The knight slips through the fog door and stands before you, one arm hanging limp at his side, his sword draped 'long the opposite shoulder.
A stir.The stir of dust and ash, the floor of what had become little more than his tomb - fresh footsteps, a foreign gait.
Rise.
Aching limbs which have known no movement draw the mighty knight upwards, heaving himself up onto his feet, a blade within each hand. Through his broken help, the Fume Knight gazes upon the intruder which has no doubt sought Nadalia - the Bride, his Bride, his Abyssal mother -
Glimmering upon his shoulder, was none other than the blade - his blade. Born in a right hand. It was.. wrong, and drew bile from the pit of his stomach. A long-hoped-forgotten reminder of who once was the Left Hand, the orphan, the less-than, who’s own brother-
A growl tore itself from his throat, yet he made no move. To bury this heathen, he must first draw sword and aim to strike the Raven down.
The knight trembles - even after so many centuries, the thrill of combat still excites him, moves him; familiar electricity hums through his veins, and the call of the voice
-Mine. She is mine. She is me. She-
goes quiet amid the fervor of a good fight.
It has been so long.
“Stand aside, knight,” he says, hoping and praying the figure would stand his ground. “I shall inquire…once.”
Instead of drawing backwards, or away from the door - Raime stepped forward, heaving his massive blade upon his shoulder - the Left, always Left - and stood eye-to-eye with this man.
In this moment, Raime wagered, they mirrored each other, soft breath beneath torn helms, fingers twitching with the tensity, the excitement, the arousal of emotion which dawns itself before a bloodied battle.
A grin cracked itself upon his gaunt features, as if begging the other. He smelled her, the sweet Abyss, his Mother, upon this creature - perhaps his blade would wrench her free of this physical prison.
“Come, pig. Test me.”
The knight wastes no time in his approach; the moment it becomes obvious that the other would not acquiesce, the wolf lunges forward, his mind alive with such potential. Such possibility.
In this, at least, he is not useless. His mind is broken and his heart more so, and his body hideously malformed by the ravages of the dark.
None of it matters here. Here, he is alive.
The sword arcs o'er his head in a vicious chop, meant to take off the other's arm.
