Black ink poured out of me in a violent surge, spilling across the ground and rising into the air like something alive. It moved with intent, tendrils snapping outward and wrapping around limbs, torsos, trunks, and tusks of the behemoths and began feeding.
Their mana and vitality siphoning by the tightening tendrils, the ink pulsing as it absorbed what it touched.
The behemoths roared and thrashed causing earth tremors, their trunks whipping and tusks carving deep trenches into the earth as they tried to tear free.
But the more they struggled, the more the ink fed.
It grew thicker, denser, darker, strengthened by the very energy they used in resistance. The runes on their tusks flared as they attempted to discharge another blast, but the mana required for it bled away before it could gather properly.
The first of them faltered.
