[/html]Her teeth clipped at fur and grazed flesh once or twice, but it was not enough. The weight of the stranger was overwhelming, and she found it difficult to reign in the feelings of helplessness and desperate terror. There was a sharp jolt of pain when the dirty hand grabbed hold of her hair and pulled her head up, forcing her back to arch and expose her throat. She could not move her head, but she could feel the heat of the other's breath as he spoke, voice thick and deep, but with words she could not make out in the angry rain. She wanted to retch, all of a sudden. The enemy was larger and stronger, but they were always larger and stronger. That didn't matter. She had proved before, many times, that it did not matter.
She continued to snarl, pink lips curled back in unambiguous fury, while her hands reached back beneath her cloak to free two knives from their pockets. Her left hand plucked one of her normal blades, small and unassuming; her right hand retrieved the dagger stolen from her horse's old master, longer and heavier, made to kill. The stranger was still speaking, louder now, yelling through the noise of the rain. And her ears had adjusted now, recognizing and parsing the French, understanding the words. And Cassandra's mind, too, blanked, emptied of conscious thought.
Fear and fury was all she had. All she had ever had. She stuck her arms out and struck, aiming to slam both knives into her attacker's side, his thighs, whatever was there. She would carve chunks of flesh from his body and eat him for her stolen meal. She would kill him like all the rest. She had to.
| Messages In This Thread |