06-16-2009, 06:32 AM
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500+
Blood loss, weakness, pain, fatigue, hunger. These things no longer mattered. With the frenay of Nemain within her, they mattered dangerously little. Slowly but surely, they dragged the woman down, making her slow, making her attacks ineffective. But then, at that moment, she was as strong as she could have been. And she was compelled forward, willing now to fight, to force Corvus to kill her. The warrior reasoned that if she were killed, he would not rape her. If she were killed, he would depart from these lands. She could protect those that she cared for. She could fight this one last battle. And perhaps it was all foolish thinking induced by that lacking blood, but in that time, in the time of the Fates, the warrior had been delivered—abandoned—in that state. She was alone now, alone as she had always been. And yet the solitude felt different, it felt hollow. It was as if someone else should be there but was not. And Time did not wait.
He backed away from her and did not attack. She pursued him, insistent that he must. The hall grew narrower, and with it, her vision. It was then, in the darkness of the corridor of doors, that the frenzy of Nemain began to fade, falling from her being as her blood from her body. She made one last strike, but this time, Corvus stopped it. A reserve of strength was called upon as she cried out, pulling Badb from his grasp and gutting into that place that she new he could not bear. Surely, she received a snarl. It was rare that anger would rise within the crow wolf, more so than with herself. Anger. She could smell it. But Badb was torn from her grasp. With a last effort, the woman leapt up into the air and aimed a kick for his head, but he caught her. The torn leg would no longer support her. No.
She hit the wall, and the adrenalin was knocked from her, spattered with her blood against the wall. She fell and was unable to catch herself. A heavy weakness overcame her. It was as if Nemain had been satisfied, and satisfied she had departed. Her body trembled with the exertion she had made—her body should not even have been allowed to make those attacks. But now she lay there, unable to lift herself, unable to attack and defend herself. Her eyes, shut against the pain, struggled to open. Once she succeeded and saw Corvus above her, but they fell shut once more. Her body trembled again, this time with cold. Too much blood loss. How futile it was, how foolish. But the warrior would have rather ended up as she was now than to have run and fallen with her back turned. And the quiet rage did not die within her, flickering weakly within her as if in an environment too damp with water, as if the tears of the heavens had made wet her soul. A sigh escaped the woman. It was the sound of one who accepts the fate that has befallen them.
500+
Blood loss, weakness, pain, fatigue, hunger. These things no longer mattered. With the frenay of Nemain within her, they mattered dangerously little. Slowly but surely, they dragged the woman down, making her slow, making her attacks ineffective. But then, at that moment, she was as strong as she could have been. And she was compelled forward, willing now to fight, to force Corvus to kill her. The warrior reasoned that if she were killed, he would not rape her. If she were killed, he would depart from these lands. She could protect those that she cared for. She could fight this one last battle. And perhaps it was all foolish thinking induced by that lacking blood, but in that time, in the time of the Fates, the warrior had been delivered—abandoned—in that state. She was alone now, alone as she had always been. And yet the solitude felt different, it felt hollow. It was as if someone else should be there but was not. And Time did not wait.
He backed away from her and did not attack. She pursued him, insistent that he must. The hall grew narrower, and with it, her vision. It was then, in the darkness of the corridor of doors, that the frenzy of Nemain began to fade, falling from her being as her blood from her body. She made one last strike, but this time, Corvus stopped it. A reserve of strength was called upon as she cried out, pulling Badb from his grasp and gutting into that place that she new he could not bear. Surely, she received a snarl. It was rare that anger would rise within the crow wolf, more so than with herself. Anger. She could smell it. But Badb was torn from her grasp. With a last effort, the woman leapt up into the air and aimed a kick for his head, but he caught her. The torn leg would no longer support her. No.
She hit the wall, and the adrenalin was knocked from her, spattered with her blood against the wall. She fell and was unable to catch herself. A heavy weakness overcame her. It was as if Nemain had been satisfied, and satisfied she had departed. Her body trembled with the exertion she had made—her body should not even have been allowed to make those attacks. But now she lay there, unable to lift herself, unable to attack and defend herself. Her eyes, shut against the pain, struggled to open. Once she succeeded and saw Corvus above her, but they fell shut once more. Her body trembled again, this time with cold. Too much blood loss. How futile it was, how foolish. But the warrior would have rather ended up as she was now than to have run and fallen with her back turned. And the quiet rage did not die within her, flickering weakly within her as if in an environment too damp with water, as if the tears of the heavens had made wet her soul. A sigh escaped the woman. It was the sound of one who accepts the fate that has befallen them.