STAND YOUR GROUND. STAND UP WHEN IT'S ALL CRASHING DOWN. STAND THROUGH THE PAIN, YOU WON'T DROWN. AND ONE DAY, WHAT'S LOST CAN BE FOUND, SO STAND IN THE RAIN. SHE WON'T MAKE A SOUND, ALONE IN THIS FIGHT WITH HERSELF AND THE FEARS WHISPERING, "IF YOU STAND, YOU'LL FALL DOWN."
[STYLE=border-radius: 30px; text-indent: 15px; padding: 15px; background-color: #E6DDDC; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; color: #2D2014; text-align: justify; margin-right: 20px; margin-top: 8px; margin-left: 20px; margin-bottom: 0px;]█It is a little like a television drama.
She did not bother stalking this particular victim for longer than ten seconds. There was no unrequited love, no jealousy, and no particular emotion attached. Hunger is Sophia’s only director, hanging the threat of taking out an entire street over her head. She doesn’t care if the urchin understands - he’s not supposed to. Sophia can only hope that no one makes that mistake.
Perhaps the boy should have fled when he passed the lady in black, but flash step had made it an all too easy for Sophia to pivot around and drag the kid into an alleyway. It is only his bad luck that has brought him his trauma tonight. She does not discriminate in her choice of blood banks - she has long lost that luxury.
Once hidden by the cover of darkness, her hands are quick to clamp firmly against the boy’s mouth. Sophia only means for a quick snack before she makes it back to midtown, but her instincts tell her that it might be closer to a dinner. Her prey stains her hands with warm tears, but Sophia’s grip does not slacken. He might catch a glimpse of her blond hair before she tears at his throat with her canines, but that is as much as Sophia will allow. The morphine starts to flow, but the boy stands paralyzed with fear. The secretion should seal any bite marks that result from the feeding, but nothing fixes psychological damage quite so easily. She dines fairly messily, with every drop of blood reminding her that this is the price that she must pay for believing in the lies of the man who had swayed her with such pretty words. This is the price that she must pay for believing that there was more to this world than loneliness.
A stray dog barks in the distance, and the urchin’s knees threaten to hit the ground. Sophia allows it. The two no longer have anything to do with each other. With that, she decides to head home.
Like a television drama, the night is never so simple. [/style]
[atrb=valign, top][style=font: normal 18px/15px minion pro; color: black; text-shadow: 1px 1px 1px #000000;]a sword is only a sword when it kills,[/style][style=border-bottom: 4px solid #cccccc; width: 300px; margin-left: -2px; margin-bottom: -13px;] [/style] [atrb=style, width: 300px; height: 150px; font-family: Tahoma; word-spacing: 1px; text-align: justify; color: 777777; padding: 10px 10px 5px 2px; overflow: auto;]He's been cutting out obituaries and missing person notices for weeks, months, years—ever since he got back home, although in truth, the kind of monsters he hunts usually prey on people who don't make it into the paper. They're smart, for what they are, smart in the way that a scavenger is smart. They know where to feed and how, and they know how to separate the weakest from the herd. The thought of it makes him want to vomit, but that's not a luxury he can afford anymore. God, he can't remember the last time he vomited after a kill. Years ago, when he was just a kid with a car in a world that didn't make sense anymore, killing vampires with sheer luck and running like hell when his luck failed.
Tonight was another lucky break. He's never going to be stronger or faster than a vamp, but if he can get the drop on them, that's all he needs. He got the drop this time, but it still almost wasn't enough. There's a hot line of pain down his right arm, four claw marks across his left hip. After he's wiped his sword down in the alley and strapped it across his back, covered by his heavy jacket, Zahir pulls the body behind a dumpster and tosses the decapitated head of the creature on top, before pulling out a lighter. Vampire bodies burn quick and easy, thank god, no need for gasoline and the giveaway smell. In a matter of moments, the body's up in smoke, and Zahir is gone.
Walking home is always nice, after a successful execution. The sky is a little brighter, he imagines, through the smog, and there's a feeling he can't name in his chest, smiling at everyone he sees on the street. A good feeling. Like the idea that he might win, that he can do this, even as a one man army. That good might struggle, but it always wins against evil in the end. That truth and beauty have meaning in the world, and blessings fall on those that deserve them.
The feeling lasts until a girl staggers backwards out of the alleyway half a block ahead of him. “Disgusting,” she says, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. “Some junkie just passed out back there.”
Zahir quickens his step, steps into the alley as she moves away. There's a boy on the ground, and instinct makes Zahir kneel beside him. Habit turns his neck to each side, examines his throat for any marks—
He's after the girl who noticed the boy in a flash, grabbing her roughly by the shoulder and spinning her around. Her shout of surprise is overridden by his demand: ”Did you see anyone else on the street before you when you stepped into that alley?” Her eyes are wide with fear, and he winces internally, but it can't be helped. He has a mission. He has a duty. Duty is heavier than a mountain, and there's no time for gentleness.
“Y-yes,” she stammers. “There was a blonde lady ahead of me, but she's gotta be long gone by now, please don't hurt me, oh god--”
Zahir release his grip on her and takes off down the street, heart pounding in his ears, shoes pounding on the concrete. He's lucky that most people are already inside in this part of time by this late at night. There's few bodies to dodge around, fewer silhouettes to scan. His calf muscles burn—he's already fought one superior predator tonight, and he's getting older every minute—but he ignores the strain. He has a duty.[/style] [style=font-size: 9px; font-face: courier new; color: #000000; text-transform: lowercase; text-align: center; background-color: #cccccc; margin-top: 3px;]tags: sophia. words: 603 notes: this post makes no sense i'm sorry.[/style]
[style=width: 400px; font-family: courier new; font-size: 10px; text-transform: lowercase; text-align: right; margin-top: -38px; letter-spacing: -1px; color: #888888;]created by the lion of OTE inspired by tsu doll
STAND YOUR GROUND. STAND UP WHEN IT'S ALL CRASHING DOWN. STAND THROUGH THE PAIN, YOU WON'T DROWN. AND ONE DAY, WHAT'S LOST CAN BE FOUND, SO STAND IN THE RAIN. SHE WON'T MAKE A SOUND, ALONE IN THIS FIGHT WITH HERSELF AND THE FEARS WHISPERING, "IF YOU STAND, YOU'LL FALL DOWN."
[STYLE=border-radius: 30px; text-indent: 15px; padding: 15px; background-color: #E6DDDC; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; color: #2D2014; text-align: justify; margin-right: 20px; margin-top: 8px; margin-left: 20px; margin-bottom: 0px;]█Humans are not capable of understanding their way of life, and Sophia had already accepted the disparity as little more than another inconvenience when she had finally reconciled herself with her body. She doesn’t expect them to. As a child who was raised by such monsters, Sophia can hardly assume that others have the same (dis)advantages. She can only meet the challengers for her head straight on, as long as they have the intent to kill. It’s not a matter of who is right or wrong - it is a matter of staying alive for long enough to see the next morrow.
She lives today as Goliath’s godchild precisely because she knows to put life before honor. In some ways, death is infinitely more merciful than justice, as counterintuitive as it may seem. Justice is a whim. Death is absolute. She did not spare the child out of a sense of pity. She spared him on an account of convenience. Leaving a trail of bodies is the first step to a front page coverage on the New York Times. New York is diverse enough to have most of her victims mistaken for crazies. Crying wolf doesn’t help nearly enough as a lamb’s corpse.
It’s a pity that some just don’t learn.
The sound of footsteps might as well be a siren to Sophia. She wrinkles her nose at the clear-cut smell of...cologne? She’s had enough high-profile targets to make a fair guess, but who would be wearing it in such a dingy part of town?
Usually someone who is up to no good, her brain supplied, and Sophia can’t help but suspect that she’s right. Especially after she neglected to take care of the body. Maybe someone had caught her during feeding - but if that was the case, then people tended to run in the other direction.
No, it has to be someone who knows more than primal fear. How troublesome. Sophia turns in a single movement and narrows her eyes at the approaching figure. There’s not much that she knows about the unfortunate witness, but Sophia does know that whoever he is, he can’t be allowed to follow her back to her (and Vivienne’s) apartment. Especially if he is someone from the Agency. Or worse. She can’t imagine that anyone from the Ordo Dracul would be this sloppy, though.
For almost three decades before joining V, Sophia’s taken care of her own shit. She can already see how this ends. They don’t ever stop coming. Not until you scare the piss out of them or put them down for good. Either of the options will work. In an unequal relationship, fear is the only path to life. As a turned vampire, Sophia is no stranger to this dogma. She does want to take care of things quickly, so Sophia draws black knives from her belt. Schwarzen Reisszahne has no reflective surfaces - perfect for hunting at night. Sophia keeps them short for now - there is no need to reveal her hand when she knows nothing about the boy before her.
Sophia keeps her weapons hidden in her sleeves as she evaluates him carefully. The December wind is the only dialogue between them for now, but it could be the clashing of blades at any moment. Sophia does not forget. [/style]
[atrb=valign, top][style=font: normal 18px/15px minion pro; color: black; text-shadow: 1px 1px 1px #000000;]a sword is only a sword when it kills,[/style][style=border-bottom: 4px solid #cccccc; width: 300px; margin-left: -2px; margin-bottom: -13px;] [/style] [atrb=style, width: 300px; height: 150px; font-family: Tahoma; word-spacing: 1px; text-align: justify; color: 777777; padding: 10px 10px 5px 2px; overflow: auto;]Well, there's a few blonde ladies beside this one wandering the streets of Manhattan, Zahir doesn't doubt, but if any of the others are the vampire he's after, he'll—well he doesn't have a hat, but he'll eat someone's hat. There's a list of guilty actions on his certified monster checklist, and turning to eye a man who hasn't done anything so far (besides sprint down the street like an idiot) like a hungry leopard when you fit the description of the aforementioned certified monsters is pretty high up on that checklist. Zahir doesn't move to go for his sword. His jacket is still covering it and if he's lucky again tonight, she's not one of those vampires who can practically read your mind through their sense of smell. He really, really hates those vampires the most.
Those claw marks on his hip are burning. He should probably be at home pouring some whiskey on the gashes, before dipping into the whiskey himself and stitching them up. He should have been home hours ago. But he has a duty, and that purpose is the only thing that gives his life shape, keeps him meaning something. It's a hard thing to reforge yourself as a weapon rather than a person, but if Zahir has his regrets, they aren't about that.
He is older though, and though his resolve is unwavering, he's not the child he once was. That boy would have thrown himself sword-first at this monster, heedless and full of rage, but instead Zahir shifts backwards onto his heels, stepping slightly away from her.
”I'm sure neither of us wants to get up to anything out here, lady,” he says. ”I don't want to get up to anything at all, actually. I just need some information, the kind I can only get from people like you, if you know what I mean. I just want to get that out of the way.”[/style] [style=font-size: 9px; font-face: courier new; color: #000000; text-transform: lowercase; text-align: center; background-color: #cccccc; margin-top: 3px;]tags: sophia. words: 321 notes: merry christmas kouhai.[/style]
[style=width: 400px; font-family: courier new; font-size: 10px; text-transform: lowercase; text-align: right; margin-top: -38px; letter-spacing: -1px; color: #888888;]created by the lion of OTE inspired by tsu doll
STAND YOUR GROUND. STAND UP WHEN IT'S ALL CRASHING DOWN. STAND THROUGH THE PAIN, YOU WON'T DROWN. AND ONE DAY, WHAT'S LOST CAN BE FOUND, SO STAND IN THE RAIN. SHE WON'T MAKE A SOUND, ALONE IN THIS FIGHT WITH HERSELF AND THE FEARS WHISPERING, "IF YOU STAND, YOU'LL FALL DOWN."
[STYLE=border-radius: 30px; text-indent: 15px; padding: 15px; background-color: #E6DDDC; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; color: #2D2014; text-align: justify; margin-right: 20px; margin-top: 8px; margin-left: 20px; margin-bottom: 0px;]█Sophia is not a diplomat. She is the furthest thing from a diplomat. Maybe that’s why her body counts tend to be so much higher than they should be. Her responsibility to V comes before preserving another’s life, and that can’t hold true if she’s dead. Despite her calm demeanor, she can’t (won’t?) even spit out a few insults like Vivienne. Her first instinct is to stab first, ask questions later. Not tonight. Tonight, she is operating on a little more than mere bloodlust - her monster is sated for now.
She wonders what the boy is thinking. Does he hate her? Fear her?
No, no, no - keep away from those kinds of thoughts. She has long lost the privilege of trying to emphathize with those who still have the luxury of seeing the sunrise. No, he is only a bag of blood and bones, ready to be dissected at a moment’s whim.
(Do you see this, Sophie darling? This is the tibia bone. Break this, and no man will be able to run from your sight. Crack. [Screaming]. Now let’s move on to the spinal cord...you’re looking a little pale, Sophie...)
That’s right. He is only a diagram to be followed.
It’s not as if she hasn’t learned the words - she follows all of Kol’s orders to the letter. She thinks that if she can ignore her targets’ pleas for mercy, then she can ignore this boy’s empty request, which contains nothing that she can satisfy. Death is not a place to seek answers. If he wants them at all. It is a common ruse for time. Time that Sophia doesn’t have to allocate to this human.
She owes him nothing, and the same is true in reverse.
Sophia turns around and heads for home. If the boy decides to take even one step in her direction - well, she can take care of the problem as quickly as any human can blink.
You’re being rather merciful as of late, a voice in the back of her head whispers. Sophia tries not to think about where she had seen that incorrigible expression before. There is no niche for ghosts in her life. She doesn’t plan to carve one. [/style]
[atrb=valign, top][style=font: normal 18px/15px minion pro; color: black; text-shadow: 1px 1px 1px #000000;]a sword is only a sword when it kills,[/style][style=border-bottom: 4px solid #cccccc; width: 300px; margin-left: -2px; margin-bottom: -13px;] [/style] [atrb=style, width: 300px; height: 150px; font-family: Tahoma; word-spacing: 1px; text-align: justify; color: 777777; padding: 10px 10px 5px 2px; overflow: auto;]Zahir hesitates. He's only human, despite his attempts to convince both himself and the world otherwise. He's already been a good weapon tonight, hasn't he? He's rid the world of one more monster, done his best to throw back the dark a little farther, hasn't he? She turns her back on him, and he doesn't quite waver—but he thinks of wavering. How easy it would be, to lower his gaze. As if he never saw the boy laid out in the alleyway, cast aside like a piece of trash. As if he never came down this street.
But only a small part of him hesitates. The larger part thinks: this is going to be so much easier now. Now that she's dismissed him—and part of him froths with anger at that: you goddamn beast, you think you can kill us, live off of us, and treat us like cattle? You think you know anything about anything? I'm going to make you beg, before the end, and I'm going to enjoy it. But Zahir clamps down on that thought before it can grow, consume him. There's no space for emotion, fighting a vampire, there's no space for anything but the edge of the blade.
Fun fact: Zahir can unsheathe his sword (not that one, you pervert, the one made out of metal) in under a quarter second, faster than a human eye can track. It's practically supersonic! With the jacket in his way, and the scabbard strapped to his back, that reaction time slows to a half second, but the point is: the woman turns. Zahir knows what he has to do. The fabric ripped around the hilt presses roughly against his palms. The cut on his right arm is bleeding, slowly. He has something he has to do.
The buildings begin to swim around him, the sidewalk a snake of motion. The sword's range of influence is fifty feet—she started walking at a human pace, but he doesn't want to take a chance. Zahir slams the vertigo out the whole fifty feet, a sickening circle that feels like a punch in the gut. He wants to vomit. He wants to fall down on his knees. He doesn't. He starts walking.
Cat Crosses the Courtyard. A straight back, his center of gravity low. His limbs loose and ready. An arrogant stance if he's being honest, but he needs a cat's sense of balance right now. He starts to walk forward.[/style] [style=font-size: 9px; font-face: courier new; color: #000000; text-transform: lowercase; text-align: center; background-color: #cccccc; margin-top: 3px;]tags: sophia. words: 409 notes:erry1 in dis thread sew moody.[/style]
[style=width: 400px; font-family: courier new; font-size: 10px; text-transform: lowercase; text-align: right; margin-top: -38px; letter-spacing: -1px; color: #888888;]created by the lion of OTE inspired by tsu doll
STAND YOUR GROUND. STAND UP WHEN IT'S ALL CRASHING DOWN. STAND THROUGH THE PAIN, YOU WON'T DROWN. AND ONE DAY, WHAT'S LOST CAN BE FOUND, SO STAND IN THE RAIN. SHE WON'T MAKE A SOUND, ALONE IN THIS FIGHT WITH HERSELF AND THE FEARS WHISPERING, "IF YOU STAND, YOU'LL FALL DOWN."
[STYLE=border-radius: 30px; text-indent: 15px; padding: 15px; background-color: #E6DDDC; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; color: #2D2014; text-align: justify; margin-right: 20px; margin-top: 8px; margin-left: 20px; margin-bottom: 0px;]█At the sound of the man’s sudden movement and the sound of the blade tearing through the air, Sophia finally deems it appropriate to call this man her enemy. She had already granted him the gift of life, and if he is going to renounce it for a chance at taking her head, then so be it. Any shred of mercy that she might have had is discarded, and hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
Or a vampire cornered.
She turns around, but of all the things that Sophia had been mentally preparing for, the sense of vertigo is not one of them. She wills herself not to panic, but this experience is an entirely new one. Not having anything solid in her stomach to throw up should have been an inherent advantage, but Sophia struggles nonetheless. What’s worse is the impairment to her hearing. Sophia tries to focus her center of gravity, but even that seems to be shifting constantly. No, there’s an easier way to do this.
The man is still moving slowly, and it gives Sophia adequate time to imitate his stance exactly, down to the last thumb. She watches him walk, knowing that the best teacher is always the enemy before her. After all, who would use a technique that they themselves did not understand how to handle? But even the imitation is a diversion. Vampires are in possession of greater techniques.
Sophia is not the only one with a handicap. The smell of fresh human blood is stronger than any cologne. That too, is a variable in her favor. Sight isn’t so reliable in the face of vertigo, but a vampire always has his or her nose. Sophia closes her eyes and the dizziness fades away somewhat. She only needs her sight for the split seconds before schwarzen reisszahne claims another victim. Other than that, she can identify the man by scent.
If she had any time to play with him, then Sophia might have been more careful. Except she doesn’t. The night is still young, and she has responsibilities to maintain. She doesn’t owe anything to this man, but she does to everything else. A quick finish is desirable to the both of them, she thinks. Unless he was some kind of masochist, no one likes to be in the company of a vampire for long.
She takes a few steps with the strange stance at first, but a flash step is what takes her from point A to point B for most of the distance. The nausea is by no means reduced, but she doesn’t feel the vertigo for long enough to make any difference. The street is also wide enough for her to make a curve without running into anything, so Sophia instantly reappears behind the man, knives raised. Her flash step ends, but her bloodlust doesn’t. She’s a bit off by a couple of feet or so, and the fight becomes anyone’s game.
Sophia can only hope that it will be hers.[/style]
[atrb=valign, top][style=font: normal 18px/15px minion pro; color: black; text-shadow: 1px 1px 1px #000000;]a sword is only a sword when it kills,[/style][style=border-bottom: 4px solid #cccccc; width: 300px; margin-left: -2px; margin-bottom: -13px;] [/style] [atrb=style, width: 300px; height: 150px; font-family: Tahoma; word-spacing: 1px; text-align: justify; color: 777777; padding: 10px 10px 5px 2px; overflow: auto;]She's there, and then she's not. How like a woman. Zahir turns smoothly, swallows all emotion as he refuses to register the fact that if she had not been a handful of feet off, he would be dead. Right now, it doesn't matter. She's fast, though, and that's frustrating, to say the least. He hates the fast ones. Even strength would be better (although he wishes, hopelessly, that she doesn't have both) than her having speed. Doesn't matter. Not important. Can't help it.
He turns and switches out of Cat Crosses Courtyard seamlessly, moving to The Creeper Embraces the Oak. Circling slowly, sword cycling low to high, the blade steady in his hand. This is better. Like this, he can clear his mind, empty it of everything but what is necessary and what is right. [/style] [style=font-size: 9px; font-face: courier new; color: #000000; text-transform: lowercase; text-align: center; background-color: #cccccc; margin-top: 3px;]tags: sophia. words: 135 notes:erry1 in dis thread sew moody.[/style]
[style=width: 400px; font-family: courier new; font-size: 10px; text-transform: lowercase; text-align: right; margin-top: -38px; letter-spacing: -1px; color: #888888;]created by the lion of OTE inspired by tsu doll
STAND YOUR GROUND. STAND UP WHEN IT'S ALL CRASHING DOWN. STAND THROUGH THE PAIN, YOU WON'T DROWN. AND ONE DAY, WHAT'S LOST CAN BE FOUND, SO STAND IN THE RAIN. SHE WON'T MAKE A SOUND, ALONE IN THIS FIGHT WITH HERSELF AND THE FEARS WHISPERING, "IF YOU STAND, YOU'LL FALL DOWN."
[STYLE=border-radius: 30px; text-indent: 15px; padding: 15px; background-color: #E6DDDC; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; color: #2D2014; text-align: justify; margin-right: 20px; margin-top: 8px; margin-left: 20px; margin-bottom: 0px;]█With great power comes great irresponsibility, and the same is true in reverse. The meek shall inherit the earth, along with all of her burned remains. They will always be the ones to pick up the broken pieces and make do with what they can. This much, Sophia has always been certain of. The meek watch the bright ones burn in front of them as they mourn for their future. Humans are such moths, and maybe that’s why the sleepers like to think that vampires hold ethereal beauty.
Freedom from fear is the ultimate gift that sleepers will never know they possess. Is it any wonder that Sophia has envied them as a child?
It is time to teach this waker the fear that he has been owed since unsheathing that blade. Sophia fears the blade less than most vampires, but limping home with a torn side might freak out more than a few sleepers. Sophia had better reasons than most to avoid the hospital at all costs.
Sophia allows the man to circle her, knowing that she can break out of his arms’ reach in less than a second. She tries to turn with him with only the sense of smell as her guide. Her eyes remain closed in order to reduce her nausea. The bit of fatigue that comes with flash step isn’t much help either. She only needs one opening, and this waker doesn’t look like any professional vampire hunter. Scratch that, any hunter period wouldn’t be running around with such a conspicuous sword. Even sleepers know that a man with a weapon like that is bad news.
She doesn’t feel like expending more energy to chase him around. Sleepers complain about gas prices nowadays, but at least their energy sources aren’t paid by blood. Every calorie in her body was paid for by assault and theft. Sophia reminds herself that this is the price of refusing to keep a herd. The worst thing that a vampire could do to a human being is to leave them alive, and in a moment of weakness, Sophia wonders if this man knows it too.
(she will be the one to end his misery)
For now, she only waits for the moth to approach the flame. [/style]
[atrb=valign, top][style=font: normal 18px/15px minion pro; color: black; text-shadow: 1px 1px 1px #000000;]a sword is only a sword when it kills,[/style][style=border-bottom: 4px solid #cccccc; width: 300px; margin-left: -2px; margin-bottom: -13px;] [/style] [atrb=style, width: 300px; height: 150px; font-family: Tahoma; word-spacing: 1px; text-align: justify; color: 777777; padding: 10px 10px 5px 2px; overflow: auto;]She's not a talker, it seems. He likes that, as much as he can like anything about a monster. The ones who talk, those are the worst. He can take the silence, the dismissal, but when they open their filthy mouths with their teeth stained red and lies on their lips. His grip wavers minutely, and then he steadies it. Allows himself one moment to consider his options, and then banish them from his mind.
Move on instinct, that was his first lesson. Move from memory deeper than bone and blood. That way if they break your mind, you can keep fighting.
His guard unfurls into Lightning of the Three Prongs, a rush forward and a thrust. If she parries, or steps aside, the movement can change instantly into a slash. If not, well it keeps being a thrust. How else am I supposed to explain it, punk? [/style] [style=font-size: 9px; font-face: courier new; color: #000000; text-transform: lowercase; text-align: center; background-color: #cccccc; margin-top: 3px;]tags: sophia. words: 148 notes: LOL COMBAT.[/style]
[style=width: 400px; font-family: courier new; font-size: 10px; text-transform: lowercase; text-align: right; margin-top: -38px; letter-spacing: -1px; color: #888888;]created by the lion of OTE inspired by tsu doll
STAND YOUR GROUND. STAND UP WHEN IT'S ALL CRASHING DOWN. STAND THROUGH THE PAIN, YOU WON'T DROWN. AND ONE DAY, WHAT'S LOST CAN BE FOUND, SO STAND IN THE RAIN. SHE WON'T MAKE A SOUND, ALONE IN THIS FIGHT WITH HERSELF AND THE FEARS WHISPERING, "IF YOU STAND, YOU'LL FALL DOWN."
[STYLE=border-radius: 30px; text-indent: 15px; padding: 15px; background-color: #E6DDDC; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; color: #2D2014; text-align: justify; margin-right: 20px; margin-top: 8px; margin-left: 20px; margin-bottom: 0px;]█The brawl must end soon. Sophia has already wasted too much time on a man who was never at her door. She makes the decision to accept the edges of the blade. She recoils backwards somewhat, but she is determined to stand her ground. Mercifully, the blade is plenty sharp to pierce quickly through her chest. Sophia isn't in any rush to check her vitals - there is no point for a vampire. The stench of blood permeates through the air, and that's when she decides to open her eyes. The vertigo hits her with full force, but she's not taking a step anywhere.
She still feels the throbbing of her wound - it is an excellent distraction against the nausea that threatens to overwhelm her at this distance. Sophia raises the knives in her hands and stiffens her arms-
She's a killer, certainly, but Death will not admit to being a murderer. Murder involves excessive gain. Death is clean and impartial to personal preferences. Death is a power that is at the whim of the gods. Or it should have been. It's a modern age where the secularity of kings reign supreme, so therein lies her services. This man is not Death's objective. He isn't even Sophia Rosenberg's objective. She must eliminate all threats to herself an the organization.
She wills the knives to extend to their full length almost instantaneously, intending to disable both of his shoulders.
[atrb=valign, top][style=font: normal 18px/15px minion pro; color: black; text-shadow: 1px 1px 1px #000000;]a sword is only a sword when it kills,[/style][style=border-bottom: 4px solid #cccccc; width: 300px; margin-left: -2px; margin-bottom: -13px;] [/style] [atrb=style, width: 300px; height: 150px; font-family: Tahoma; word-spacing: 1px; text-align: justify; color: 777777; padding: 10px 10px 5px 2px; overflow: auto;]It's too easy. He should have known it was too easy. His second kill of the night, hadn't even gotten the drop on her, but he'd let himself think it was okay. He let himself think he was going to win in some bleak dim corner of his mind. That's the problem. Never start thinking, kids.
His blade sinks into her like a kiss. And Zahir, master of don't think about it, master of just ignore it finds himself up against something that he can't ignore. His body says, you goddamn fucking idiot what did I do wrong to get stuck as a meatsack for a martyr. And then he collapses like a wet bag.
One of her weird knives—swords? (Stabby-stabs of pain, his tired, woozy brain offers unhelpfully) slices through his shoulder like a a goddamn sharp blade stabbing through a pathetic human shoulder, if you must know. He swears he can feel the ends of snapped tendons, torn muscle shreds, waving around, screaming. Or maybe that's just the mind-obliterating pain in general that's radiating through his body from at least four different places.
He's on his back, staring up at the sky. Can't even summon the strength to prop himself up on his one hopefully working elbow and look at her, go out with a shred of dignity. He left his sword in her chest, goddamnit. Where the fuck is he going to get another magic sword from? It's not like they sell them at Duane Reade. [/style] [style=font-size: 9px; font-face: courier new; color: #000000; text-transform: lowercase; text-align: center; background-color: #cccccc; margin-top: 3px;]tags: sophia. words: 249 notes: feel free for sophia to keep his sword, btw.[/style]
[style=width: 400px; font-family: courier new; font-size: 10px; text-transform: lowercase; text-align: right; margin-top: -38px; letter-spacing: -1px; color: #888888;]created by the lion of OTE inspired by tsu doll
STAND YOUR GROUND. STAND UP WHEN IT'S ALL CRASHING DOWN. STAND THROUGH THE PAIN, YOU WON'T DROWN. AND ONE DAY, WHAT'S LOST CAN BE FOUND, SO STAND IN THE RAIN. SHE WON'T MAKE A SOUND, ALONE IN THIS FIGHT WITH HERSELF AND THE FEARS WHISPERING, "IF YOU STAND, YOU'LL FALL DOWN."
[STYLE=border-radius: 30px; text-indent: 15px; padding: 15px; background-color: #E6DDDC; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; color: #2D2014; text-align: justify; margin-right: 20px; margin-top: 8px; margin-left: 20px; margin-bottom: 0px;]█Sophia had allowed the knives to retract to their usual length after fully piercing her opponent. She cleans the blood off the blade with her tongue. A life of vampirism has taught her a thing or two about waste. Funny how sleepers like to glorify the taste of blood to a vampire. His blood tastes no differently than that of a small child or elderly woman. She tastes no victory, only the tang of iron.
She removes the sword from her belly with a sickening squelch. Sophia is quick to find the scabbard and sheathe the blade. The vertigo is gone, but the nausea remains. Sophia struggles not to throw up the remainder of her dinner, ironically, after her head stops spinning.
She stands there, contemplating the sword's power. From what she had seen in the skirmish, Sophia can guess that the man wasn't entirely unaffected by its powers. She puts her hand on top of her gaping stomach wound. Her tactic isn't much of a sacrifice when she has long forgotten the burden of pain. This boy is another matter. She gives him a curt nod, but she keeps the sword. He's good, but probably not nearly as deadly without his weapon of choice. If she is affected by the vertigo so strongly, then there is no way that he could have fared so well without extensive training. Traning that wouldn't be the same with any other blade.
Sophia robs him of another life, and she can be content with that. The less hotheads in this business, the better.
HIDDEN in plain sight is a modern-day supernatural noir game set in New York City and sprawling the rest of America. Magic is real, and so are angels, ghosts, gods, vampires, and witches. It doesn't matter if you believe in them, because they're coming for you either way.
( TOSKA ) - Head admin, your go-to for anything HIDDEN related
( MURK ) - Ad mod, resident cutie pie. Keep it in your pants or Toska will cut you.
( VERTIGO ) - takes no math classes.
( TSUNDERE ) - Not actually staff, but has residual staff powers from v4. Feel free to pester with questions.
SPOTLIGHT
HIDDEN's spotlights give kudos to anything awesome. It can be a character, a member, a thread, or even a cool plot!
( SPOTLIGHT ) - Lorem ipsum character stuff goes here.
( SPOTLIGHT ) - Lorem ipsum character stuff goes here.
( SPOTLIGHT ) - Lorem ipsum character stuff goes here.
CREDITS
( ORIGINAL SITE BY KATYA ) - Original site, templates, skin, ideas, and system all by Katya. Other ideas belong to their original owners
