The witch is apathetic toward conversation when they let the knife fly in interjection. It glides with a threatening whistle, but where it should pierce soft flesh, it passes unfettered; likewise the stalking apparition continues, accelerating their stride awhile two new knives are drawn. But would they be so rude to the one whom wraps a friendly right arm over their shoulders from abaft, like frostbite to the touch while they exhale a cool whisper into the woman's ear. "Such [i][b]ferocity...[/b][/i]"

As for the weeper, suspiciously dry despite the downpour, is hushed by the [i]ding[/i] of the projectile when it strikes something unseen inches before its goal; she shudders quiet, looking up over her knees as the knife sticks into the ground. Even the rain runs in rivers around them, suggesting a clandestine protection curtails harm. The disturbance provokes action, however veiled from the threatening specters they may be: an elevation of the dextral arm and accusatory pointing of the finger, as if a silent condemnation via what's to come after.

Called by its master is the elusive katana, which has lain dormant atop the moist ground behind the maniacal maiden. Now it moves through the air to be held afresh, and betwixt its wielder are two appetizing spines, soon to be run through.