If you flinched, you lost. She breathed in, controlling herself as she met his gaze, his eyes burning with what she could only interpret as murderous fury. This thrilled something in her despite the absence of her passenger, the adrenaline rush that raised the fine hairs along her nape. The expression she wore in turn did not mirror his contempt, but rather appeared strangely collected in the face of the impending storm, dignified even as he rose to his feet and stepped forward.
Mel did not fight him for the stick - there was no reason to. There would be no contest in close quarters, her physical strength laughable compared to, well, most. Rather, she simply allowed him to take it, breathing steadily through her nose as she maintained eye contact, rage building in her chest, tempering her resolve and hardening her stone-like expression and stubbornly square shoulders. Either she had assumed he wouldn't hit her or she simply didn't care.
She didn't care. That was what Melinoë told herself as she waited for a blow to fall, but perhaps she did, as in the street, just between them, the shadows about the witch appeared to blur and bleed, ominous and slow as if the contrast of the twilight shadows were being pushed up. When the shadows had grown pitch black, like ink, they began to drip in a thick, viscous flow from her person, gathering like black water at her feet. "Do it." Her voice came a breathy, practiced calm, the pronunciation clipped and inviting no discourse - as soon as the word had been spoken, the image broke, having lasted only the span of a few seconds at most, a subtle, but ominous figment that none of the on lookers seemed to have taken notice of, still watching in tense concern as the brute loomed over her.
Mel did not fight him for the stick - there was no reason to. There would be no contest in close quarters, her physical strength laughable compared to, well, most. Rather, she simply allowed him to take it, breathing steadily through her nose as she maintained eye contact, rage building in her chest, tempering her resolve and hardening her stone-like expression and stubbornly square shoulders. Either she had assumed he wouldn't hit her or she simply didn't care.
She didn't care. That was what Melinoë told herself as she waited for a blow to fall, but perhaps she did, as in the street, just between them, the shadows about the witch appeared to blur and bleed, ominous and slow as if the contrast of the twilight shadows were being pushed up. When the shadows had grown pitch black, like ink, they began to drip in a thick, viscous flow from her person, gathering like black water at her feet. "Do it." Her voice came a breathy, practiced calm, the pronunciation clipped and inviting no discourse - as soon as the word had been spoken, the image broke, having lasted only the span of a few seconds at most, a subtle, but ominous figment that none of the on lookers seemed to have taken notice of, still watching in tense concern as the brute loomed over her.
