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ooc: Mistral emailed me this to post for her during work. [img]tongue.gif[/img]
Her eyes widened at the sight of five men emerging from the tent, each brandishing a sword and smirking at her. There was nothing for it, then, but to lure them away from the tent. And hopefully, the farmer would have enough brains to figure out for himself that his key task would be to save Rehan.
From that moment, there was no time for detailed planning as she retraced her steps quickly without turning, hoping that she would not trip over any roots or fallen branches. In this respect, the gods were kind, for miraculously she managed to retreat, all the while watching how the men moved.
When she had reached a distance reasonably away from the tent that would not rouse their suspicions of a decoy, she whipped out her side dagger and began to whirl around with both blades. No point doubting, Acacia. Just do it.
Ducking as the men retaliated with a few swings of their own, she heard the air hiss around her, thrusting out whenever she could find an opening. Amid the dodges and indignant cries, she felt a burning sensation but there was no time to wonder how serious her own injuries were. On she lashed out, sometimes tumbling away, and at other times delivering a swift kick at the closest attacker. Every second makes a difference. Was she imagining it, but the cries were getting fainter? The blurry images before her had ceased to disorientate her; as long as she was still standing. as long as the terror played havoc upon her nerves, as long as the dryness of her mouth irritated her, she was alive. And alive meant a chance of further survival.
Whatever it is, Rehan, run for your life! As her war-dance gyrated into a rhythm of its own, she could feel the beads of cold perspiration rolling down her temples and then soaking her armour. The remaining men – for it seemed that she had managed to incapacitate at least a couple of them – renewed their onslaught, and each moment brought back distant memories… memories of glorious, hope-filled days.
Then, she was Ariane again. Sparring with Justin and screaming when a group of bandits barged into their friendly duel. Heart bursting with ambition to show that she was worthy of him, she stabbed at the nearest assassin with such viciousness that Justin stood gaping momentarily. Sidestepping as a sword flung itself at her upper torso, she spun around and tore away at the approaching shadow with her longsword, turning away so that she would not have to acknowledge the grisly sight in front of her. The scene would eat away at him, she knew; he was the gentler of both of them, and he feared often that she would be tainted by violence. But what could one do, at sixteen and full of life? Half in denial, half in resentment, she continued to revenge upon the intruders. Would that they learn their lesson once and for all that she was not one to be bullied…
By now, her blades were dripping with fresh blood and she winced as she stumbled slightly facing the sole survivor of this latest encounter.
The real battle with the supposed leader of the gang had only just begun….
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