The Wrath

The ground opened and deep crimson, streaked with violet poured forth as only the rift could. The air was full of acid, metallic taste permeating every breath, stuffing foulness into every pore. The black cloaked sorcerer pointed towards them. The following rolling destruction emanating from the rupture threw them from their feet. The sound, the tearing of the earth, was immense and pressed on them like a catastrophe. The sorcerer stood grinning, enraptured in wrath, unaffected by the gaping scar from which the unchained energy poured. Rosalyn was up, red curls ablaze, knives shining. Back on his feet, Argen drew.