//------------------------------//
// Power 
// Story: Manhunger 
// by Odd_Sarge 
//------------------------------//

Black and gray rock surrounds you. Stone. Artificial.

The sky is the wrong blue. Smoggy. And filled with glimmering towers of glass.

They are forged of Maniron.

The scent of the world collapses in upon you. It is hot, sticky. Damp on your coat. 

Salt. Meat. Ichor. Life.

Man. 

You are drawn from the Maniron towers. The crowd of Man around you swells, and dark Maniron carriages screech in halting. The world creeps in on you.

The black stone beneath you is dotted with white lines. You trace them to a stumbling figure.

It is a Man with power. His grasp is weak, shaking as he holds a shaped chunk.

A warcraft of Blackiron.

You narrow your eyes.

The scent of salt rises from your own coat.

You light your horn. You unclasp your white cape, and levitate it before you. 

Crisply, you form a square of cloth.

The crowd of Man is sufficiently awed by your display. 

The Man on the dotted white line approaches your white flag. His grasp is loose, jerky.

You approach in kind.

You meet in the middle.

You bow your head, eyes shut.

You hear the fabric of his clothes stretch as he reaches toward you.

“Easy...”

In reply, you open your eyes. You could not disagree more.

As your horn pierces fabric, shrill screams sound for you. 

The blood of Man soaks your white flag, but it does not stain your horn.

The Blackiron chunk clanks against the ground between you and the exsanguinated.

You yank back, showering the white lines with crimson.

The metallic bite of copper fills your lungs.

You push the Man without touch, and cleanse your horn with stained cloth.

The screams of the remaining Man rekindle as you redouble your magic.

You raise the Blackiron of Man from the ground.

You pause.

A sneer careens over your lips.

This warcraft... is not fine Blackiron.

You aim the false Blackiron at the crowd.

A tempestuous crack reams through the air, and a Man tumbles.

Gray, pink, red. Bone. The opening is raw. Viscous. Blood pours as hot wine.

You already long for another pull.

There are yells made in the language of the Man. You adjust the Blackiron again. The weight is estranged from what you desire, but it will service you.

The Man enforcers who approach, now, wield more false Blackiron. 

Even in the smoggy daylight in the land of Man, your armor glints with purpose.

Momentarily, wield this false Blackiron. Your goal remains pure.

All Man will bleed until they relinquish what is rightfully yours.