Vengeance; Valentine's Day
By;VerGil (Ex-V)
Retribution.
You can watch her find the stairs, fuming already with gnashing teeth. She knows the guards wander, the scholars mingle beside and below; At every turn They would set on her were she less stealthy, prepared or more fallible. In any number of other worlds magical detection brings them to her, the hounds released on her, or the mages fall in to foil a calculated driving stake in the beating heart of Halicarnassus. Instead she follows a weary tread in weary darkness unobstructed.
Vengeance.
At the crux of the spire, she already knows, Vergil waits on no man. He expects nobody, he will see nobody until her words close a great curtain on a short life in the highest astrolabe. And there, in his study, expecting nobody, seeing no one; Vergil the Cynic, Master thaumaturge, scribbling raptly with no heed for her.
"We're in a fight." Giving tell here exhausts not one strategic move, even surprise; Though he slams ten pages to the desk tipping his head with new focus.
"What're you, doll?" parsimonious in speech, yet amused by the Archaic blasphemy of her very presence. Drumming fingers and book, "Twelve? Thirteen?".
You'll notice though, well after he, her failure to waste half that second blind in faith barring none from approaching by magical ward or strength of word. Instead, laboring Dweom and curse pour vociferous of her lips, "I hate you, Fucking fuck yourself!" with subsequent soul-flaying, prehensile conflagration-snare directed unto his rising frame.
And yet, "You're basic. It's a joke, right?" He sneers a counter-spell for the miserable fires, inquiring on "With such casual words, you presume to destroy me and my work?"
"Die. And quickly" she does presume, into 29,000 books of power.
"I've already summoned your mother to collect you," With a savage grin, now. "From the bedroom." Firm in a better time briefly past, now flung to the far wall by arcane forces.
She slumps just a moment, returning serve with
"Your complexity...isn't all that."
To the ego, a fair head-neck and left chest wound. Indignant now, Vergil draws from the ancient stores, draws from great metamorphoses, the Aeneid. By this effort, concentrated, he'll fail to notice determinate humming.
"Hexedrecimarecoil Omegalexandros-" What's...That melody.. "HEY! STO~" Giving nothing to her new vigor or desperate rhythm;
"THE SONG" Putting him back on a swift retreat. "OF MY PEOPLE."
The doctor who theme. Really.
He'd be shrieking for lack of pride, instead "You really think...with words like that...!?"
"Done! So done!"
This great clash, in blinding light, disguised a spear of crescent moon's sweeping arc that reached his neck in a third second's time.
Unbelievable. The freshest steel- There should have been... With all my words, for all this knowledge...
"Kbye." Sic semper tyrannis
He coughed once; dismembered, sliding to his knees or what remained of them.
Shuddering his last, "Really..?" impaled on the coldest edge of a simple contraction. And she did glance once over her shoulder at him, nailed to tile. "Star wars...Is NOT better."
"It's not better."
Finally free.
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