in tenebris est veritas.
Even without the visibility that would aid in her hunt, Deimos tells her what she needs to know like the subtle signs of an impending storm. Patient observation turns to alert intention, just as the smell of rain rises in a green sky. A quiet exhalation blows like a cool, tugging wind. His still anticipation breaks with that pre-lightning static of primed magic. And then the tempest of him is unleashed.
Chaele pushes away from the wall to do her part, her fingers splayed in the posture of anticipant magic, but for a moment it seems she is destined to the role of witness. Before she can utter the first syllables of an incantation, half of the flock is down. Her eyes widen in surprise, and perhaps a touch of fear.
But the promise of instinct takes hold of her soon enough. The shadows on her raised scars thicken and pulse, rising from her like ink in water before they sharpen and quicken toward one of the remaining crows. The black magic encircles the animal’s neck and tightens there like a noose, cutting short an intelligent screech as its energy is sapped and its flight interrupted. It staggers beside its fallen comrades, stuttering and suffering through an incomplete death.
She spares Deimos a short look, then the companion whose teeth drip with fresh blood, then the neutralized bodies at the reeling bird’s feet. Maybe it is a fool’s choice, but Chaele cannot abide the ignominy of a messy kill. She strides forward, blade in hand, and dispatches her singular quarry with a practiced slice to the throat. So concerned is she with its demise that she does not notice the sixth and final gore crow launch mercilessly toward her.
At least, not before its beak has sunk deep into her arm.
Chaele pushes away from the wall to do her part, her fingers splayed in the posture of anticipant magic, but for a moment it seems she is destined to the role of witness. Before she can utter the first syllables of an incantation, half of the flock is down. Her eyes widen in surprise, and perhaps a touch of fear.
But the promise of instinct takes hold of her soon enough. The shadows on her raised scars thicken and pulse, rising from her like ink in water before they sharpen and quicken toward one of the remaining crows. The black magic encircles the animal’s neck and tightens there like a noose, cutting short an intelligent screech as its energy is sapped and its flight interrupted. It staggers beside its fallen comrades, stuttering and suffering through an incomplete death.
She spares Deimos a short look, then the companion whose teeth drip with fresh blood, then the neutralized bodies at the reeling bird’s feet. Maybe it is a fool’s choice, but Chaele cannot abide the ignominy of a messy kill. She strides forward, blade in hand, and dispatches her singular quarry with a practiced slice to the throat. So concerned is she with its demise that she does not notice the sixth and final gore crow launch mercilessly toward her.
At least, not before its beak has sunk deep into her arm.
