Skyreign

15: The Prophet

While the hovel offered to them was more than gracious of the Nywanese, Rose still preferred to sleep in her own quarters aboard the ship. The ship that always managed to pull through seemingly impossible odds.

She slept lightly in the cool summer nights, and the gentle humming of the vastly repaired and upgraded Skyreign lulled her into a gentle dream state every time.

It was as if all the answers were here, at home, and all the experiences offworld were simply to underscore that Nywan would always be where her heart resided.

Only, Rose in all her constant alertness, knew within the deepest recesses of her soul, that such peace, such bliss, was finite.

And just as expected, almost in perfect concert with that one thought that saw through this otherwise perfect life, her ears betrayed the attempts at well-placed, silent footing, creeping up to her door, and stepping in.

Had she been Behraanese, she would have never heard him coming. Never heard his nostrils inhale and exhale. Never heard him unsheathe some pointed weapon.

Had she been Behraanese, she would have gone into the night, never to return.

Had she been Behraanese, he would have been holding a bloody dagger, in the stead of a crushed and disfigured hand that popped and cracked under Rose's inhuman grip, before she pushed him back.

Despite having the unlikely advantage of surprise, Rose was immediately at the disadvantage of being unarmed, unarmored, and largely unclothed, clad only in black undergarments.

Neither the assailant, nor the target, gave any thought on the matter.

Rose did, however, get a quick glimpse of the mat-black armor under the otherwise cloaked figure, and the golden circuitry that most Behraanese eyes would not have noticed in a nearly pitch-black room. It told her that he was important enough to have powered armor, with benefits of shielding, self-maintenance, and generally better survival of the one wearing it.

But she also noticed the unnaturally silhouetted face, one that seemed to negate almost all natural light, and even denied her eyes the luxury of seeing his otherwise unprotected face. He only wore round sunglasses—probably not simply sunglasses—and she had some idea that the figure had a short beard and long hair tied back. So not only was he important enough to have powerful gear, but he was powerful enough not to need it.

He was certainly powerful enough that his supposedly crushed hand hindered him the way a mosquito bite hindered an ancient Khrynthoss dragon. That same hand hurdled precisely at her chest, aimed squarely between the ribs, giving Rose just fractions of a second to swat his hand away, and less than that for his following sweeping kick, forcing her to flip back onto her bed.

This gave her the short opportunity to bounce off the bed and flip over her assailant as he struck—and utterly destroyed—the bed with a hammering kick that reached well over his head before coming down.

This bought her time enough to make a back-kick into the small of his back and make a getaway.

Or at least, so she thought. Her foot met his, bare against booted. A move like that, met with direct force of a much larger and heavier foot, would have shattered the bones of a typical Behraanese female.

Instead, it cracked the composite of the tread on his boot, cleanly in two, and she simply used the energy to spin the other way and vault up, making the first actual contact with him. The heel of her foot struck him cleanly in the throat, giving her enough traction to jettison herself out the door and into the mess room, where lighting was more forgiving.

But it also gave him a clear shot at her with a plasmar, only—he didn't take it. He instead pulled out two long, serrated golden katars from his leg-mounted scabbards, and darted toward her at speeds only she should have been capable of.