Theea
know this ain't for the weak
or for hate, it's for soul
or for hate, it's for soul
I bite off a curse as they stream past me like I’m furniture. Heat flares up my neck. I pivot hard on the ball of my foot, shoulders loose, both blades flashing as I chase their line across the nave. Candlelight skitters along steel and polished stone; the air tastes of old wax and damp fur. Damien’s already there—axe set, body squared between Deimos and Thorn—and the sight of him braced like that pulls me tighter into focus.
“Oh, no you don’t.”
I cut diagonally through the aisle, slipping around a pew’s end, and set my back to a pillar to kill any chance of being boxed in. Weight on the balls of my feet, I bring the shortsword low and fast in a crescent meant to sheer at shin height, at the smallest of them, then let the dagger chase a heartbeat later in a tight cross-cut across higher line. One rhythm, two edges—clean, efficient, no flourish, and I hope to cut through more than one. I keep my elbows tucked and my stance compact so I can roll either blade into a guard or a thrust without overcommitting. If a gap opens at knee level, my boot is ready to snap through it to keep the lane beside Damien clear.
I track breath and distance—the give of leather in my grip, the tack of drying blood under my palm. I angle my shoulders to screen the approach, blades working like shears to thin anything that tries to press together. I don’t look back at him, but I know where Damien is by the gravity of him, the way a room steadies around his stance; I hold the space to his side like it’s a promise—my steel the line that tried to keep his flank clean.
Theea swings for ROU one, with a wide sweep to try and catch the other two at the same time to stop them from swarming the others.
“Oh, no you don’t.”
I cut diagonally through the aisle, slipping around a pew’s end, and set my back to a pillar to kill any chance of being boxed in. Weight on the balls of my feet, I bring the shortsword low and fast in a crescent meant to sheer at shin height, at the smallest of them, then let the dagger chase a heartbeat later in a tight cross-cut across higher line. One rhythm, two edges—clean, efficient, no flourish, and I hope to cut through more than one. I keep my elbows tucked and my stance compact so I can roll either blade into a guard or a thrust without overcommitting. If a gap opens at knee level, my boot is ready to snap through it to keep the lane beside Damien clear.
I track breath and distance—the give of leather in my grip, the tack of drying blood under my palm. I angle my shoulders to screen the approach, blades working like shears to thin anything that tries to press together. I don’t look back at him, but I know where Damien is by the gravity of him, the way a room steadies around his stance; I hold the space to his side like it’s a promise—my steel the line that tried to keep his flank clean.
Theea swings for ROU one, with a wide sweep to try and catch the other two at the same time to stop them from swarming the others.
tell them to retreat
cause they ain't even close
cause they ain't even close
