MABEL
Mabel only stopped when the command came – otherwise she would’ve remained the pale little wraith beneath the moonlight, pretending to be a menace. She tucked her dagger in tighter, within palms that had once held only nuances of farm work, of baling twine, of buckets and pails, of siblings’ hands as they rambled and raised a ruckus.
The youth stood unnaturally still while the other woman spoke, only adjusting and tilting her head to acknowledge her absorption of the sagacity. “I cannot feel pain,” she offered in response – and the notion of self-defense therefore went entirely unnoticed. Not bothered with. Openly offensive and nothing more.
Would she need it, if all of this was enough to bring down her sister’s killer? Or the rest of them – who yearned to bleed and die for their stupid Old Gods?
She nodded anyway, understanding to a certain degree, watching the lilt of daggers. Her eyes caught the stance, placating the reel of movement with her own designations, feet on the corners of an invisible triangle. It took her a moment to adjust, to be angles, to be precision, to be might, to be junctures in ruin and demolition.
And while her head was down, processing the information and ensuring her weight was placed into the ground – the other woman launched.
She might’ve sneered or hissed if she had the gods damned time; instead Mabel was forced to react instinctually. Even if the weapon hadn’t actually been intending to hit her, the Ascended treated it like an incoming wound, raising her own miniature blade to catch, to snag – and then push back.
The youth stood unnaturally still while the other woman spoke, only adjusting and tilting her head to acknowledge her absorption of the sagacity. “I cannot feel pain,” she offered in response – and the notion of self-defense therefore went entirely unnoticed. Not bothered with. Openly offensive and nothing more.
Would she need it, if all of this was enough to bring down her sister’s killer? Or the rest of them – who yearned to bleed and die for their stupid Old Gods?
She nodded anyway, understanding to a certain degree, watching the lilt of daggers. Her eyes caught the stance, placating the reel of movement with her own designations, feet on the corners of an invisible triangle. It took her a moment to adjust, to be angles, to be precision, to be might, to be junctures in ruin and demolition.
And while her head was down, processing the information and ensuring her weight was placed into the ground – the other woman launched.
She might’ve sneered or hissed if she had the gods damned time; instead Mabel was forced to react instinctually. Even if the weapon hadn’t actually been intending to hit her, the Ascended treated it like an incoming wound, raising her own miniature blade to catch, to snag – and then push back.
Let's go to war to make peace
Let's be cold to create heat
Let's be cold to create heat
