literature

Son of Lightning WIP

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The mall was empty. The levels were cleared, and the plans of the robed ones were proceeding excellently. The Scions had been incapacitated, their powers locked away. One of them number had escaped, and in their arrogance, the cultists of the Black One, Surtr, had ignored him. It was to be their gravest, and last mistake.

Guards were deployed near the exits, armed with sub-machineguns. The local police force had been subdued, the Magos of the cult assuming the form of the Chief, and mindwashing the rest of the enforcers, thus bolstering the ranks of the cult with capable warriors and a considerable arsenal of conventional firearms.

But this was not enough to stop him, and they knew.

The Band had been broken. Locked in a magical stasis, the blood-mages' vitae were fuelling a spell potent enough to drive the Scions into a deep slumber. They wanted to keep them alive. The souls of the god-children would be a delicacy to the great Titan.

Their preparations were complete. The ritual circles had been drawn, and the warrior-cultists had deployed their forces in a way that was tactically brilliant, allowing withdrawals and reinforcements to be executed in the most efficient way possible. They had fortified the exits, machine-gun nests and grenade launchers would wreck even a full-sized a battle tank or APC within an eye's blink.

Yet the sky remained unfortified.

He struck with the wrath of a meteor. He fell from the sky like an angry god, descending from the heavens to punish the guilty and the unrighteous. He was a flaming orb of muscle and metal, and the impact of his fall created a shockwave loud enough to frighten the cultists into deploying prematurely. Weapons were levelled at the shape, which was concealed by the smoke his fall caused. They were reluctant to fire, awed as they were by the pompous arrival of the mysterious foe.

As the smoke cleared, scared lips spoke the name of the mortal bearing divine blood. Magnus Donarsson. The Great Lightning-Son. Bandoleers criss-crossed his well-built body, a guitar case strapped to his back. His face was concealed by a veil of darkness, his eyes sparkling brightly. Was this man really mortal? Could he be killed? They were about to find out. "Fire!", one of the officers barked out, forcing the army of drones into action. With the sound of a thunder-clap their guns opened fire, filling the body of the man with bullets. Their guns kept shooting for a solid thirty seconds. They would occasionally stop in order to reload, but by the end of it, entire magazines had been spent. No-one could have lived through that.

But thunder was Thor's domain, and no matter how powerful a thunderstrike is, or what shape it bears, it could not hope to bring down one of his sons.

The cultists' eyes grew wide. The shape was not even scratched by the hail of fire, his long hair flowing impassionately. In one single, swift motion, M.D. drew his guitar from its case. He held it in his arms like a husband cradling his wife, his fingers curled over the instrument's strings. Silence reigned, as the soldiers looked on in confusion and awe.

The sound of a motor that had been fed the wrong kind of fuel broke the silence. The soldiers looked around, believing that one of their alarms had been set off. They realised however, that it was the god-child's grim laughter.

In a wild blare of pompous and wild, discordant sound, the divine guitarist played a solo so mighty and glorious in its fierceness that some of the cultists began to shed tears. The flames that decorated the guitar's body were alive, weaving and rolling about its frame. Its tuning pegs were horns, and from the side of its neck portruded spikes the size of a man's forearm.

Harder Than Steel was its name. And it was more than a guitar. With a high-pitched scream that shattered ear-drums, Magnus held out the instrument above his head, and the guitar assumed its true form. Horns and spikes curved and formed an elaborate handle, the sides of the body stiffening and becoming harder than steel indeed. It was an axe of unprecedent speed and strength, and it was his weapon of choice. In his hand it was as mighty as Mjolnir and as swift as Gungnir. The veil of darkness on his face was divided as two sharp lines of teeth became visible. It was a predator's grin.

The cultists lacked the time to truly react. The Scion's powerful legs thrusted him into their fore, and in a single mighty sweep, claimed many of their heads. The remaining soldiers opened fire at him, but their bullets merely bounced off his tough hide. They were dying to a single man, and there was nothing they could do about it.

Bloody bodies littered the mall's tiles by the time it was over. M.D. walked further into the complex of hallways and stairs, until reaching a large courtyard. From ritual circles burst forth demons of fire and ash, bearing smoldering swords as tall as a full grown man. More powerful than the mortal cultists, but not immortal.
 
Something I'm writing to celebrate 2012's passing.
© 2012 - 2024 Thanatus-kun
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