As written by Siera Red
Killing Gunnar's horse had not been an act of cruelty so much as one of practicality....though there was rage mixed in there as well.
When she rose again, Bane in her hand once more, wrath had subsided to some more dire emotion—but one that was not untouched by eerie calm. She drove down for his knee, pivoting at the last instant to re-route the swing. A feral yell sounded in her ears. She did not recognize it as her own.
He caught the blow and lunged to return it in kind. She collapsed and rolled away, the movement sending searing pain through her side. Struggling for breath was vain—one of her lungs would take none. Gunnar, however, was too busy wheezing on his own to pursue her in the following instant.
She readied for him nonetheless, her eye swollen shut. The trickle down her cheek had subsided, but there was blood....Gods, there was blood: the hand that grasped her sword was bloody. Blood ran in small rivulets from the hole in her armor. Blood smattered her face, her hair, the ground beneath her feet....and it drummed in her ears with a rushing like a horde of a thousand horses...
Gunnar moved in, cutting high, and she grunted with the effort of catching the blow and sweeping out in the next beat for his knee. Somewhere in the distance a horn told her of Morah's retreat and loss of ground. They were being routed from the rear.
"The rear! Gods damn all!" She yelled, but did not know if her officers heard her. She hardly had a voice. She hardly had breath. Above her the sky was tainted scarlet as great, heavy clouds rolled out toward the east. Tomorrow it would be clear. Tomorrow...
She lunged and he twisted up and away again, hurling back at her, aiming for her chest. Blocking the blow this time was a study in pure and simple anguish. She caught it, fighting back the black tendrils of what would have been a merciful faint as their swords locked. Gunnar's face confronted her from a mere foot away, but she did not let him speak.
"In the morn..." she labored, spent, "your men. Will be gone." It was neither command nor request. Nor was it a bargain with Gunnar, but a covenant with Lady War herself. Her men could not withstand this. Nor could she. As it was, she had managed the words with a voice so hoarse it was hardly more than a whisper through the din. Every instant had become the most basic of struggles-for balance, for her grip, for simple breath.
"They will....because you will be dead," he stated. The triumph was already in his eyes.
Her sword arm remained locked, her weight pressed against the blade as she repeated: "They will be gone."
Gunnar thrust. The dagger in his other hand plunged deep within mortal flesh. Her head fell back as her body embraced the blade-and it was cold-her mouth opened in a soundless cry of pain.
"They will be gone, Red," he confirmed in a whisper so near she could feel it against her cheek.
The blade jerked free and Gunnar stepped back.
The drums were suddenly deafening.
She dropped her sword and stumbled, grabbing blindly for Bastion.
Killing Gunnar's horse had not been an act of cruelty so much as one of practicality....though there was rage mixed in there as well.
When she rose again, Bane in her hand once more, wrath had subsided to some more dire emotion—but one that was not untouched by eerie calm. She drove down for his knee, pivoting at the last instant to re-route the swing. A feral yell sounded in her ears. She did not recognize it as her own.
He caught the blow and lunged to return it in kind. She collapsed and rolled away, the movement sending searing pain through her side. Struggling for breath was vain—one of her lungs would take none. Gunnar, however, was too busy wheezing on his own to pursue her in the following instant.
She readied for him nonetheless, her eye swollen shut. The trickle down her cheek had subsided, but there was blood....Gods, there was blood: the hand that grasped her sword was bloody. Blood ran in small rivulets from the hole in her armor. Blood smattered her face, her hair, the ground beneath her feet....and it drummed in her ears with a rushing like a horde of a thousand horses...
Gunnar moved in, cutting high, and she grunted with the effort of catching the blow and sweeping out in the next beat for his knee. Somewhere in the distance a horn told her of Morah's retreat and loss of ground. They were being routed from the rear.
"The rear! Gods damn all!" She yelled, but did not know if her officers heard her. She hardly had a voice. She hardly had breath. Above her the sky was tainted scarlet as great, heavy clouds rolled out toward the east. Tomorrow it would be clear. Tomorrow...
She lunged and he twisted up and away again, hurling back at her, aiming for her chest. Blocking the blow this time was a study in pure and simple anguish. She caught it, fighting back the black tendrils of what would have been a merciful faint as their swords locked. Gunnar's face confronted her from a mere foot away, but she did not let him speak.
"In the morn..." she labored, spent, "your men. Will be gone." It was neither command nor request. Nor was it a bargain with Gunnar, but a covenant with Lady War herself. Her men could not withstand this. Nor could she. As it was, she had managed the words with a voice so hoarse it was hardly more than a whisper through the din. Every instant had become the most basic of struggles-for balance, for her grip, for simple breath.
"They will....because you will be dead," he stated. The triumph was already in his eyes.
Her sword arm remained locked, her weight pressed against the blade as she repeated: "They will be gone."
Gunnar thrust. The dagger in his other hand plunged deep within mortal flesh. Her head fell back as her body embraced the blade-and it was cold-her mouth opened in a soundless cry of pain.
"They will be gone, Red," he confirmed in a whisper so near she could feel it against her cheek.
The blade jerked free and Gunnar stepped back.
The drums were suddenly deafening.
She dropped her sword and stumbled, grabbing blindly for Bastion.