-11- Broadcast Mind
"I don't see what makes her so special."
Ah. They're whispering again.
Except perhaps whispering is not the proper descriptor, because they are across the room and Riful can still make them out quite clearly. She thinks this is probably intentional. How petty.
"You know, it really is rude to talk about someone behind their backs, but it's less polite to do it where they can hear you," she points out, not bothering to lower her voice. She sits with her knees to her chest in the recess of a window in the dungeon-like training room, a large sword leaning on the wall near her, as she absently plays with a clump of long, platinum-blonde hair.
The cluster of other girls, all of them blonde and dressed in the same white clothing, startle at this. One of them--tall, lean, built like a war with a broad chest; she's barely a woman, but then Riful could be considered less so, she hasn't hit puberty yet--crosses the room with all the indignation and bluster of a storm.
Riful merely blinks.
"Just because you're their favorite doesn't mean you get to order us around," the trainee snarls.
Riful nods. "Ah, a good point. But," she raises one finger, as if lecturing, "I wasn't giving you an order. I was merely pointing out that you're displaying atrocious manners."
The other girl's face twists into a snarl. It's quite unattractive. "You're so goddamn high and mighty--"
"Surely mediocrity is no excuse for your behavior."
Too predictable: the warrior-in-training lunges for her, drawing one of the training swords, but the weight of it is no match for a claymore (Riful had long outgrown the use of the lighter swords, to continue with them would have been a waste of the Organization's time) and her speed is no match for Riful's, whose sword is in her hand faster than the eye can track. Parry, strike back, and her accoster is flat on her back clutching a twisted wrist. Riful stands over the other holding a sword that is taller than she is, the tip unwavering as it points at the girl's face.
Fear in her expression. "F-fucking bitch."
"It isn't my fault that you're stupid enough to assault your betters."
Riful glances around the room to see fear reflected in all eyes in the room. She is used to this. She is an outcast because she is superior to all of them, the first women of their kind.
It has been quite lonely since her parents were consumed by the monster they sewed into her.
Ah. They're whispering again.
Except perhaps whispering is not the proper descriptor, because they are across the room and Riful can still make them out quite clearly. She thinks this is probably intentional. How petty.
"You know, it really is rude to talk about someone behind their backs, but it's less polite to do it where they can hear you," she points out, not bothering to lower her voice. She sits with her knees to her chest in the recess of a window in the dungeon-like training room, a large sword leaning on the wall near her, as she absently plays with a clump of long, platinum-blonde hair.
The cluster of other girls, all of them blonde and dressed in the same white clothing, startle at this. One of them--tall, lean, built like a war with a broad chest; she's barely a woman, but then Riful could be considered less so, she hasn't hit puberty yet--crosses the room with all the indignation and bluster of a storm.
Riful merely blinks.
"Just because you're their favorite doesn't mean you get to order us around," the trainee snarls.
Riful nods. "Ah, a good point. But," she raises one finger, as if lecturing, "I wasn't giving you an order. I was merely pointing out that you're displaying atrocious manners."
The other girl's face twists into a snarl. It's quite unattractive. "You're so goddamn high and mighty--"
"Surely mediocrity is no excuse for your behavior."
Too predictable: the warrior-in-training lunges for her, drawing one of the training swords, but the weight of it is no match for a claymore (Riful had long outgrown the use of the lighter swords, to continue with them would have been a waste of the Organization's time) and her speed is no match for Riful's, whose sword is in her hand faster than the eye can track. Parry, strike back, and her accoster is flat on her back clutching a twisted wrist. Riful stands over the other holding a sword that is taller than she is, the tip unwavering as it points at the girl's face.
Fear in her expression. "F-fucking bitch."
"It isn't my fault that you're stupid enough to assault your betters."
Riful glances around the room to see fear reflected in all eyes in the room. She is used to this. She is an outcast because she is superior to all of them, the first women of their kind.
It has been quite lonely since her parents were consumed by the monster they sewed into her.