You always liked the taste of blood
and i get off when i point the gun
The arc of her arm is not quite true, but the jagged, swirling edges of her chakram make up for any inexperience with the vitriol of their embedded magic. The rend and tear of their pristine edges. Though her body may not have the strength to puncture, to rip and shred, Ludo's creation does not fail her. Impact sings through her bones, and the creature goes crashing down like a felled tree, but with half the soul and and a greater purpose to its fall. At first, there is nothing. A stillness in her mind like an untouched lake, frozen and contained within the crystal of self-reflection.
Perhaps in another woman, this would be where regret seeps into the cracks of shock that quake across that sheer surface. Were she any other race, any less committed to her cause, the shriek of agony may have knocked her off her feet. For a moment it threatens to; so similar to the wounded, dying sound of a helpless rabbit beneath a falcon's talons. Compassion is not nonexistent within Nephele after all.
But compassion for an Ascended? No, that has been burned out of her very core. There is only vengeance.
So instead she bares her gritted teeth in a feral snarl of victory. Staggering to her feet as adrenaline - unlike all those novels and fairytales that claim it to be a drug of excellence, a hormone that improves and aids - thrusts shakiness upon her limbs. Her mind races, whirs, gazing down at the creature as it contorts and spasms, lost in the grips of agony that she has induced. Does she strike again? Try once more for the killing blow? The audience dissuades, her but this may be her only chance, and she is still fully concealed. Just as she moves a step forward, readjusting her grip on the chakram - not bloodied, for monsters do not bleed, but soaked nonetheless in the foul essence of its kind - the crowd parts beneath a vengeful form.
Cursing to herself at having forgotten Sunjata's place in all this, the Fae staggers back, twisting awkwardly away from a blow that is far more practiced than her own. It catches all the same, digging deeper than she'd hoped for as it sinks into her right side, tearing free towards her navel. Vital organs are center-mass, and there are no major arteries located in the flanks. The recitation rings in the back of her mind. It's a ridiculous thought to have when you're being stabbed, but perhaps that's merely her way of coping.
Lashing out with Lasracha to try to use her own blade to force Sunjata's arm away from her, she whirls away and sprints as fast as her legs can take her. No time for hesitation, for fighting an opponent she cannot win on even ground. She has made her mark (and what a mark it is, her mind crows victoriously) and though the killing blow was stayed, Nephele does not feel disheartened. Though wings would get her away faster, she cannot risk it, and never slows even as she melts into the crowd to disappear. One hand braced against the wound on her side, the other tightly gripping her singular chakram, hoping some measure of the creature's fluid remains upon it.
Perhaps she will not have to forsake her botanical, engineering mind after all.
Perhaps in another woman, this would be where regret seeps into the cracks of shock that quake across that sheer surface. Were she any other race, any less committed to her cause, the shriek of agony may have knocked her off her feet. For a moment it threatens to; so similar to the wounded, dying sound of a helpless rabbit beneath a falcon's talons. Compassion is not nonexistent within Nephele after all.
But compassion for an Ascended? No, that has been burned out of her very core. There is only vengeance.
So instead she bares her gritted teeth in a feral snarl of victory. Staggering to her feet as adrenaline - unlike all those novels and fairytales that claim it to be a drug of excellence, a hormone that improves and aids - thrusts shakiness upon her limbs. Her mind races, whirs, gazing down at the creature as it contorts and spasms, lost in the grips of agony that she has induced. Does she strike again? Try once more for the killing blow? The audience dissuades, her but this may be her only chance, and she is still fully concealed. Just as she moves a step forward, readjusting her grip on the chakram - not bloodied, for monsters do not bleed, but soaked nonetheless in the foul essence of its kind - the crowd parts beneath a vengeful form.
Cursing to herself at having forgotten Sunjata's place in all this, the Fae staggers back, twisting awkwardly away from a blow that is far more practiced than her own. It catches all the same, digging deeper than she'd hoped for as it sinks into her right side, tearing free towards her navel. Vital organs are center-mass, and there are no major arteries located in the flanks. The recitation rings in the back of her mind. It's a ridiculous thought to have when you're being stabbed, but perhaps that's merely her way of coping.
Lashing out with Lasracha to try to use her own blade to force Sunjata's arm away from her, she whirls away and sprints as fast as her legs can take her. No time for hesitation, for fighting an opponent she cannot win on even ground. She has made her mark (and what a mark it is, her mind crows victoriously) and though the killing blow was stayed, Nephele does not feel disheartened. Though wings would get her away faster, she cannot risk it, and never slows even as she melts into the crowd to disappear. One hand braced against the wound on her side, the other tightly gripping her singular chakram, hoping some measure of the creature's fluid remains upon it.
Perhaps she will not have to forsake her botanical, engineering mind after all.
it's so good to have someone
to be so very bad with
NEPHELE
