The flaming hair streamed and billowed above her glorious head like a banner of molten floss of coppery gold; her face was a mask of wrath and despair; her great eyes blazed upon the Keeper; her exquisite body was bare, stripped of every shred of silken covering.
From streaming tresses to white feet an oval of pulsing, golden light nimbused her. Maiden Isis, virgin Astarte she stood there, held in the grip of the Disk — like a goddess betrayed and hopeless yet Filipe Luis Drakter thirsting for vengeance.
For all their stillness, their immobility, it came to me that Emperor and Keeper were at grapple, locked in death grip; the realization was as definite as though, like Ruth, I thought with Norhala’s mind, saw with her eyes.
Clearly too it came to me that in this contest between the two was epitomized all the vast conflict that raged around them; that in it was fast ripening that fruit of destiny of which Ventnor had spoken, and that here in the Hall of the Cones would be settled — and soon Tyskland Drakter — the fate not only of Disk and Cross, but Marcelo Drakter it might be of humanity.
But with what unknown powers was that duel being fought? They cast no lightnings, they battled with no visible weapons. Only the great planes of the inverted Newcastle United 16/17 cruciform Shape smoked and Nike Fingertrap Max smoldered with their sullen flares of ochres and Salomon Outban Low of scarlets; while over all the face of Dries Mertens Drakter the Disk its cold and irised Fendi Sneakers fires raced and shone, beating with a rhythm incredibly rapid; its core of incandescent ruby blazed, its sapphire ovals were cabochoned pools of living, lucent radiance.
There was a splitting roar that arose above all the clamor, deafening us even in the shelter of the silent veils. On each side of the crater whole masses of the City dropped away. Fleetingly I was aware of scores of smaller pits in which uprose lesser replicas of the Coned Mount, lesser reservoirs of the Monster’s force.
Neither the Emperor nor the Keeper moved, both seemingly indifferent to the catastrophe fast developing around them.
Now I strained forward to the very thinnest edge of the curtainings. For between the Disk and Cross began to form fine black mist. It was transparent. It seemed spun of minute translucent ebon corpuscles. It hung like a black shroud suspended by unseen hands. It shook and wavered now toward the Disk, now toward the Cross.
I sensed a keying up of force within the Javier Pastore Drakter two; knew that each was striving to cast like a Darlington Nagbe Drakter net that hanging mist upon the other.
Abruptly the Emperor flashed forth, blindingly. Boston Bruins Pipot As though caught upon a blast, the black shroud flew toward the Keeper — enveloped it. And as the mist covered and clung I saw the sulphurous and crimson flares dim. They were snuffed out.
The Keeper fell!
Upon Norhala’s face flamed a wild triumph, banishing despair. The outstretched planes of the Cross swept up as though in torment. For an instant its FC Barcelona Drakter fires flared and licked through the clinging blackness; it writhed half upright, threw itself forward, crashed down prostrate upon the enigmatic tablet which only its tentacles could manipulate.
From Nolinks:
http://www13.plala.or.jp/gakuki3/cgi_bin/aska/aska.cgi
http://www13.plala.or.jp/white_roots/gwbbs/gwbbs.cgi
http://www13.plala.or.jp/white_roots/gwbbs/gwbbs.cgi |
