There she was, helpless to stop the tiny man, or so she believed. Her strugges were for naught, for Koto declared that he would still kill Pacheco, and though she jerked and pulled against her weakened form as if to snap at him, she couldn't move. She could barely hold herself up. Her thoughts were with Pacheco, who she'd failed. Perhaps Khan found him? Perhaps the lizard would take care of him in her stead?
The human lifted his blade to her helpless form, and she bared her teeth. Was that where she died? Where did she go wrong? Perhaps she would have been better off staying home at Clearwater. The last two years of her journey had been for naught; she was no closer to discovering what or who she was, and she'd die without a name. Her eyes faltered as she resigned herself to her fate. There, her meaningless life would end.
Koto began to carve into her skin and elicited painful cries with each stroke of his blade. He was an artist, and she was his canvas, upon which he painted red. As his weapon glided across her skin, he found that her outer layer wasn't just tougher as a result of being giant, but harder too. There was a quiet clink between his blade and her flesh each time he put to her, and it only became harder and harder to cut through her as his sword dulled on her helpless body.
But his blunt sword didn't change the wounds he'd inflicted, of which, there were many. A lot of them were deep enough to bleed openly, and her fur clothes became matted in red. It hurt, her skin was ablaze with pain and protest. She wanted it to stop, for his sword to warp beyond use. He wasn't just going to kill her, but torture her too. She breathed deeply through her nostrils to steady herself, it felt right to do so. Her screams had quieted to pained grunts, and Koto may have startled when branching veins of silver began to run beneath her broken skin.
It was as though her veins were filled with mercury, though none of it bled from her open wounds. He began to encounter resistance with his blade, and with every continued slash, he had to force the sword toward her, as though it were a magnet of the same charge as she. Some invisible pressure pushed his blade away whenever it got close to her, but he could still force it.
The human lifted his blade to her helpless form, and she bared her teeth. Was that where she died? Where did she go wrong? Perhaps she would have been better off staying home at Clearwater. The last two years of her journey had been for naught; she was no closer to discovering what or who she was, and she'd die without a name. Her eyes faltered as she resigned herself to her fate. There, her meaningless life would end.
Koto began to carve into her skin and elicited painful cries with each stroke of his blade. He was an artist, and she was his canvas, upon which he painted red. As his weapon glided across her skin, he found that her outer layer wasn't just tougher as a result of being giant, but harder too. There was a quiet clink between his blade and her flesh each time he put to her, and it only became harder and harder to cut through her as his sword dulled on her helpless body.
But his blunt sword didn't change the wounds he'd inflicted, of which, there were many. A lot of them were deep enough to bleed openly, and her fur clothes became matted in red. It hurt, her skin was ablaze with pain and protest. She wanted it to stop, for his sword to warp beyond use. He wasn't just going to kill her, but torture her too. She breathed deeply through her nostrils to steady herself, it felt right to do so. Her screams had quieted to pained grunts, and Koto may have startled when branching veins of silver began to run beneath her broken skin.
It was as though her veins were filled with mercury, though none of it bled from her open wounds. He began to encounter resistance with his blade, and with every continued slash, he had to force the sword toward her, as though it were a magnet of the same charge as she. Some invisible pressure pushed his blade away whenever it got close to her, but he could still force it.
