himself with his lance while the wisps grow in size, pulsating, until he sends the light out towards the remaining antelopes.
When his knee hits the ground, his other leg dribbling thick blood that soaks his trousers, the antelopes left around him have fallen, their fur charred black and eye sockets, now empty, smoking from the light that burned straight through them, from the inside out.
He has never felt the creep of petrification, but he can feel the burn of his aether. Ignoring the wound in his leg, he rolls up his sleeve to see the petrified skin has crept further down his forearm. Yet there remained plenty distance from his joint still.]
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Dion leaves Geralt to his own devices; he is content, his blood flaring hot, among several of the creatures with his lance in hand. They circle him instead of fleeing; testament to their tenacity of predators, he realizes, combined with the gore staining their muzzles and fangs.
Certainly not the gentle, fearful antelopes he knew from the grassy knolls of Storm.
Dion moves around several of the herd, cutting another one down just as a third leaps in and closes vicious, carved fangs onto his arm. A happenstance it only bites down where there is pure, hard stone; the fangs break and the animal makes a grotesque scream, suddenly jerking away before he can slice across its throat. As his lance embeds in the stomach of one of the largest antelopes, another darts in, low to the ground, to close teeth around his thigh.
With a grunt of pain, he pulls his lance free once more and spins to slice straight through that one's legs. Two fallen to the ground, but living still with their wretched screams. Dion leaps back to take an assessment: the more he cuts down, the more appear from the dark. Certainly he has made a dent in them, and several have finally run.
So it was a scouting party, perhaps -- or more have come from the sound of their cries.
Very well. All the better. He summons more light, which sparks to life around him in a series of flares that appear like will o'wisps. Dion protects himself with his lance while the wisps grow in size, pulsating, until he sends the light out towards the remaining antelopes.
When his knee hits the ground, his other leg dribbling thick blood that soaks his trousers, the antelopes left around him have fallen, their fur charred black and eye sockets, now empty, smoking from the light that burned straight through them, from the inside out.
He has never felt the creep of petrification, but he can feel the burn of his aether. Ignoring the wound in his leg, he rolls up his sleeve to see the petrified skin has crept further down his forearm. Yet there remained plenty distance from his joint still.]