I just had the urge to write some more, here is a sample for you

‘Bahamut. If ever there was I time I needed your help. It is now. It is now.’

Deep in the valley of Karnok, the host approaches a sacred altar nestled in the base of the plains. Surrounded by five thousand trusted elite guards, and some ten thousand foot soldiers; Warlock looks confidently at the bound body, which is being carried like so much fodder. The body of Rhys, pathetic in the way he’s slumped as two large armored men drug him along. “Tie him to the altar.” Warlock commands. It is done. Warlock reaches to his hip and unties the ceremonial blade of sacrifice.

The wind roars through the valley. As Warlock raises the jeweled dagger into the air his followers gaze into the sky where the clouds now are streaming through the air as if alive. General Garr shouts at his master, “Sir, the air is in chaos, I fear something is amiss!”

Warlock looks down at Rhys, the oppressed people’s beloved slayer of evil, now helplessly bound to the great obsidian slab where an evil gate of Hell holds portal. “Of course something is amiss you fool!” Warlock rasped, “This infidel is finally going to meet his doom by my hands and open the path for my great god Asmodeus to cast this land into oblivion!”

Warlock smiles. There is a sadistic look of satisfaction on his countenance. He feels the dagger; hot in his cold sweaty palms. The tension consumes him like a thousand needles penetrating his skin. The valley falls dead silent. Warlock hoists the dagger high, ready to thrust it into Andrew’s heart.

A cry erupts from the Heavens carrying the majesty of a million mighty warriors calling their death throes. Warlock and his followers, paralyzed by this sudden transgression, find only the ilk to turn their heads to the clouds behind them. There they witness that which has not been seen for ten thousand years. The massive physique of the giant Elder Dragon Bahamut descending to the ground with roaring beats of wings that span across the horizon. Crashing to the valley, his great clawed feet, each the size of castles, crush hundreds of soldiers to bloody ground-meal. The horns on the dragon curve around its head and can hoist four mastodons apiece. The troops stare upward in horror at his gigantic emerald body, which gleams like a priceless jeweled statue eclipsing the clouds.

Rhys barely realizes what is happening as Bahamut’s scale, which had been entrusted him, starts to reproduce itself until he is cocooned in a jade carapace. Witnessing this, the blood drains from Warlock’s face leaving him pale and haggard. In his last instinct of fear he clasps his teleportation amulet and vanishes to his fortress.

Bahamut’s blood red eyes gaze across the valley where thousands of Warlock’s troops have gathered to witness the sacrifice of their mortal enemy. They now desperately try to save their lives. Some are running; others are initiating a futile attack in an attempt to overcome the gargantuan. Bahamut flexes the venom sacks in his fanged jaws. As the fluid comes in contact with the oxygen rich air, it turns into a wisp of fire that flashes before the dragon’s nose. The sacks now reflexively fill with the combustible fluid to the point where they are ready to burst. With a great breath the Elder Dragon casts a spiraling wave of heat and flame that consumes the entire valley. All of the troops become engulfed in the searing inferno. Blood curdling squeals of agony erupt from hardened men of war like so many pigs in a slaughter. Flesh sizzles becoming ash, and armor melts into the scorched earth below. The black skeletons that remain dancing in the conflagration give Bahamut a hint of what is to come for them in the bowels of Hell.

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Slithe’s henchmen utter a frog-like chuckle. “We’ll rip his flesh from his bones and mount his skull upon our blood altar!” The three rush through the metal corridors of the massive Komodian Mothership, weapons ready, in pursuit of their elusive intruder. Turning a sudden corner Slithe’s blood freezes. The nerves of the three drive an immediate instinct to run, but they can only peddle slowly backward to keep from the radiating presence of the penetrating eyes of Rhys. Rhys stares through their reptilian hide and into their souls; one Komodian sinks to his back, laying motionless, eyes rolled into his head.

This sight brings the Komodians back to their battle senses. “Coward,” hisses Slithe, “Golmor’s died of shock. Not to worry, this human garbage is nothing without his AtomEdge.” In hasty response, one fluid movement of Rhys’ arm brings the AtomEdge from its concealment behind his cape, and through the flesh of the second henchman. A thick stillness lingers before the Komodian bursts open in a confetti of organs. Slithe tries to hold his trembling limbs still as urine trickles down his legs.

Slithe’s head spins as he gazes helplessly into the lethal depths of the Lord of Kor’s spirit. One sentence emerges from the mouth just below those burning eyes, “where is my grandson?”

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