I stuck my blade into his throat and dragged it left until his head was forcibly torn from his body.
[It's tart, teasing in the horribly gory way they can get. Fenris tips his head back, his eyes closing as he remembers. It was a good night. Even those first awful moments, when he'd had his back up to the wall and a blade coming ever-closer, weren't so bad. He's a deadly man; there was no question of his life being in danger. Just inconvenience, and maybe the loss of a few coins.]
The first took a blade to his back, but it did not linger there long. Isabela specializes in moving swiftly and applying any number of precise, deadly cuts. To his arms, his stomach, his thighs . . . he fell swiftly, but she was not done yet. He was still alive, and people have a way of getting to their feet for some heroic last stand. He staggered up, bleeding freely already, coloring the cobblestones scarlet.
[He lifts one leg idly, flexing it in the semi-darkness, feeling the pleasant burn in his calf as he does.]
So she cut through his heel chords.
[Or his Achilles tendons, if your culture is based around such mythos.]
No getting up after that. He lay there uselessly, his heart working against him as it pumped his blood steadily out of his body. I do not know how long he lived after that. Minutes, perhaps. She is, if nothing else, terribly efficient.
The other, who by this time had released me and grabbed his sword, was harder. He put up a decent fight, and for a time fended her off, but he stumbled in his comrade's blood, and that was all the opening she needed. Within half a second she had one of her blades sunk deep into his stomach. She sliced him open, til his innards spilled onto the streets. The other blade sliced into his chest, then his throat. I think it was the last that killed him, but there was no coming back from the wound from his stomach.
[He laughs quietly.]
And then she rushed me. Covered in blood and hungry to sate a different sort of lust.
no subject
[It's tart, teasing in the horribly gory way they can get. Fenris tips his head back, his eyes closing as he remembers. It was a good night. Even those first awful moments, when he'd had his back up to the wall and a blade coming ever-closer, weren't so bad. He's a deadly man; there was no question of his life being in danger. Just inconvenience, and maybe the loss of a few coins.]
The first took a blade to his back, but it did not linger there long. Isabela specializes in moving swiftly and applying any number of precise, deadly cuts. To his arms, his stomach, his thighs . . . he fell swiftly, but she was not done yet. He was still alive, and people have a way of getting to their feet for some heroic last stand. He staggered up, bleeding freely already, coloring the cobblestones scarlet.
[He lifts one leg idly, flexing it in the semi-darkness, feeling the pleasant burn in his calf as he does.]
So she cut through his heel chords.
[Or his Achilles tendons, if your culture is based around such mythos.]
No getting up after that. He lay there uselessly, his heart working against him as it pumped his blood steadily out of his body. I do not know how long he lived after that. Minutes, perhaps. She is, if nothing else, terribly efficient.
The other, who by this time had released me and grabbed his sword, was harder. He put up a decent fight, and for a time fended her off, but he stumbled in his comrade's blood, and that was all the opening she needed. Within half a second she had one of her blades sunk deep into his stomach. She sliced him open, til his innards spilled onto the streets. The other blade sliced into his chest, then his throat. I think it was the last that killed him, but there was no coming back from the wound from his stomach.
[He laughs quietly.]
And then she rushed me. Covered in blood and hungry to sate a different sort of lust.