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>Hatchlayer viewpoint
While she was slashing and roaring, fang against stone, flesh against fur, man against beast, he was dodging, she even bit his soulder, unable to seize him entirely but enough to start make him bleed. He was slim and young and the creature did not understand how, its venom should have killed a fleshless, particularly a youngling.
Hatchlayer observed the retina contraction, in the monster, her lens bent and focusing the near existent light of phosphorescent mushroom. It had stop, still shouting, its eyes blood vessel cracking, arteria dilating, veins inflating. Hatchlayer felt something stir in her, dread perhaps. she faltered a split moment, but such an occasion would not represent. She lunged for the fatal strike. She succeeded, well her somersault was bound to reach the fleshless, until it was proven wrong. Abruptly she lied on the ground bleeding, a back pain on her side.
She looked at the monster, the superior predator. It was gnawing her liver, in his hand. Hatchlayer howled, and like a twisted searing thought she heard without her ears, “And they should know fear”.
Soon she never heared anything again.
> XXI View
XXI reviewed the aftermath, the beast in her own language he did not comprehend nor could either, asked for mercy in a sense, a fleshless made of flesh, a trap of some unimaginable sort.
He remembered, heaving against the paw holding him down. He heard the crack of breaking claw as he snapped the fingers of the beast holding him. Sanity vanished from the ship of his consciousness, leaving only a desire to inflict death and a thirst behind. No mercy, just blood.
His skeleton vibrated with wrath, none of his iron calculation, none of his careful mysteriousness, not even the fire to thrive. The fury was not an alloy. He was an alloy of Iron, Blood, Fire and Shadow, he knew, he was forged from so much. It was no longer time, no longer… a darkness unleashed, A river of ichor demanding its due.
XXI frame vibrated with anger. The fury was an alloy. It was forged from so many causes, so many crimes of the daemon, so many mistakes Sanguinius had made to bring himself to this pass.
There was a darkness, an
overwhelming pit of strength, he would drown in that shady blood sea or master it. He was meant to, supposedly better at controlling whatever it was that whoever owned it too. He screamed consumed by rage but kept hold to his sanity, barely but enough to contain the swelling muscle of his youthful envelop.
The beast was coming at him, he charged too driven by the beating heart of its prey.
Truth be told, all this memories were acquired a posteriori, for on the spot XXI was just fury incarnate, an angel of death and he had embraced this part of himself, without restraint, without himself.