[googlefont=Metrophobic][div][attr="style","max-width:850px;margin:auto;display:grid;grid-template-columns:16px auto 16px;grid-template-rows:16px auto 16px;grid-template-areas:'CornerTL Top CornerTR' 'Left Main Right' 'CornerBL Bottom CornerBR';background-color:#000000;border:2px #BAD8E9 solid;"][div][attr="style","grid-area:CornerTL;"][div][attr="style","width:100%;height:100%;border-right:2px #BAD8E9 solid;border-bottom:2px #BAD8E9 solid;"][/div][/div][div][attr="style","grid-area:Top;"][/div][div][attr="style","grid-area:CornerTR;"][div][attr="style","width:100%;height:100%;border-left:2px #BAD8E9 solid;border-bottom:2px #BAD8E9 solid;"][/div][/div][div][attr="style","grid-area:Left;"][/div][div][attr="style","grid-area:Right;"][/div][div][attr="style","grid-area:CornerBL;"][div][attr="style","width:100%;height:100%;border-right:2px #BAD8E9 solid;border-top:2px #BAD8E9 solid;"][/div][/div][div][attr="style","grid-area:Bottom;"][/div][div][attr="style","grid-area:CornerBR;"][div][attr="style","width:100%;height:100%;border-left:2px #BAD8E9 solid;border-top:2px #BAD8E9 solid;"][/div][/div][div][attr="style","grid-area:Main;border:2px #BAD8E9 solid; background-color:#000000; color:#E3EFF6;padding:9px;margin:-10px;"][div][attr="style","font-family:'Metrophobic';font-size:115%;"][div style="margin-left:120px;"]Out from the crowd called a[/div] Voice, one of warning: She calls to the stage with directions unheeded.
Hearken, O patrons, to words of a savior! Take heed now and scurry:
The dead are arising.
[div style="margin-left:60px;"]Out from their cradles of flame-molten asphalt,[/div] Wretched in body and twisted in form, they are lurching on ash-rendered
Limbs, and the fire within them is pulsing its way through the fragments
That hold them together; in searing a weld they are wrought as of iron
Replacing the flesh that is absent with embers and lashed-tongues of flame.
Gone now their hindrances, vessels alone with a singular purpose.
Now forward, be driven, to render before you the standing opponents
A feast for the corbies, the carrion-eaters, the breakers of flesh.
By tooth and by talon, the dead ones would visit identical fates
To the ones they have suffered upon those still living.
[div style="margin-left:120px;"]But gone are the weaklings[/div] That would be so riven; the heroes alone are the barrier here, and now
Quick-striking Tazer so deftly avoided the oncoming agents.
Her actions preserve her, no fate worse than death for the lightning-bound hero.
The strike takes its toll, in the wound that is opened, in blood and in flesh and the
Crackling of discharge: a thunder-god's penance, a mortal-maid's hubris.
And what in this storm-clash of heroes became of the other who came forth?
Of rending Vasia, whose blade burrowed deeply, a wound to be proud of -
The Valkyrie tore out the shard from her shoulder, the blood-martyred weapon
Now smelted to nothing, an arc of her triumph as flame-born Veljara
Arose from her wounding unhindered, uncrippled, her injury cauterized.
Orbs of great fire took form from the crescent, five in their number.
Forth they came streaming, in quickened succession, one after the other.
No fear touched her features, the flick of a smile was quickly displayed,
Then vanished once more as she tempered her skills, the pressure of tempo:
Now bound to her will would the flames come towards her on her time alone.
She twisted: A dancer, a gymnast, her steps never hurried nor faltering
Motions made simple by knowing exactly what moment to make them.
The flames passed beyond her, untouched in their fury, bereft of their threat.
None of these actions would take her much closer - her steps kept a distance,
For unarmed Vasia knew difference in strength when she saw it before her
The flame-throwing Valkyrie muscled and certain, a match more than hers
In a contest of wrestling.
[div style="margin-left:60px;"]Weapons were needed to even the contest,[/div] And hopeful Vasia maneuvered her back to the stage of the concert:
The man stood unehelpful, his hands merely wringing, no weapon within them,
Yet prior the girl from the crowd had called out with instruction, perhaps
He would listen - to her or once more now, to nimble Vasia, who called:
[font color="bad8e9"]"Throw me the microphone stand if you're able to aid us, onlooker!"[/font]
Hearken, O patrons, to words of a savior! Take heed now and scurry:
The dead are arising.
[div style="margin-left:60px;"]Out from their cradles of flame-molten asphalt,[/div] Wretched in body and twisted in form, they are lurching on ash-rendered
Limbs, and the fire within them is pulsing its way through the fragments
That hold them together; in searing a weld they are wrought as of iron
Replacing the flesh that is absent with embers and lashed-tongues of flame.
Gone now their hindrances, vessels alone with a singular purpose.
Now forward, be driven, to render before you the standing opponents
A feast for the corbies, the carrion-eaters, the breakers of flesh.
By tooth and by talon, the dead ones would visit identical fates
To the ones they have suffered upon those still living.
[div style="margin-left:120px;"]But gone are the weaklings[/div] That would be so riven; the heroes alone are the barrier here, and now
Quick-striking Tazer so deftly avoided the oncoming agents.
Her actions preserve her, no fate worse than death for the lightning-bound hero.
The strike takes its toll, in the wound that is opened, in blood and in flesh and the
Crackling of discharge: a thunder-god's penance, a mortal-maid's hubris.
And what in this storm-clash of heroes became of the other who came forth?
Of rending Vasia, whose blade burrowed deeply, a wound to be proud of -
The Valkyrie tore out the shard from her shoulder, the blood-martyred weapon
Now smelted to nothing, an arc of her triumph as flame-born Veljara
Arose from her wounding unhindered, uncrippled, her injury cauterized.
Orbs of great fire took form from the crescent, five in their number.
Forth they came streaming, in quickened succession, one after the other.
No fear touched her features, the flick of a smile was quickly displayed,
Then vanished once more as she tempered her skills, the pressure of tempo:
Now bound to her will would the flames come towards her on her time alone.
She twisted: A dancer, a gymnast, her steps never hurried nor faltering
Motions made simple by knowing exactly what moment to make them.
The flames passed beyond her, untouched in their fury, bereft of their threat.
None of these actions would take her much closer - her steps kept a distance,
For unarmed Vasia knew difference in strength when she saw it before her
The flame-throwing Valkyrie muscled and certain, a match more than hers
In a contest of wrestling.
[div style="margin-left:60px;"]Weapons were needed to even the contest,[/div] And hopeful Vasia maneuvered her back to the stage of the concert:
The man stood unehelpful, his hands merely wringing, no weapon within them,
Yet prior the girl from the crowd had called out with instruction, perhaps
He would listen - to her or once more now, to nimble Vasia, who called:
[font color="bad8e9"]"Throw me the microphone stand if you're able to aid us, onlooker!"[/font]
