i wanna chain that make my body feel all hefty
O walks into the colosseum whistling.
She does not think of how it might look, or what it might make the crowd think of her, a little girl walking into a field built from decades-old spilled blood. Perhaps they will think it is arrogant of her. And perhaps it is: really, O has no more experience fighting than the next teenager. Tuchulcha has never even been used in the way it was meant for.
But she is bred from a long, long line of overconfidence. Bexley and Acton couldn’t produce anything else. It is a lilting, clear and sweet whistle that follows her as she saunters through the darkened hallway and tower the light at the end of the tunnel, a halo of warm yellow that will inevitably turn red with blood or sunset. But that song is drowned out by the roar of the crowd. Even without looking, O knows the stadium must be filled spectators; the chant of blood, blood, blood is so loud it makes the sand underneath her feet tremble.
This has passed the line from surreal into too real, from fantasy into an imminent and throat-crushing reality, and the world has turned from black and white to color: standing at the threshold of the colosseum, her heart pounds faster than she can keep track of, her pulse thrashes like an animal at the bars of her clenched teeth. Every inch of her body is sparked to wakefulness by a wave of adrenaline, swell after swell of a feeling that alternates between buzzing heat and frigid cold, and still the whistling never stops or slows. Sunlight floats down in stripes of cold yellow and white and spills like mercury over the cobblestone, the red-flecked sand, her neatly pale hooves.
Blood, blood, blood.
The time must be near. O’s stomach turns over and over, then falls straight through her and into the floor, to some dark place underground where she might never recover it. On her hip, Tuchulcha murmurs: be not afraid.
Her mouth curls in a dry, jaded smile; her eyes narrow sleepily, falling half-shut as the adrenaline begins to exhaust her. When have I ever?
Then go.
O rolls her lip between her teeth. Blood, blood, blood, the crowd roars in cadence. The rise and fall of their voices is unceasing. Blood, blood, blood, repeats Tuchulcha, hissing softly, and O forms her mouth around the sound of the whistle again and straightens her narrow shoulders and—
Walks into the belly of the beast.
She does not recognize the opponent who waits for her, though something tells her with gnawing insistence that she should. Stalking through the packed sand with a casual lack of effort that speaks of being raised in this kind of graveyard, she looks him up and down, makes notes like a scientist: taller than me. Older than me. Three striped scars on the bridge of the nose, a horn that spirals out like a sword. His eyes, O notices, with a kind of admiration, are the deep and bruisey purple of a morning glory.
Be not afraid. When have I ever.
She stops short, something like ten paces away from him, and watches with a dark, easy gaze. The crowd falls silent. The whole world falls silent. Who could be left alive in a place as still as this? It all feels apocalyptic. The wind stops, her heartbeat disappears; the only sound left is the pant of her breathing as she looks at him, a dry sound, rasping in and out, like wind blowing over water or shifting the sands.
O dips her head in the usual respectful greeting. Then she glances up to meet his eyes with a gaze as dark and cold as winter, and in one lightning-fast gesture sends the hurlbat spinning out at him, a flashing arc of steel aiming to slash him open at the place his shoulder slopes into his neck.
When it flies out of her grasp, she bolts sideways as quick as she can, then curves back, hoping that the sound and sight of the whistling blade will distract him from the way she darts back toward his side.
Summary: O steps out into the colosseum and acknowledges Jahin as respectfully as a teenage girl can manage. She throws the hurlbat, aiming for his shoulder or leg in order to hinder his mobility, and then darts to position herself perpendicular to him, hoping that he's distracted enough by her weapon not to turn away from her.
Attack Used: 1
Attack(s) Left: 1
Block Used: 0
Block(s) Left: 1
Item(s) Used: Weapon
Response Deadline: 6/13
Tags: @Jahin, @Sid, @inkbone, @nestle, @
