His gaze watched as her face drained of all its color, and he understood that there was doom and damnation written across the daggers, the bloodlust not in her mind, the worry, the weariness, flanking her in all directions. Maybe it was something else too: that she was seeing him for what he really, truly was (monster, heathen, fiend, soldier, warrior, blackguard, beast), reconsidering their connections, intending to back away, find a soul not as marred and damaged, as dangerous and lethal.
But she came at him anyway, followed through on his instructions, and his open hand aimed to catch at hers, turning into her, blocking, before any damage could seethe and ripple along his throat, chest, abdomen, or any other parts determined to catch and destroy. [say]“Good. You can raise your arm even higher for effectiveness,”[/say] he responded, but it was followed on a quieter, gentler, a rumble in his chest, without the harsh intonations. [say]“You do not have to do this,”[/say] he proffered, giving her another chance to back away – to evade, to escape, those darkening threads, those harsh lines, those drawn blades that invoked a step in treacherous directions. He’d already been there, on that side, for too long to ever think about leaving – a part of him, sculpted and molded and whittled into his essence (vehemence, fervency, the keen edge of a blade cutting its way through crowds and enemies). She could say the word and they'd be done - because too many portions of him worried, wove their way into his gut, that she'd either be unprepared, unwilling (an understandable plight), or move to no longer align herself with him altogether.
But she came at him anyway, followed through on his instructions, and his open hand aimed to catch at hers, turning into her, blocking, before any damage could seethe and ripple along his throat, chest, abdomen, or any other parts determined to catch and destroy. [say]“Good. You can raise your arm even higher for effectiveness,”[/say] he responded, but it was followed on a quieter, gentler, a rumble in his chest, without the harsh intonations. [say]“You do not have to do this,”[/say] he proffered, giving her another chance to back away – to evade, to escape, those darkening threads, those harsh lines, those drawn blades that invoked a step in treacherous directions. He’d already been there, on that side, for too long to ever think about leaving – a part of him, sculpted and molded and whittled into his essence (vehemence, fervency, the keen edge of a blade cutting its way through crowds and enemies). She could say the word and they'd be done - because too many portions of him worried, wove their way into his gut, that she'd either be unprepared, unwilling (an understandable plight), or move to no longer align herself with him altogether.
