katyafeline | (no subject)

Entry tags:

galadan,
oom

(no subject)

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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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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