It is movement. Control, precision. Every muscle screams in anticipation of the next shift, no rest for pure momentum. Every step is practiced and placed, right down to the stomp significant to the routine.
Air whirring over the katars in hand, the metal vibrating with a musical hum, an out-of-place jovial tune to follow elegant swirl of arms as both balance and emphasis to the dance. To skirmish is an art, as dance is an art, with the soundtrack behind. Fluid combination makes her untouchable, impregnable. Split-second choreography is always better, unpredictable to both parties.
Hard to track, harder to counter.
A juggernaut of motion, like the painter's brushstroke on canvas, leaving carved trails of paint.
Wrists snap, angles shift just slightly, the blades' key changing from major to minor. From angelic choir to funerary dirge, one final swirling step to avoid a single Sluggy projectile and she is airborne. The katars utter a hiss, their song interrupted with the sound of splatter.
The art of dance was never meant solely for the theatre's stage.
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100 Blinks
FanfictionA collection of drabbles written off a pre-existing list of 100 prompts, centered around a multitude of noncanon continuities. Some long, some short, but all addressed in one way or another.
