katyafeline | (no subject)

Entry tags:

galadan,
oom

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Every day, without fail, ever since she was let loose from the infirmary, Katya has been searching for a way out of the Bar at the end of the Universe. Perhaps it isn't healthy, this refusal to believe what Olga's already told her bluntly, but...

She wants to go back.

So she's out again today, trudging through the woods, her hands stuffed into her pockets, delicately skirting the more muddy areas.

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"That has all the earmarks of truth. Particularly if they must do any work to discover what happens out here."

It is useful, in its way. And dangerous.

So is life.

Now, if this were a Disney movie, she would proudly proclaim that of course she tells the truth - she is of the Light.

That is such utter bullshit. Even the most dense creator at Disney knows that. But in this case, she is telling the truth, and smirks.

"Heavens forbid that a Watchman have to work."

His mouth twitches.

"I would hardly say that. But they are much better kept fruitlessly busy. And, of course, a great distance away."

"Wouldn't have them catching you sampling from the herd?" Katya grumbles, the shadows of the Twilight catching at her heels and twining at the tips of her fingers.

"I wouldn't have them catch me at all."

In anything.

Better men -- and gods -- have tried.

And failed. Miserably.

Are the shadows thicker than they were a moment ago?

"Them? No. From what I've seen, a poor sort of Watchman entirely." She agrees, but her grin is all sharp and wickedly pointed. She is not that sort of Watchman.

The shadows are indeed thicker, and moving of their own volition, something that does not seem to disturb the young Muscovite one single iota.

"As it should be."

And then the lights go out entirely.

Not that it makes much difference to them.

Not in the slightest, these creatures of the twilight world. If she hadn't spent so much time here, she might have ignored him, might have been content to simply trade barbs, but some of those sheep are her sheep (or so she has deemed them). One, of course, is Olya's, but Olya isn't here. For the first time in months the Tiger of Moscow roars defiance and charges into battle with an almost joyful will.

Galadan, too, might have stepped away, once. But like calls to like, and betimes it is better not to reveal that he, too, might be concerned about the fate of several of those so-called sheep.

That is too deep a truth for a stranger to have.

So instead he flings himself into battle, swift and silent, a black-and-silver shadow in amongst the dark.

A shadow with teeth.

Two bodies, both heavy and furred, slam into each other, and it would take a sharp-eyed judge to say who has first blood - the silent wolf, or the snarling tiger. There is blood in her mouth now, her claws unsheathed and slashing, and with the blood there is more she can do... and very little leash to keep her from doing it.

This may well be true for both of them.

But Galadan has other weapons nearer to hand, and more well-practiced by far. Those of his kin who oppose him have had cause to learn this, to their great distress.

An enemy in too much pain to think is very easy to put down. Decisively.

The soldier re-appears, clutching her head, skidding out in the dank leaf-loam. Her shirt is torn and the shoulder underneath is oozing dark blood, dripping onto the rotting leaves. The claws raking through her mind threaten to shatter her concentration, and the scent of her own blood brings back memories she'd rather not relive under any circumstances.

But she has his blood under her tongue, and his fur twined through her fingers, and she thickly snarls something distinctly unkind in Russian before calling the Twlight to her, her gesture defiant and strong despite agony.

Something tears in his chest, in his leg. The taste of blood is strong in his mouth.

In this moment, with the dark pressing close all around them, with the Twilight flaring somewhere beyond that --

Whether that blood is his or hers matters very little at all. His lip curls in a silent snarl, and a whipcrack of power darts through the air, sharper than the snap of teeth.

Edited 2011-03-08 03:21 (UTC)

She pulls a shield up, but is driven to her knees by the force of the impact, her wrists bloodied where they hold the protection strong. Minor fires set up by the friction flare and sputter and die in the wet vegetation. His claws in her mind won't let her think, but she can react, diving into the Twilight through her own shadow.

She re-emerges, in black and tawny gold again, plowing into him from behind with all of the encapsulated fury one battle mage can bring.

He rolls with it, keeping her along his back and not his belly, shadows twining around them as his shoulder hits the blood-sodden ground.

This time his snarl is voiced, head twisting around to snap his teeth at the underside of her jaw. It does not quite mirror the snap of his mind against hers, but then --

Nothing could.

Tightly coiled as lovers, she drives her claws in deep, staining her paws crimson red, the movement pure reaction to the reeling agony racing through her head. Muscles strengthened by the power garnered from the Light twist, trying to unsettle him, force him into the submissive role, pin him so she can make the agony stop.

Even Maugrim could not force him down so far as that -- and was too canny to try. The Wolflord snarls again, power crackling through the air like a bludgeon, muscles coiled to spring in the wake of such an attack.

It is not in him to be the one that falls, this day or any other.

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.

He can respect that spirit. On another day he might even honor it. But today, in this moment, with the taste of iron sharp and strong on his tongue, the Wolflord merely bares his teeth in what is nothing like a smile.

There is a knife in his left hand.

"We'll call that a good beginning, shall we? But unless you would prefer this be your ending, as well -- "

His tongue flicks out, swiping away a thick runnel of blood on his upper lip.

" -- cry 'enough' and have done."

Edited 2011-03-08 04:15 (UTC)

Her reply is simple, if not so eloquent. She snarls, her stance firming as she reflexively grounds herself in the Twilight, and fire licks up her arms, just waiting to be used.

Cry enough and be done?

Not at all likely.

As she will have it.

He offers a half-bow, hand lifted over his heart. Those fingers twist even as he begins moving forward, building speed and power as his shape blurs from man to black-and-silver shadow.

With teeth.

She reels, choking on her own blood as her opponent crashes into her, unsure if her chest or her head is in more agony.

And in that moment she knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt: She is fighting outside of her class. Maybe not forever, she is still not fully recovered from the Dark Other who destroyed her in Moscow, but at this moment, she has no weapon powerful enough to counter.

So she dives, releasing her hold on the human world, and retreating into the shadows, to relative safety.

Olga is going to murder her, she decides, resigned, as she begins the long limping trek back towards the bar, still deep in the Twilight.

Galadan, in the sudden stillness, licks blood from his muzzle.

Then, man-shaped once more, and seemingly ignorant of the bruises and bloody furrows that grace his flesh --

He, too, vanishes.

Fionavar is calling, and no matter how relaxing this interlude of battle was, there is always work remaining to be done.

Edited 2011-03-08 04:45 (UTC)

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