[Closed]

[riseinthewest]

Who: riseinthewest and yetsleeping.
When: 5/30
Where: The ruins.
Format: Action.
What: Nothing even remotely pretty; or, Riful gets what was coming to her.
Warnings: VIOLENCE.

Comments

[yetsleeping]

[A long time ago, Priscilla said she didn't believe in destiny. And she doesn't. But it's funny the way things turn out, even so

[riseinthewest]

No.

[How could she deceive herself that thoroughly? How could Riful, for even an instant, believe that she could hide herself away from Priscilla if the beast chose to pursue her? Riful knows the gap in their power, feels the pressure of it, oppressive and suffocating, choking expletives and bitter retorts in her throat.

Perhaps she had hoped that Priscilla would forget her thirst for vengeance. Perhaps she hoped that Priscilla would be too preoccupied. Perhaps she was biding time; perhaps she was stalling, letting animal instinct take over in a desperate attempt to evade death because what is a human, but an animal? And what is a warrior but a human made stronger, and what is an Awakened Being but a warrior who has embraced their full potential? Riful's not so different from a rat that flees a fox, or a human that flees her.

Death stares her down and squeezes her heart, but she won't lay down before it (and Priscilla is not a person, but an unnatural thing, Riful is sure of that

[yetsleeping]

[Priscilla watches Riful's arms unravel into strips of shiny flesh, ribbons and tendrils and wrap on themselves and hang together and lash out like whips. She watches, and at first she doesn't move. Instead, she feels the dull sting of one arm as a tendril slices it from her shoulder, and the ache of flesh separated from flesh at her ankle, too.]

[It's only one when they reach for her head that she moves at all - her still attached hand reaching up to grab those ribbons between her fingers. She holds that hand steady, unmoving, as she brushes her hair from her eyes with the other.]

[The other that was not there only a breath earlier.]

[And then she steps forward, her feet - two feet! - silent, stirring nothing as she walks.]

The last time I saw you... [Her voice is cold, and hollow.] You were lashing at me with your hair. Revenge, I think.

It's ironic, isn't it? You murdered my love, a lifetime ago. And then only days ago, I shattered yours.

Oh, but you don't remember that, do you?

[Her fingers press hard against those

[riseinthewest]

[She doesn't remember, but she knows. Isley told her, the wretch, just to anger her, just to get a dig in at her.

Wasn't it fair, then, to dig back? Had he not started this war? He had been the aggressor, hadn't he? In another world, in this world, too ambitious and cocky with his weighted die. Priscilla.

In some ways, Riful is a gambler by nature. She had bet that the Organization would be sensible enough to leave her alone, and had been wrong. She had bet that Luciela would be sensible enough to remain by her side, and had been wrong. She had bet that she could kill Priscilla before Isley's witch could awaken, and had been dead wrong.

But not dead yet.]

I don't want to hear stories, you bitch!

[As easily as breathing, her human facsimile falls apart and the building around her crumbles as her body outgrows it, and for each of the parts of herself that Priscilla rips through there are ten more raining down.]