Bleeding palms. Hands scraped from glass and shrapnel. Not glass. Obsidian. Remains of a powerful suit of armor. Remains of Vincent’s power. Whatever blast had sent him here had destroyed his armor, but he wasn’t about to waste an opportunity like this. A brand new adventure.
* * * *
Talas stepped off of the giant bird’s saddle with a graceful drop of five feet. “Thank you for ferrying me away, Yxares. Father will be displeased, but he himself said he couldn’t teach me any more than he already had without direct memory insertion. No, not happy in the least.” Tal patted the bird on his leg, and with a wind-ripping leap, the nightwing was gone. Talas dragged his fingers across his sharpened arm ridges, slicing off the last remains of his fingerprints. Silas’ fingerprints. Talas picked a knife out of his bootleg and began carving. New fingerprints for a new man. Each stroke brought forth more and more blood, a red-orange with a scent like rotten fruit mixed with ozone. With the angular carvings complete, Talas licked off his fingers. Finally, Talas was complete. A man ready to kill everyone who got in the way of his end goal. Even himself.