Something inside her is sobbing as his blow sends her reeling across the clearing, spraying blood (his, hers, both) across trees and rocks like gruesome graffiti. She lands in a three-pint crouch, one bloodstained hand twisted in a defensive gesture. She hasn't surrendered, hasn't even yet even contemplated a draw or escape. Her rusty state notwithstanding, she wasn't trained to back down.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2011-03-08 04:03 am (UTC)