The Nihil still loomed on the distant horizon, a crimson maelstrom of chaos and hunger.
Its vortex spun with violent intent, ejecting red hurricane-like tendrils that stretched across the sky. Each tendril writhed, their tips splitting into jagged, toothy maws that gnashed at the air as they surged forward.
Their target was not the Monochara bastion itself, but the ridge where Samael and Oizys stood, the source of whatever torment had roused the Nihil's wrath.
Samael's dress fluttered in the rising wind, her expression as flat as ever. "It seems like the Nihil's rather mad," she remarked, her voice devoid of inflection, as if commenting on a minor inconvenience rather than an approaching storm of destruction.
Oizys, her shadowed fleshy tendrils coiled the periphery, preparing to retaliate in case that the hurricane protrusion reached them.
