He could barely stand up, his body was shaking with exhaustion and cold but what motivated him to continue was greater than his fatigue. The guardian advanced with his weapon in hand until Gabikalas after a distance that seemed too long and when he reached him, he tried to help him to stand up, only to fall on his knees beside Gabikalas, exhausted.
-We’re so close… Come on.- Adriaen held on tight to the dark red cloak of the Abyss Watcher as he tried to regain his strength.
The painter in turn lost more and more blood, wounded and bleeding approached both men, the dagger imbedded in his shoulder, almost reached the chest by the depth of the wound and was an incredible annoyance, increased his anger. When he was a short distance away, the Guardian of the Painting managed to stand up, weapon in hand, ready to attack his God.
Adriaen was willing to defend Gabikalas, even if he had to do the greatest sacrilege for his title as guardian.
Gabikalas let out another series of gurgling snarls, trying to call Adriaen over to get him out of the reach of the encroaching Painter. Even if the God was wounded, it wouldn’t take much for Ariamis to do considerable damage to the smaller man. At least that’s what he thought. But beckoned by his companion’s encouraging bravery, the Watcher gradually got back up onto his feet, with the aid of his withered sword.
Like that of the Lord the corrupted man had once served under in the Legion, his blade simmered with black embers once again, radiating silver light. He got down into a crouch and placed his free hand on the ground, his eyes trained on the Creator of the dying world that was now more parallel to a prison than anything. Gabikalas watched, waiting patiently, ready, for the right moment to strike beside Adriaen in support for the Guardian’s defiance.
It was now or never. The Watcher’s mouth opened behind his mask, baring sharp teeth ready to sink into flesh. Anticipation crawled all over his skin like a disturbed nest of excited spiders. His body was poised to spring at a moment’s notice. His sword, a wing desperately craving lethal flight. It was now or never.
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