BLESSED BY A BITCH FROM A BASTARD SEED
pleasure to meet you, prepare to bleed
pleasure to meet you, prepare to bleed
She will bring them down.
Her pounding hooves kick up sand wherever she goes, and she is watching from the shadows, waiting to pounce upon their backs. She turns the corner and there is a child crying, alone. Abandoned. A shadow rises up behind it and Teiran flings the dagger, knowing her precision is spot on. It misses by a hair. The Davke turns to her and she is all but inviting him to dance with her, to play her game. He takes the bait eagerly, and his attention turns away from the child. She knows they will not live. There is no hope for them in these alleyways. But she has gotten her fight. Perhaps the foal will hide.
The Davke underestimates her for her size. She can see it in the gleam of his bloodthirsty eyes, in the twist of his crooked, malicious grin. He thinks this will be easy, he thinks she is delicate and weak but he does not pay enough attention to the chips of ice in her sage green eyes. Her court is under siege and if she knows one thing it is that this is what she was trained for, stolen away from the streets as a filly and reared to efficiently dispose of any who would dare enter these walls and wreak havoc within. They have come, they have come with fire burning in their chests and darkness in their eyes and she will streak the streets in their blood and it does not phase her at all.
He underestimates her and he should not, because she easily dances around the man who comes to face her down, eyes like hard silver and a coat like hot desert nights. He watches her but he does not see her. He is power and severity but she is wickedness and poised like a cornered snake. When he lunges for her, she ducks beneath his chin and pirouettes and she plunges a spear through the space between the Davke’s ribs. The glittering of his eyes gives way to surprise and to pain, his screams a muffled echo among the robotic thoughts inside her head. If he survives, he will not underestimate her again, that much she knows. She tugs the spear unceremoniously from his body, hefting it with her tele as she turned back to the fray.
Her thoughts are lightning, automated; protect, guard, fight.
Kill.
She knows they will take whoever they can down with them, kicking, dragging them down into hell. They do not care who they kill, but she does. She darts through the streets with grace, around the bodies of the fallen, some of which she might recognize if she could see beyond the red painting her gaze, the vignette darkening everything outside her focus. If they are still alive she does not stop to look, if they are dead then there is nothing she can do for them anyway. Her job is to stop the Davke from doing more damage, for the world is on fire, burning, burning away and they are a disease spreading over it.
Teiran will purge them from the court with their own lifeblood if that is what it takes.
