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Ooc|| holy cow, this is long...
Michael had never in his life been this willing to take his silver sword with him, Night, although it was time for his weapon to shine. Shine with blood, he thought with a pang of worry, intaking a frigid gust of wind. It filled his lungs, and it didn't make him feel any better, perhaps even worse than he had felt just mere moments before.
Anxiety, he thought, grudgingly pushing away the thoughts to the back of his head, as he turned towards the territory and beyond as his mind whirled quicker like a raging storm. I won't take Brisk with me, it's too dangerous. I'll go alone. He smiled for a brief moment, thinking about how his companion had mentioned that they would ride to battle, Greek style. He loved that mare, for her good personality.
The first step filled the air with silence. Not even the birds dared to call out, and the trees had been left, barren and forlorn. At first, a small hum filled the air, but it was almost barely audible, and quite easy to miss. It was almost like a large sum of energy, concentrated on one spot.
As he had continued on for a long time, Michael's pale green optics narrowed slightly as he sniffed the air; sickness constricted around him, ready to choke him and pull him under. The stench made the male cough a couple of times, and he dropped his sword on the ground with a clang. The humming had stopped for a moment, and all was silent. Then, it came back, as loud as a forest full of cicada cries.
The liger swiftly picked up his silver gleaming sword in his mouth, breathing through his mouth, and not his nose; he inhaled a metallic-scent, emitted by his sword. His pupils shrank in sheer fear as dozens of them approached, mouths gaping, and foam dribbling from their fangs. Their eyes were wild, with the certain disturbing hungered look in their eyes. Yet, it wasn't the thing that had disturbed him most.
"[color=gray]RAWR!" The beast roared, ending in a deep gurgling in his throat. It had tinted yellow foam dribbling from its fangs, and it's stench-breath reached the whole clearing. It was a tiger, in its full glory, its famous stripes appearing like lashings. And surprisingly, there were just as many claw markings and bites taken from the hide of the orange furred beast, making it appear like apart of the living undead.
How could it not be dead? Michael asked himself, paralyzed by the beast's pale glare. But he didn't have time to think of the answer, as the beast leaped on top of him, snapping at the golden liger's neck. Instinctively, Michael pressed himself onto the ground, knowing that he was in an extremely dangerous situation; not only was the tiger on top of him, snapping at his neck, but his sword. It was across his neck, ready to slice and take his life.
The pale liger rolled over, shifting the tiger's weight, and bringing him down. With a crash, Michael gained composure, on top of the striped wildcat, with his sword steadily held in his mouth, pointed downwards.
The beast looked up at the liger, then chuckled lowly, before speaking in a voice that sounded like steel being sharpened. "[color=gray]You should know better, Jr., I'm not as easy to beat as you think."
Michael felt a blow to his chest, making him stagger and fall, as the tiger loomed over him, smacking his lips. "[color=gray]Goodbye, Jr. Thanks for supper." Michael felt helpless; he was down on the ground, with a broken ribcage, and he was losing blood. Already his vision was becoming blurry. There was no hope for him.
Shing! The tiger looked down at Michael, yellow eyes wild. Then, he fell to the ground, with the silver sword whose name was Night, going through the striped cat's throat. A gurgle of blood surged from the wound and its mouth, trickling at the corner.
Michael smiled for a moment, but the pain in his chest too immense. He closed his eyes, all becoming dark. As dark as Night.
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