Risk; play my game
#12
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indent A noise somewhere between a snarl and a scream escaped Ahren as his leg gave out under him and he fell to the ground. Another violent wretch rocked through his body and his hands were moving, one digging into the cold ground and the other moving to his side, to the knife. The maniac in his eyes wanted blood, and knew where to get it. Just as suddenly as the knife was in his hand it was hurled away, striking a tree with enough force it remained there. Then the hand struck out, slashing the blonde across the face. “Idiot! Fucking idiot! You’re just like your father!”
indent It was that comment that broke something. Ahren growled, and his eyes turned foggy-white again. Somehow he found his feet. The necklace he had worn for years turned white hot, burning, and a force like a tempest pushed that devil from him. The ghost staggered, between the boy and the scarred man, screaming. Something that had no visible form, and instead only a presence, an absolute nothingness, grew from Ahren. He could not see it (and could not see anything), and no one without a sixth sense would have any idea of what it was. But the form was dragon-like, a dragon that was not a dragon, and it swallowed the bloody ghost whole.
indent And just like that, everything went silent. Ahren’s eyes returned to normal and once more he collapsed, breathing heavily, bleeding, and shaking.





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