WC: 526
Time meant nothing. She did not know how long she had felt the sea-less movement rocking her limp body. Absorbed by the darkness that enveloped her, eventually knowledge of movement ceased to exist. Once more the darkness was all she knew, a cold place, a dense place—suffocating, overly welcoming. Once her mind moved closer with a wolf’s curiosity, those unearthly tendrils of shadow wrapped tightly about her, unwilling to give. They whispered, soothing her mind. The Korean was comforted. Yes. This is where she belonged. It was in her blood. It was inevitable. The Darkness took her easily for she went willingly now. His presence was felt, but she could not see Him. This was the presence that had haunted her dreams, the presence that commanded respect and awe, but that, all at once, instilled an irrational fear. This presence was not of the living. Wandering souls of her culture were angry and desired something of the living. She knew that He wanted something of her, but she knew not what it was. Even now, so close to the source of Darkness, she could not discern it. Already, warmth invaded....
Slowly, deeply, she drank the warm, dry air. The scent of wood and fire was overwhelming, and upon that warm air, the scent of others became apparent. Her mind gradually recalled the scent from the ocean. She became to understand that she did not know when and how she had come to this place, why she was at this place. Suspicion trickled into her mind. Aggression. The martial artist was silent now, growing still as her consciousness returned. The tenebrous fae struggling for a moment to recall how to open her eyes. But as soon as she opened them, she shut them. Even the dim lighting was too intensely bright for her night-trained eyes. Pain shot through her head, and the throbbing at her temple returned. And then she remembered how the ocean and sought to devour her. The Korean grew unhappy, a low growl emanating hoarsely from her graceful throat. Like a wounded animal, and fueled by her belligerent instincts, the fighter became dangerous. The tiers of control that had once existed had been demolished by the wounding blow. The ‘sophisticated’ martial artist had been reduced to impulse. It was a dangerous combination.
The foreigner struggled to rise. Her body did not respond well to her desires. At first, there was no movement at all. The martial artist panicked—had she lost motor control? It was a fighter’s greatest fear. But no, finally she found the strength to shift her arms. But she was weak. Weakness seemed to emanate from her, and she did not like it. Forgetting that she was in Western lands, a hoarse,
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