Theea
know this ain't for the weak
or for hate, it's for soul
or for hate, it's for soul
I cut the screech short and the body drops, twitching. Petty, maybe, but I give it a little kick and stick my tongue out before the ache in my forearm sharpens my focus. Blood snakes down my wrist, tacky and warm. I flex my fingers—sting, throb, sting—and grimace. I want to keep moving, to help block tunnels, to be useful, but it’s my sword arm. If I don’t fix it, I’m just making myself slower.
I look over at Zuriel, catching the sassiness in her response to her bonded. I approach a little sheepish, chin ducking. “Long time no see? Sorry—arm again.” I hold it out. I wait until there's an ease to the pain, heat easing, edges knitting just enough that my fingers stop buzzing. Relief loosens something in my shoulders I didn’t realize I was clenching.
Over my shoulder I catch Damien settling into his stance at Tunnel Two, axe low, Thorn crouched at his leg. The sight unknots another worry. I turn back, roll my wrist; much better.
I keep the dagger in my left, adjust the shortsword in my right, and decide not to choose between them. Two blades feel like insurance—one to catch, one to cut. I jog to the open mouth of tunnels, boots quiet on stone, and plant myself a pace off-center to spoil a straight rush. Pillar to my back, nest in my periphery, Damien a steady line across the nave.
“Covering this one,” I call, low. I square my hips, raise both blades, and breathe into the ready—eyes on the dark, listening for whiskers and claws, prepared to meet the next wave on my terms.
Theea asks Zuriel for healing before approaching tunnel one, holding weapons at the ready
I look over at Zuriel, catching the sassiness in her response to her bonded. I approach a little sheepish, chin ducking. “Long time no see? Sorry—arm again.” I hold it out. I wait until there's an ease to the pain, heat easing, edges knitting just enough that my fingers stop buzzing. Relief loosens something in my shoulders I didn’t realize I was clenching.
Over my shoulder I catch Damien settling into his stance at Tunnel Two, axe low, Thorn crouched at his leg. The sight unknots another worry. I turn back, roll my wrist; much better.
I keep the dagger in my left, adjust the shortsword in my right, and decide not to choose between them. Two blades feel like insurance—one to catch, one to cut. I jog to the open mouth of tunnels, boots quiet on stone, and plant myself a pace off-center to spoil a straight rush. Pillar to my back, nest in my periphery, Damien a steady line across the nave.
“Covering this one,” I call, low. I square my hips, raise both blades, and breathe into the ready—eyes on the dark, listening for whiskers and claws, prepared to meet the next wave on my terms.
Theea asks Zuriel for healing before approaching tunnel one, holding weapons at the ready
tell them to retreat
cause they ain't even close
cause they ain't even close
