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Orual · 06-15-2003, 02:54 PM

Dôranna's ears rang with the clashing of steel, and the familiar taste of blood was in her mouth. Her head felt light, though her limbs were heavy; her dagger was an extension of her hand. She had tasted blood before, many times, after beatings and the like, but it had not been the same. It had not been in battle.

She wiped it away with her sleeve, and reveled at the crimson stain that appeared on the light-coloured fabric. Such a rush! How could her father ever have stopped? From where did his reluctance to use violence come, since he had experienced battle? Why did he leave it behind?

She could feel her dagger meeting flesh, and could hear the cries, but it was all part of a dance, it was all choreography, it was all beautiful. Her tawny hair fell around her and framed her face like a helm, and her icy eyes sparkled with a fury like she had never known before. It was too close to insanity for comfort, but she could not stop it.

Her thin-soled shoes allowed for a lot of maneuvering, and she flitted around the field like a grotesque butterfly. She stabbed and stabbed, and did not always hit, but did often enough to please her. She looked down at her blade, and it was red. She grinned, and then gasped.

Time slowed.

Slice.

Like most wounds, she did not feel it immediately when the blade ripped through her calf. She could feel the fury draining out of her eyes, and the muscles in her face went slack. Her jaw hung open as she took ragged breaths. Then the pain came, and she screamed in agony. She collapsed into a heap at the feet of whoever had done this to her. She could hear footsteps walking away from her--oh, so she was to die of blood loss, that was it--until all that remained was pain and the sounds of battle.

She touched her leg, her chest heaving with her torn gasps for air, punctuated with a sobbing she could not control, and she winced. The back of her calf was hot with blood, and she could not stand to go any higher, for fear of actually touching her wound. The muscles were torn, but she could tell that the bone was not broken. Maybe she could walk.

She staggered to her feet and fell down again. Up, down. Up, down. She repeated this several times until finally she found her balance, leaning heavily on her left leg. She limped back into battle, her dagger raised, screaming threats that she knew she could not carry out.

06-15-2003, 02:54 PM	#146
Orual Speaker of the Dead Join Date: Oct 2002 Location: Superbia Posts: 868	Dôranna's ears rang with the clashing of steel, and the familiar taste of blood was in her mouth. Her head felt light, though her limbs were heavy; her dagger was an extension of her hand. She had tasted blood before, many times, after beatings and the like, but it had not been the same. It had not been in battle. She wiped it away with her sleeve, and reveled at the crimson stain that appeared on the light-coloured fabric. Such a rush! How could her father ever have stopped? From where did his reluctance to use violence come, since he had experienced battle? Why did he leave it behind? She could feel her dagger meeting flesh, and could hear the cries, but it was all part of a dance, it was all choreography, it was all beautiful. Her tawny hair fell around her and framed her face like a helm, and her icy eyes sparkled with a fury like she had never known before. It was too close to insanity for comfort, but she could not stop it. Her thin-soled shoes allowed for a lot of maneuvering, and she flitted around the field like a grotesque butterfly. She stabbed and stabbed, and did not always hit, but did often enough to please her. She looked down at her blade, and it was red. She grinned, and then gasped. Time slowed. Slice. Like most wounds, she did not feel it immediately when the blade ripped through her calf. She could feel the fury draining out of her eyes, and the muscles in her face went slack. Her jaw hung open as she took ragged breaths. Then the pain came, and she screamed in agony. She collapsed into a heap at the feet of whoever had done this to her. She could hear footsteps walking away from her--oh, so she was to die of blood loss, that was it--until all that remained was pain and the sounds of battle. She touched her leg, her chest heaving with her torn gasps for air, punctuated with a sobbing she could not control, and she winced. The back of her calf was hot with blood, and she could not stand to go any higher, for fear of actually touching her wound. The muscles were torn, but she could tell that the bone was not broken. Maybe she could walk. She staggered to her feet and fell down again. Up, down. Up, down. She repeated this several times until finally she found her balance, leaning heavily on her left leg. She limped back into battle, her dagger raised, screaming threats that she knew she could not carry out. __________________ "Oh, my god! I care so little, I almost passed out!" --Dr. Cox, "Scrubs"