Sweat clouded her face, her chest puffed in and out in quick succession as her stance faltered. She was losing this battle. Yet still, with her sword clenched in her hand, she dashed forward. A silent anguished scream left her mouth as her muscles tore and ripped apart. Seconds away from victory, she bore into the abyss of the creature's eyes. Seconds away from the final strike, she watched as the thick black tendrils of the monster wrapped around it's core, encasing it. Seconds away from death, she watched as the black tentacles of the monster pierced through her chest.
Right.
Down.
The.
Middle.
Moments after death, her body slumped. The black tentacles slowly ripping out from her back, snapping bones as it went, before halting to a stop as her silver blade penetrated the midnight tendrils, destroying the core and soul of the monster. The carcass of the monster melted away, leaving only a gooey black puddle in its wake. The body of the young warrior fell to the ground with a thud, next to her lay the silver blade, engraved on the hilt was the cursive message 'Blade of Britain, Hero to All, Lutecia is the name I take down below'.
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The Final Strike
FantasySome school work I did that I thought was too good to throw away. Extremely short with no world building. A face off between a warrior and monster.
