It’s not dying I’m afraid of
Fighting is the purest form of feeling, if you ask Weaver. It’s a way to wipe the slate clean, to simply purge the body of whatever negativity it still holds. Adrenaline kicks into full gear, blood rushes through her veins, her heartbeat pounds in her ears. Everything else simply disappears as if it never mattered at all. And probably, it never did.
Korbin moves forward, and she grins. Clever boy. Her knee connects with his thigh, and though she might leave a bruise, it will do little to hinder him. As he pulls to free his arm, she lets him go, hoping that the easy escape will throw him off balance instead of her, given that he likely put some force behind the effort.
His leg sweeps out to catch hers, and though she could dodge, she doesn’t. Instead she reaches out, trying to grab at his waist, his arms, his clothes - it doesn’t really matter what. She simply wants to take him by surprise, let his attack work, and take them both down together. A terrible plan, probably, but she’s always been the risk taker.
Korbin moves forward, and she grins. Clever boy. Her knee connects with his thigh, and though she might leave a bruise, it will do little to hinder him. As he pulls to free his arm, she lets him go, hoping that the easy escape will throw him off balance instead of her, given that he likely put some force behind the effort.
His leg sweeps out to catch hers, and though she could dodge, she doesn’t. Instead she reaches out, trying to grab at his waist, his arms, his clothes - it doesn’t really matter what. She simply wants to take him by surprise, let his attack work, and take them both down together. A terrible plan, probably, but she’s always been the risk taker.
weaver
it’s dying without ever having lived
