Survive. The word rang in his head like thunder in the mountains. Survival. That's all this world is. That's all I've been doing, all my life. Surviving. But never in a situation like this. He'd been in gang wars, prison riots, war torn battlefields, but never had he fought monstrosities such as the ones he fell towards, equipped solely with the lightsaber of a Sith Lord.
He hit the ground hard, but rolled when he landed, the same way he did when he ran around Myrkr as a child. The beasts surrounded him, no longer passive as they had been before, their snarls conveyed a desire for blood, Lark's blood. He activated the lightsaber, and was greeted with a black blade surrounded by a haunting, blood red glow. The blade was silent, the normal hum that all lightsabers Lark had seen prior to this one was barely audible. He gripped the weapon tightly, but was unfamiliar with the it's design. It was heavier than expected, and he could already tell he'd need to use two hands. He was not weak by any means, but he was used to smaller blades, the techniques he was used to would not work with this weapon. He gripped the blade with two hands so he wouldn't unconsciously switch to familiar techniques, which would likely result in a clumsy swing and a quick death.
The first beast charged at him, and Lark quickly dodged out of the way. He might not be trained in the Force, but he was as fit as any soldier. The beast lunged again, catching Lark by surprise. He had forgotten how quick the creatures were. He swung quickly, cutting off a claw that might have taken his head clean off. The beast either didn't realize what had happened or didn't care, for it turned back to attack. But this time Lark was ready. He swung a well aimed strike that cut the head of the beast off. There was less resistance when the blade met flesh than Lark expected.
But that number of fallen monsters was one, and many more still gathered around him. Does he expect me to slay them all? Lark wasn't sure, but he steeled himself for a long fight anyways. Three more beasts charged, and Lark skipped a few steps away. If they keep coming in small groups, perhaps I can prevent myself from getting overrun. He swung downwards, cutting one of the three almost in half. He prepared himself for the other two, but felt an overwhelming pressure come at him from behind. He should have realized what it was, but he made the mistake of turning. Another beast had ran at him from the mass of monsters, and knocked Lark to the ground, the lightsaber fell a few feet away. The beast jumped on top of him, snarling and growling a sick breath at him, it smelled like blood and vomit. Lark's hand shot out in an attempt to grab the lightsaber, but his arm wasn't long enough. He quickly pulled a knife from his waist, and stabbed the monster as it opened it's hideous maw. It fell on top of him, limp, and Lark slide from underneath it and ran over to pick up the saber. He threw his knife, downing another one as well, before decapitating the final monster that had ran at him. He picked up his knife and sheathed it, perhaps he'd need it again.
More and more beasts charged at him, coming in greater numbers. He'd become more confident with the blade. It was still foreign to him, but what he lacked in experience the blade made up for in power. If Lark aimed his strikes well the beasts would fall with only a swing or two, he cut through them like paper. But more always took their place. He also had the advantage in intelligence. When T'zanith had controlled them the beasts were like a single organism, but now they all fought as individuals, and their capacity seemed to be limited to one thought: Kill.
He sliced through another creature, before one claw finally met it's mark. Lark jumped back, but the claw ripped through the white shirt that lay beneath his black blazer, and tore at his chest. The wound was a shallow cut, but it stung nonetheless, and a small trail of blood soaked into his shirt. It was a minor wound, he could still fight fine, but he couldn't afford to get hit many more times. He cut the monster down, but more stampeded towards him relentlessly. What was it he said? Cold rage? Be disconnected from your emotions, but use them to fuel your powers? Lark focused, ignoring the pain from his wound. His vision became clearer, his senses enhanced, his fatigue vanished.
As more beasts steamed towards him, Lark smiled. Instead of going on defense like he had been, Lark took a quick pace forwards towards the oncoming foes. He weaved around one swing and sliced open the monster's back, and then spun around like a dancer and stabbed another in the gut. He cut the legs out from beneath a particularly large experiment, and then plunged the blade deep into it's chest, quieting the monster's growl.
He was covered in blood, he was unsure how much of it was his. If he had been hit again he couldn't tell. Don't get high off the power, he thought. You're not invincible, and there are still so many of them. But whether Lark finished killing every beast in the room or he was slain while fighting, the King of Shawken would have some cleaning to do.
[member="Darth Erebos"]
