Looming over him, the Praxian’s shadow now engulfed the satyr’s tiny frame.
“What is your name, little one? You battle with a ferocity I haven't seen in many years, but alas I must put an end to this.”
Head still bowed; Ripa’s hands clenched his daggers tighter. From the hilt, black and silver mystic energies began swirling, writhing around the blade and up his arms.
“I am Hisania the Reaper...” Ripa mumbled, his voice gravely with conviction.
Confident, the Praxian leaned closer, “I’m sorry, you're what, little one. Speak up!”
“You will repay in blood…” A little louder this time, Ripa’s intonation was low and deliberate. The haziness no longer clouded his mind. A surge of mystic energy coursed through him.
“Trash-eating dog!” Having clearly heard Ripa’s final insult, the Praxian hef
