[Metal is not a flammable substance, but that does not mean that the dark flames Yamato uses against the automaton aren't effective. It can't escape, and the flames aren't extinguished by the rain... the golden metal soon begins to glow red hot, the most delicate and fine pieces beginning to soften and run in molten rivulets. The fire makes quick work of it, with the automaton helpless to put out the flames and the others unable to help. As its voice box heats up the pitch of its voice warps, warble, sounding even more wretched than before.
Shinjiro's axe finds purchase in the second automaton, and when he pulls the axe back he can see the inside of the automaton has corroded near entirely. It was already hanging on by a thread, it seems, so such a brutal hit to already damaged parts finishes it off, its eyes going dim.
The third one can do nothing else as you turn on it, finishing it off just as quickly, flames and blades too much for it. It turns its gaze to the rainy sky, the lights of its eyes flickering.]
How blessed we were to receive this life, and to feel the moon's light and its love. Will the moon ever know we love it in turn? That we promise to return to its embrace one day...?
[Then it stills.
The workshop stands before them, a magic circle the same purple as the automatons eyes caging it in. The lines of the circle are blocky and mechanical, likely coming from the automatons themselves, but the destruction of the guards does not seemed to have ended the spell.]
no subject
Shinjiro's axe finds purchase in the second automaton, and when he pulls the axe back he can see the inside of the automaton has corroded near entirely. It was already hanging on by a thread, it seems, so such a brutal hit to already damaged parts finishes it off, its eyes going dim.
The third one can do nothing else as you turn on it, finishing it off just as quickly, flames and blades too much for it. It turns its gaze to the rainy sky, the lights of its eyes flickering.]
How blessed we were to receive this life, and to feel the moon's light and its love. Will the moon ever know we love it in turn? That we promise to return to its embrace one day...?
[Then it stills.
The workshop stands before them, a magic circle the same purple as the automatons eyes caging it in. The lines of the circle are blocky and mechanical, likely coming from the automatons themselves, but the destruction of the guards does not seemed to have ended the spell.]