Theea
takes blood, sweat, and tears to look natural
Anger flares hot—clean and decisive—when he catches himself and lifts the axe again.
Fuck. This.
I surge up, rip the straps free, and let the shield clatter to the snow. It’s dead weight to me. I wasn’t made to soak blows; I was made to never be where they land. Breath steaming, sweat prickling my spine under too-thin layers, I slip under his axe arm with practiced ease, both shoulders loose now that my off-hand is free.
I cut outside his line, then pivot hard behind his back—heel-toe in the trampled snow, close enough to feel the heat coming off him through cloth. My left hand ghosts to his hip to post for a heartbeat; my right flips the shortsword to a tight, working grip. I drive in on a brutal, efficient pattern: knee brushes his thigh to stall the turn, hips rotate, and the blade snakes forward past his ribs from behind, a short, mean jab angling for the soft seam under the sternum—an opening stroke meant to gut a man if it found purchase.
"Shields are a waste of my time and strength," I bite out from behind him, breath sharp in the Deepfrost air.
I step away and shove the sword into its sheath with more force than I mean to, jaw tight. The thrill’s gone, replaced by a hot, frustrated burn under my skin that the cold can’t touch. It feels like being set up to lose—and I hate losing to a tool I’d never choose.
Fuck. This.
I surge up, rip the straps free, and let the shield clatter to the snow. It’s dead weight to me. I wasn’t made to soak blows; I was made to never be where they land. Breath steaming, sweat prickling my spine under too-thin layers, I slip under his axe arm with practiced ease, both shoulders loose now that my off-hand is free.
I cut outside his line, then pivot hard behind his back—heel-toe in the trampled snow, close enough to feel the heat coming off him through cloth. My left hand ghosts to his hip to post for a heartbeat; my right flips the shortsword to a tight, working grip. I drive in on a brutal, efficient pattern: knee brushes his thigh to stall the turn, hips rotate, and the blade snakes forward past his ribs from behind, a short, mean jab angling for the soft seam under the sternum—an opening stroke meant to gut a man if it found purchase.
"Shields are a waste of my time and strength," I bite out from behind him, breath sharp in the Deepfrost air.
I step away and shove the sword into its sheath with more force than I mean to, jaw tight. The thrill’s gone, replaced by a hot, frustrated burn under my skin that the cold can’t touch. It feels like being set up to lose—and I hate losing to a tool I’d never choose.
that's how it's done
