[/html]She sneered at him as he crouched and allowed herself a moment to enjoy the scent of new blood in the air while he cursed at her. The strange, slurred language he went off in was oddly beautiful, even if she knew with certainty that he was saying nothing beautiful. She spared him no poetry; if she had wanted to kill him, the time he wasted on words would have been time enough for her to strike twice more, four times more, and take what could be taken. Cassandra was built small and lean and had always made up in speed and accuracy what she lacked in strength and endurance, even as a child, though those days, her skills had been put to gentler tasks.
The pallid woman followed the jackal's gaze a moment and remembered the horse. Lips still curled, she returned her eyes to him as she knelt briefly and picked up the edge of her cloak with her left hand, transferring the blade from that hand into some secret fold. Then in another sudden movement, she pulled up so the heavy greyish tan fabric flared up between them, hiding her for a moment during which she charged forward again, thrusting her right hand skillfully forward, timed so that her dagger cut through the air as soon as the cloak lifted out of the way. The stranger was hidden from her view as she did so, just as she was hidden from him, but from experience, she knew she was aiming for the middle of his chest, just under the sternum.
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