To Kill a Nightingale

. . . Lost

They watched as folks kept pushing out the doorways to fill the central floor. How many were there? Runa could count at least a couple dozen before she lost interest. A whole bunch, anyway. Not one made a move to attack, simply set themselves in a sort of disorderly half-circle in front of Rusty and Runa, hostile and wary eyes directed at them. Some attempts at arrogant smirking, but she could see that those only made to hide apprehension. These were not by any means the finest men and women the Nightingale could have thrown at them, and the bandits knew this too. And no doubt they also knew well who they were dealing with. A stroll across the meadows wasn't at all what they were looking at.

The fallen Hroar now hidden behind the press of cut-rate thugs, Runa forgot for a while the stomach-wrenching worry she felt for her old friend. She felt herself returning. At least a version of herself.

Rolling her shoulders, she took a couple steps toward the throng. She could see the front ones fight the urge to step back. She almost grinned. Instead, she scowled, dropping down to a readied position.

"Alright then, you clowns," she grated. With everyone here now—or so it seemed— it was quiet once again. "Which ones of y'all gonna live till morning? Huh!"

Her words obviously sparked uncertainty among them. For a second, she nearly felt confident she and Rusty could kill them all. Nearly.

"The fuck you waiting for!" she growled. "I hear there's ball at Sovngarde tonight, and I've a mind to dance there!" Yeah, that made little sense, and she could practically hear the creak of Rusty's eyeballs rolling in his head. But she seemed to make an impression on these buffoons. Yeah, they might have been able to take them all. Had Hroar still numbered among them, then certainly!

"The Nightingale wants her alive! Remember that," someone among the bandits cried.

"Oh, does he now?" Runa said. "I don't suppose he wasted a word on you lot? No? I didn't think so. Hear that, Rusty?" she glanced back. The expression on her friend's countenance was difficult to read. "We've got us some clowns to kill." As she turned back to face the bandits, she noticed a couple of them kneeling by Hroar. "Hey! Get your filthy paws off my friend!"

They did nothing of the kind, and instead she saw one of them casting some kind of spell.

"I said," Runa readied her blades, "leave him," she sprang out and finished her sentence with a shriek, "ALONE!"

The first fool had barely enough time to open his mouth for a powerless "eep" before Runa's slash cut his face wide open. Blood and teeth rained on the ground. Her other blade pierced another fellow's throat, sending him toppling backwards and knocking down another one. An arms-wide pirouette cut down two more. And then, finally, the first ones found their wits enough to try fighting back.

Emphasis on try.

When Runa got in a mood like this, well, she was nearly impossible to stop. She wasn't that easy to stop on her worst days! Buffoon 'pon buffoon was felled by her furious blades, swooshing as they sliced the air and the flesh in their way. She lost count of bodies and of time, in a comfortable warm flow of death and gore, an almost sickening calm underneath her fierce aspect. She was distantly aware of Rusty who had joined in the slaughter—'cause that's really what it was—and was keeping a wise distance.

She wanted to smile. She was dancing. This was like the—

Something collided hard against the back of her head, and—with a blinding flash of white light and a good measure of pain—she was sent toppling face-first. Her face was also what met the ground, as her hands were spread out and still clutching her blades. Needless to say, it hurt like fuck.