Creative Practice Day 3

"I am surprised you would come here, rain-maker! Don't your starving farmlands need your protection in this, the dire hour?"

"That is what you would think, Kyrdax. Always, you have had your heads in the wrong places and your heart in even worse ones." The old man strode slowly, but unwavered towards the hulking demon.

"With a wave of my hand I could have your lands swept away in a tide of shadow and blood. What could you do to stop me? I know your magic. It is that of fields and green."

"And so it is. I could likely do nothing to stop you. But I am here anyway."

"And you come alone?"

"Of course. No one would be brave enough to follow a senile old man like me." Kyrdax, the demon lord, for the first time in centuries, flinched. A silver dart slid through the flesh of his cheek, leaving a long, clean, and perfectly straight line oozing violet ichor. "Damn. I thought that might work." Thunder crackled as the old man whipped a blade from his side and took a jab at the demon. Even being caught off guard, Kyrdax's reflexes were faster than any living being, and he lept backwards turning to see his ranged attacker.

"I should have known. How foolish of me. The small frame of the nameless slave that had escaped to the mainland stood before him, bow in hand, silver barb notched.