Ice encrusted the side of her face, hugging her red hair for shelter from the cruel sun. She didn't flinch nor blink, her legs going strong against the knee deep snow, dragging a massive sword in her hands.
Her red hair - the one which doesn't shine like the flame, but rather glow like the calm wave of a maroon silk - was almost white, covered in ice and snow bits, freezing down her nape and chest. It felt the least pleasant, she thought mindlessly. But no matter. I must keep going.
By then the brown cloak she wore had been wet thoroughly and so, and she thought of ditching it to reduce the amount of cold she was feeling. But then again, the cloak had been her most loyal companion - it saved her from the throwing knives a gang of bandits gave her as a welcome gift, it shielded her from the cruel sandstorm of the sahara, it gave her a sense of comfort during the nighttimes in the forest. She couldn't part with it, even if she wanted to.
The journey continued and all she could see was the endless white which awaits her. Her feet were getting numb, and so were her hands. She shuddered. Is this the end of all my fight?
She closed her eyes, letting the sound of the storm and the dragging sword behind her engulf her, immersing herself to a world made of entirely sounds. She would not give up. She would not, she chanted, stop here, or there, or anywhere.
Right before she opened her eyes again, her foot stepped on nothing - literally nothing, and her heart sped up to ten times the usual as she fell head first towards the ground below the cliff. Adrenaline rushed into her blood, a loud sound thumping madly from inside her chest - and she thrusted her hands down pass her head, letting the weight of the sword guide her body. She was free falling.
And she liked the churning sensation of it, knowing that something new will come out in the end.
The moment her sword collided with the surface, the momentum brought her down - and she glided with sharp precision, putting one foot on the edge of the sword and another on the steel surface. Her speed multiplied the force of the impact when she landed, and the ground shook with a loud boom.
She rose on her feet, the expression on her face wicked and delighted. In front of her, a man - probably a villager, due to his grime caked clothes and trembling eyes - had fallen flat on the ground, mouth agape and stuttering. She dusted her still wet cloak and glimpsed at the villager.
"W-w-who are you?!"
She smirked. The question had been asked to her for so many times to the point she could even recite the next scene. It's not like she doesn't enjoy it; it's just that she felt a bit offended, for her name should already be infamous.
"Scram along back to your village," she taunted, pulling out her sword from the ground. "And tell them; Lily The Conqueror has arrived."
YOU ARE READING
Blunt
Short Story"For I am a blunt edge, the dull side that is of a deadly weapon; yet still, I can cut through the waves in an odd sense." -Forgive and Take- "Like a progressive evolution of a semi-completed music score, our hands reach out of the nebula. We pictur...
