stay low go fast
kill first die last
kill first die last
What an island this is that turns the sand red, that bleeds black water! O is thrilled, far more excited than perturbed. She races down the shore on long, nimble legs and sends up clouds of deep merlot sand that coats her with a fine dust of red like blood. (Nothing she has not felt before).
The wind rushes past her as she bends her head into it and goes running like a wild animal. The breeze is not of consequence, nor the bitter, whipping saltwater that stings her frail skin or the loud, insistent crash of her heart against her chest and the cage of her teeth. No, there is nothing to be feared—this is living, really living, on this magic island young and totally free. So when she sees him, that lithe shadow against the sea, she does not scream. She does not falter.
He is coming toward her, and behind him follows a writhing mass of pointed darkness. A monster like she has never seen. She turns her head back toward it, and in the dim starlight a hulking, twirling clump of tentacles rises up into the air and slams down again, spraying sand and saltwater high above their heads in a fine arc. O laughs, her breath catches in her chest. “Obviously,” she shouts back.
Then with the practiced hand of someone much older than herself she throws the axe.
Tuchulcha goes spinning and spinning and spinning toward the monster. This may well be the first time she has tasted real, evil blood. O watches with her heart on pause—
The god-sharpened edge of the blade slices through the thickest tentacle easy as butter. Black ooze spurts out of it, thicker and more acidic than blood. The smell of sulfur fills the air. And then the moment is past and she’s breathing again and Tuchulcha comes back to rest at her side, and she slows to let the stranger catch up at her side.
@| "speech" | notes:
