I can give you freedom from your guilt with a flick of my wrist
Well alright, pretty boy wants to play hardball then? Already Nephele can feel the anger and frustrating building in her breast, never one to allow such pigheaded vitriol regardless of what race the man is. Her face changes immediately, draconic and fierce as it twists into a rictus of revulsion at his disgusting manners and acidic tone. More than ready to let the whip of her tongue lash him, lips parting to tear him to shreds. And then - the penny drops. The man's hissing anger reveals undeniable fangs in the space of his useless mouth, and Nephele knows what he is. In that moment she know she could stalk him as she did the doctor. Trail him and determine his patterns, his habits. Strike from the shadows, concealed and at an advantage. But she is less daunted by his size now, after seeing what Lasracha had done to the creature in Torchline, and she cannot let the opportunity pass.
So instead, for once in her life, Nephele doesn't think before she acts. Doesn't even speak, lest it spook the man and set him running. Her wings have always made her far swifter than her brethren, and she utilizes that speed now as she flies for the man, hands finding her chakrams unnerringly beneath her cloak. Then she's rising, higher into the air where he cannot reach her with more than those nerveless hands, her body perfectly sustained in the air as her chakrams come free to glint in the solemn grey of the overcast sky.
She will not miss this time, nor underestimate his height. She will not use just one of her weapons. Everything moves just as fast as last time, but she aims her chakrams as she twists in the air, their curved edges seeking the side of the man's throat with one and the jut of his collarbone with another. The magic in each one sings a death knell, the burn of fire ready to explode from the touch of the steel. Hoping to dig into the side of his throat and rip open the artery there, and use the one aimed at his chest to drag him with her backwards into the snow.
No mercy. No hesitation. Only the sudden, snapping desire to kill. And nobody will come for him, not like last time. She'll make sure of it.
So instead, for once in her life, Nephele doesn't think before she acts. Doesn't even speak, lest it spook the man and set him running. Her wings have always made her far swifter than her brethren, and she utilizes that speed now as she flies for the man, hands finding her chakrams unnerringly beneath her cloak. Then she's rising, higher into the air where he cannot reach her with more than those nerveless hands, her body perfectly sustained in the air as her chakrams come free to glint in the solemn grey of the overcast sky.
She will not miss this time, nor underestimate his height. She will not use just one of her weapons. Everything moves just as fast as last time, but she aims her chakrams as she twists in the air, their curved edges seeking the side of the man's throat with one and the jut of his collarbone with another. The magic in each one sings a death knell, the burn of fire ready to explode from the touch of the steel. Hoping to dig into the side of his throat and rip open the artery there, and use the one aimed at his chest to drag him with her backwards into the snow.
No mercy. No hesitation. Only the sudden, snapping desire to kill. And nobody will come for him, not like last time. She'll make sure of it.
I can give you death with the look upon my face
