The TwiceBorn

That Was Then

 "In love we find out who we want to be; in war we find out who we are."---Kristin Hannah

She ducked down an alleyway, figuring the tavern would be closer to the center of town. Guttural screams and shouts resounded on the trade road she'd just left but, for the moment, it was calm on the narrow road behind the front buildings. The smell was another matter. Alora wrinkled her nose as she took in the aroma of rotten food, mold and human decay. Several bodies had been thrown out the back, no doubt waiting for someone or something to dispose of them.

"There she is! "

Alora turned towards the voice and saw several of the robed figures running towards her. Their blades caught the last light of the dying day and glowed an odd blue color, something Alora had never seen before, but she didn't have much time to look and wonder.

And she could appreciate a good sword fight. She'd expected one...or several...when she rode in. But one of the robed figures galloping towards her felt the need to announce, "Thou shalt not prevail against the hand of Brede, demon-whore!" and the confidence in the swordsman's voice dug itself past ego and instinct into a dark place Alora had never tapped into before.

Never taking her eyes off the speaker, Alora ducked one wild sword swing, and brought her blade around, neatly disemboweling one attacker. Intestines tumbled out, wet and glistening, and the man screamed, dropped his sword, and simply stood and stared at her, open-mouthed.

The other two backed away, swords at the ready, their eyes going back and forth from her to the staring man trying to hold his intestines as they kept slipping through his fingers. Alora smiled at the two men. It was a cold and calculating smile and if the men had ever encountered her before, they would know that something within her had changed.

The one who had felt the need to speak continued to step back as she advanced, perhaps realizing the error of his ways, but the other man stepped forward, drawing strength as more robed figures poured into the alleyway opening.

Alora knew she should be careful. Cautious. The legend of The Twiceborn was partially built upon drunks talking in taverns and religious nuts like the ones before her and she knew she could go down if enough banded against her.

But that was before.

With a wild joy on her face, Alora met two blades at once. She blocked and ducked down to snag her dagger from her boot. Stepping into both attackers, she turned, bringing the dagger around to bury in one of their backs and her blade came around to bury itself in the other attacker's ribcage as the first went down. Her blade cut and stalled on bone as the man screamed and a shudder went through Alora's body as she remembered how it had felt, the sense of something foreign inside of her, cutting and mangling its way through when she'd gone down on the grasslands.

But that was a long way from now. Alora brought a boot up to kick him off her blade and noticed a tendril of black smoke rising from the wound as the man went down. Without looking, Alora found the hilt of her dagger and yanked it free as she turned to face the on-coming figures.

When she killed, everything usually paused. People seemed to want to step back and re-think their tactics but the sight of three of their own going down only fanned the flames of the robed men's righteousness. And while they were fast, with their strange blue swords, Alora was faster, her thrusts and parries meticulous and lethal. Her dagger in one hand, and her sword in the other, no energy was wasted. Both weapons repeatedly found their way home, one buried in an attacker's throat while the other slashed through skin and bone. Panting, Alora detected the slightest of hesitations as she blocked one sword then pivoted sideways to bring her dagger across an exposed throat.