Amalfi

Chapter Three: Fury of a Beast, Pride of a Tyrant, Heart of a Nymph

Οὐδὲν ἀκιδνότερον γαῖα τρέφει ἀνθρώποιο πάντων, ὅσσα τε γαῖαν ἔπι πνείει τε καὶ ἕρπει.
"Of all the creatures that breathe and move upon the earth, nothing is bred that is weaker than man."

- Ὅμηρος (Homer)

Chapter Three

Amalfi let go.

Relinquishing her grip on the rocks, Amalfi fell down, straight to the waiting tyrant. Praying to whoever was listening—given her recent luck, probably no one—and hoping she was just mad enough to pull it off.

And if she wasn't so nimble, it wouldn't have worked.

Even then, it almost didn't; the beast flicked its head at the last moment, tipping back to meet her. Amalfi watched its right horn perfectly angle to catch skin, its sharp point separating her flesh like seas parted under Earthshaker's will. It slid through the bottom of her arm with sickening ease. Both nymph and beast witnessed subdued scarlet spray on a familiar landscape as skin and muscle gave way.

There was no time to acknowledge the pain.

Amalfi landed, with a thud of a whump and the grimace of an oof, on top of her stomach and heart. Both had apparently fallen out somewhere along the way. They were joined by her cowardly breath, too, as it fled her lungs like deserters in war. But she'd done it—Amalfi was astride a beast ready to kill her. Laid flat on its broad back, with a bad taste in her mouth like she'd bitten her tongue, Amalfi held to the tooth-tyrant.

She was recognized for her bravery, at least. Saluted by the rattle of clicking bones—unfortunately in this case, hers—as it ricocheted through her, applauding the stunt; greeted by the shirking falter of a plan not fully thought through; given little reason, yet grasping the broken prayers that'd snapped under her weight—truthfully, all poor honors to receive. Amalfi was starting to think bravery wasn't much more than sheer stupidity that happened to be morally right. Self-sacrifice was the same thing with a blunter name.

Dazed and scrambling for grip, Amalfi hardly held on. The tyrant kicked and thrashed. Her teeth jolted and clattered, her jaw slammed into her skull like waves on a shore, her shoulders ached from how much tension she'd woven into every muscle. She couldn't look down; it would make her dizzy to see how she wildly pitched through the air, body flopping so far from the ground. Amalfi could cringe at the feel of the tyrant even as she curled around it. Its dark skin was smooth and moist, but rough with its age, like the embrace of an amphibious mountain. Nausea was waiting in the pits of her seizing stomach.

Amalfi tensed, gritting her teeth to stop the clattering. There was no going back now.

She forced herself to ignore anything but her task, digging her fingers into the ridges of one of its shoulders and slowly releasing the others, prepared to hang from one hand. She ignored the bellows and heaving breaths rushing from the chest beneath her. She pushed away the reality of her dire situation; Amalfi turned her back on the terrifyingly high chance of failure. She ignored everything but the next step, until finally—feeling as secure as she could possibly feel clinging onto a furious predator—Amalfi let one hand go, leaned, and pulled a knife from her belt.

The blade wasn't nearly as big as she would've liked. It was only about half the length of her forearm, almost laughable in comparison to the size of the beast, especially if held against its three horns—but it was all she had. It had to be enough.