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The scent of blood was was already thick in the air as his talons bit into flesh. A low growl rumbled in his throat as his opponent whirled to strike. The attack was quick though not nearly swift enough for his serpent-like reflexes. The blade of a sword came near his face, but then he just suddenly wasn't there. His body shifted through space and reappeared on the opposite side of his enemy. Then, no hesitation, before his jaws opened and revealed the razor-sharp teeth a moment before they sank into muscle and bone. He was the great General Jisextre Mendoth, though his enemies over the millennia called him "Death".
As Mendoth released the now, lifeless body, his luminous gold eyes took in the battle that waged around him. The dry, cracked earth was soaked with blood and littered with the fallen. His legions remained strong despite the horde they faced. Nostrils flared in his long snout as he detected the fragrance of magic in the air. With a loud snarl, he unfurled his massive, leathery wings and took off into the sky.
It was only once Mendoth was high above the conflict below him that he noticed the clouds rapidly changing. Light grey became darker, ominous. The wind picked up and fought against his wings. Strange, purple lightning flashed, creating a spiderweb in the sky. Then, again it came, but this time the sound was deafening and Mendoth was sent hurtling towards the earth from the vibration. It was only through sheer will that he was able to pull up in time to prevent colliding with the ground. A roar thundered out of his chest as he beat his wings hard to bring himself back on course.
The spell was pungent on his tongue, causing his golden eyes to narrow. A moment later they opened wide as he stared at the sky in front of him. In the middle of the foreboding clouds was a long cleft. Something about it didn't feel right--enough that it made his bones ache as he approached. Still, he needed to know. Something drove him towards it. The sickening smell of magic grew stronger.
Even in his spelled trance, he felt the approach of someone to his rear. Mendoth whirled, but the rip in the sky was much too close now and it pulled him--sucking him into the unknown. The void swallowed him into time and space. His form was broken though there was no one to hear his agony. But the pain tested him and found him strong--his essence remained in the darkness of time only to be remade…
Mendoth opened his eyes once more in a space filled with bright light. Strange looking creatures communicated with him. In his annoyance, he went to swipe at them with his talons and found with great dismay that they had been replaced with harmless flesh digits. Gingerly, he touched his face and gasped to find his body utterly changed. Sustenance was brought to him, at least, he assumed that was what it was meant to be. The red item excited him, though the flavor was nothing like blood and it wiggled oddly. Everything else was equally bland. What sort of bizarre hell had he been thrown into?
Weeks passed and with his limited contact with his caretakers, he was able to pick up enough of the language being spoken to understand. For the time being, he was being referred to as "John Doe", and was told he had been laying in this room unconscious for over a year. Now staring at the four white walls, he could easily believe it was possible to fall into a coma from boredom. It was unclear to him as of yet what had happened and how long he had actually been on this new planet. It didn't matter. His focus was on getting out.
His diet was upgraded to something that resembled meat, though he couldn't be sure. The white, mushy material was surprisingly palatable. His nurse appeared encouraged by his appetite. After he had been eating regularly for a few days, it was decided he was have something called "physical therapy". Mendoth was astounded at how weak this new body felt. He made mention of his wings once but noticing the look he received, never spoke of them again. The exercises were daily and terribly repetitive. The once General glared at the white ceiling. He would do just about anything to leave this spartan prison. The urge to use violence to do so throbbed in his veins with every beat of his heart.
Finally, the day arrived when he was given the doctor's permission to be discharged. He did not know what laid beyond the holding cell though, his glimpses of the world through the window showed it to be a much greener place than he was accustomed, filled with more of these small weak creatures he now resembled. There was a degree of satisfaction in seeing he was taller than many of them.
Release papers were given to him and a nurse went over them carefully, still looking a little skeptical but following orders. All that was left was to sign his name. He thought of his true name and decided not to use it. It did not seem to fit with the ones he had heard over the months of being there. Taking the pen, he poised it over the paper--for once grateful for the part of his therapy that included fine motor movements, such as writing. The first and last name were pulled from different things he had heard, though there was still a small connection to his true name.
He signed with a flourish: James Martin.
It was the first step to returning to his own world. A faint smile brushed his lips as he exited the hospital. There was no time to waste.
As Mendoth released the now, lifeless body, his luminous gold eyes took in the battle that waged around him. The dry, cracked earth was soaked with blood and littered with the fallen. His legions remained strong despite the horde they faced. Nostrils flared in his long snout as he detected the fragrance of magic in the air. With a loud snarl, he unfurled his massive, leathery wings and took off into the sky.
It was only once Mendoth was high above the conflict below him that he noticed the clouds rapidly changing. Light grey became darker, ominous. The wind picked up and fought against his wings. Strange, purple lightning flashed, creating a spiderweb in the sky. Then, again it came, but this time the sound was deafening and Mendoth was sent hurtling towards the earth from the vibration. It was only through sheer will that he was able to pull up in time to prevent colliding with the ground. A roar thundered out of his chest as he beat his wings hard to bring himself back on course.
The spell was pungent on his tongue, causing his golden eyes to narrow. A moment later they opened wide as he stared at the sky in front of him. In the middle of the foreboding clouds was a long cleft. Something about it didn't feel right--enough that it made his bones ache as he approached. Still, he needed to know. Something drove him towards it. The sickening smell of magic grew stronger.
Even in his spelled trance, he felt the approach of someone to his rear. Mendoth whirled, but the rip in the sky was much too close now and it pulled him--sucking him into the unknown. The void swallowed him into time and space. His form was broken though there was no one to hear his agony. But the pain tested him and found him strong--his essence remained in the darkness of time only to be remade…
Mendoth opened his eyes once more in a space filled with bright light. Strange looking creatures communicated with him. In his annoyance, he went to swipe at them with his talons and found with great dismay that they had been replaced with harmless flesh digits. Gingerly, he touched his face and gasped to find his body utterly changed. Sustenance was brought to him, at least, he assumed that was what it was meant to be. The red item excited him, though the flavor was nothing like blood and it wiggled oddly. Everything else was equally bland. What sort of bizarre hell had he been thrown into?
Weeks passed and with his limited contact with his caretakers, he was able to pick up enough of the language being spoken to understand. For the time being, he was being referred to as "John Doe", and was told he had been laying in this room unconscious for over a year. Now staring at the four white walls, he could easily believe it was possible to fall into a coma from boredom. It was unclear to him as of yet what had happened and how long he had actually been on this new planet. It didn't matter. His focus was on getting out.
His diet was upgraded to something that resembled meat, though he couldn't be sure. The white, mushy material was surprisingly palatable. His nurse appeared encouraged by his appetite. After he had been eating regularly for a few days, it was decided he was have something called "physical therapy". Mendoth was astounded at how weak this new body felt. He made mention of his wings once but noticing the look he received, never spoke of them again. The exercises were daily and terribly repetitive. The once General glared at the white ceiling. He would do just about anything to leave this spartan prison. The urge to use violence to do so throbbed in his veins with every beat of his heart.
Finally, the day arrived when he was given the doctor's permission to be discharged. He did not know what laid beyond the holding cell though, his glimpses of the world through the window showed it to be a much greener place than he was accustomed, filled with more of these small weak creatures he now resembled. There was a degree of satisfaction in seeing he was taller than many of them.
Release papers were given to him and a nurse went over them carefully, still looking a little skeptical but following orders. All that was left was to sign his name. He thought of his true name and decided not to use it. It did not seem to fit with the ones he had heard over the months of being there. Taking the pen, he poised it over the paper--for once grateful for the part of his therapy that included fine motor movements, such as writing. The first and last name were pulled from different things he had heard, though there was still a small connection to his true name.
He signed with a flourish: James Martin.
It was the first step to returning to his own world. A faint smile brushed his lips as he exited the hospital. There was no time to waste.