i wanna chain that make my body feel all hefty
It is only when he dips his head and blinks those deep-purple eyes to acknowledge her that O recognizes, with a start, who it is that she has been pitted against.
Jahin. The regent.
She tries hard to keep her expression steeled; but her third eye, less thoroughly trained than its counterparts, widens slightly in surprise. The blue of it shimmers and blinks against the streaming sunlight. O is startled, but mostly thrilled: her heart sings and quivers in her chest, letting loose another ice-cold wave of adrenaline that slams through her veins with unexpected strength.
She knows, logically, that it means nothing. Isn’t the whole point of the tournament to match its contestants at random? But someone must have made the pairs. (If they really didn’t think she could take him, O reasons, something would have been done about it; post-Zolin, the Solterran regime is not so savage as to kill a child, at least not publicly.)
And—if not Orestes, or Aghavni, or one of the other festival organizers—then perhaps it is Solis Himself smiling down on her, with a lion-toothed grin that says I believe in you.
O even dares to smile as she thinks of it. But the reckless curve of her lips is quickly fought back into the corners of her mouth, gone completely (but not forgotten) by the time she bolts toward him.
Because the moment her hooves leave the ground for that first stride the world falls away completely.
No more sunlight. No more anxious heartbeat. No more chants of blood, blood, blood. Now, it is only the thrilling burn of muscle as her legs strike out to hit the sand; the gasping sound of her breath; the roaring thump of her pulse growing louder with every stride, rising in tempo and pitch, blooming closer and closer to a fever until the rush of it threatens to turn her vision black.
This is it, O thinks, her breath rasping in her chest, her body already preparing for pain. This feeling. This is life.
Tuchulca comes whistling back to her, summoned as quickly and obediently as a bat out of hell; and she is relieved to feel blood on its edge, a warm sap that drips down onto her leg as the hurlbat comes to rest in its usual spot against her hip. Good job, O whispers. The axe lets out a satisfied hum.
But there is no time to savor her victory, no time to get distracted. Jahin is already turning back toward her. O throws her head up to look at him out of the corner of her eye, working hard not to let it break her stride. Every step is an effort (though it likely comes off casual) to hit the right spot at the right time, to remain out of reach, to twist just when necessary.
Her fault, then, is that she is too focused.
O is so distracted by containing her still awkwardly long limbs that she does not notice the metallic flash of Jahin’s until it is far too late. It is less than a breath, less than a heartbeat, between the moment she sees it light up in the sunlight like an exploding star and the moment she feels a long, bright line of pain arc over her flank. She grinds to a halt in front of him; a sharp noise of surprise escapes as she watches blood pour from her hip down into the sand.
Breathe, Tuchulcha says. Think.
Jahin stands directly in front of her, tall and calm. His skin glints like copper in the sunlight. (In a different context he might even be beautiful.) From the corner of her eye, O can see his snake coiled patiently just behind here. The world rushes back in: blood, blood, blood. She is trapped. Blood oozes from the gash in her thigh. She is trapped.
At first, it is only an accident. This kind of thing happens often when O feels as though she is too tightly contained. The air around her starts to shimmer as though it is being rent into pieces; the sand tumbles and shifts; for a brief moment her eyes seem to switch places, change colors, disappear completely.
Then she realizes what is happening—what a great and godly gift her parents have given her. Realization dawns all at once. The panic fades. O’s magic covers her in a cloak textured like sand, letting her blend into the ground, and a heartbeat later, they blink into existence: two perfect carbon copies of the little girl with the axe, so that now there are the three of them, exactly alike, arranged in a neat line.
All three of them lunge to bite at Jahin’s throat, viciously realistic, unbearably solid-seeming.
But it is only the teeth of the girl on the right that have any weight.
Summary: O is too distracted to avoid Jahin's hit, and his spear slices her open across the flank, leaving a long semi-deep cut. She grinds to a stop in the sand between him and Sahar. After pausing for a moment to collect her thoughts, she uses her illusion manipulation to create two more identical versions of herself that all reach to bite for his throat in order to confuse him and his companion (though only the real her, on the right end, could possibly make any real contact).
Attack Used: 1
Attack(s) Left: 0
Block Used: 0
Block(s) Left: 1
Item(s) Used: Magic
Response Deadline: 6/19
