"Fucking fuck. Fucking by the god's rancid fucking shits-- fucking cunt piss whore fucking, shit smearing FUCK. HOLY FUCK, SET ON HIGH, GIVE ME A FUCKING BREAK. ♠"

A black-cloaked figure swore to herself, the mist that came from where the hood covered all semblance of a face the only indication that the rider was even alive. Could you not hear the constant stream of curses she was muttering, that is, each 'fuck' growing louder with each step the horse made. The thing this rider was on, however, gave not indications of frustration. It looked as strong as a workhorse and trotted proudly through the snow as if it were an accomplished race horse, perhaps it was the light rider, and nearly empty saddle bags that allowed the horse such vigor, despite the weather?

Regardless, with each trot came a loud crunch as the horse's weight met with the ground-- in that way it was much similar to it's rider, clearly not being bred for subtlety-- pulling back up whitened hooves and horseshoes that clung to the animal didn't seem to phase it as it walked along, breathing from it's nose occasionally, creating a plume of mist. It was a sickly-chlorine color in an odd juxtaposition to it's obvious strength, with spots of brown scattered around it's neck and rear, it's mane was black and brown, as was it's tail-- and were in dire need of a trimming, it's tail dragging along the ground behind the pair as they made their way through the English wilderness. Around the pair, for now, at least, was a rather desolate sight-- endless white on the ground before them, and trees who knew all too well what to do in an English winter.

Like sickly brown hands, drowning in some white, endless abyss, even worse than the darkness above-- reaching for a sun that had long abandoned them all in favor of clouds and cold. The rider, while a thinker in her own right, preferred to focus on subjects, the state of spirituality, the philosophies driving those who, for reasons she couldn't understand, lived the way they did in this world, and the psychology behind them. The rider didn't like being reminded of her place in it, with those thoughts came the inevitable dives into her past. She much preferred to focus on what could be, as opposed to what was. Predators didn't think back on their prey, where they grew up-- they lived in the present, making most of their moves based off of instinct and scents. For them, it's eat, sleep, fuck, and self-defense. Something so simple, you could just watch and place bets. She lay even closer to the horse than she was before, both for warmth, and for the kinship she felt with the animal. He may not have been wild, but he did what he did because the instincts for it had been bred into him. He wasn't human. He didn't have to constantly wonder 'Why? Why? Why?'

The rider's cloak dragged along the snowy ground as the lonesome pair made their way to their destination. The rider practically hugging the horse as she laid her chest fully against it's back. She fully a relatively full bosom press against his neck. That was a good thing. The negativity this cold was making her feel was drastically slowing her rate of residual energy loss. Perhaps even freezing it? She didn't smile to herself as she continued to curse the gods, continuing to think, despite wanting nothing less. She missed her home she had to admit to herself. She hated it, but denying the truth was for fools and leaders. She may have only been born in Egypt to parents from other lands, but she was a citizen of Cairo, a native, through and through. This land would never be hers.

She missed the heat, she missed the feeling of hot sand on her bare feet, and the joy one could feel from a simple breeze on a hot day. As much as she respected this horse, she missed camels even, fucking camels. But most of all, she missed the fighting-- the wars of the naive dynasties and foreigner invaders, and how those wars made the people around her feel-- she was always plump and well fed in Cairo. The people here, in this foreign land she found herself in, were miserable too, but the flavor wasn't the same. The fear didn't taste like om ali, the anger wasn't like honeyed figs, frustration wasn't kunafeh-esque. Sadness here was bland, like a soup with nothing in the broth, desperation was unseasoned, and lust? The rider did give a giggle in between curses at that-- she wasn't sure how these Europeans were so prominent at all! It was like they never wanted to fuck. And if they did, they repressed it to their Christian hell and back. All because of some church. The average Englishman's lust was as bland as a communion wafer. Perhaps if she killed those in power in their English and European churches, people's shame here may start to taste better?

She shook her head, fussing with the horses mane. Doubtful, and besides, it's not like monks or popes or what have you were fighters. They wouldn't be worth the blood spilled, like most of the cattle in this land.

Of course, there were all the exotic flavors of the Academy she could work with. She'd been there for some years now-- and while many mutants did come from this pale excuse of a continent, there was enough variety to keep every day interesting. Children, told by the world that they don't belong, trained mostly for combat, going through the emotional shifts that force one to become an adult? Many of her peers' angst gave the rider a fully international buffet-- it was just difficult to distinguish between the bland and the sweet. That black hunger that grew in side her told it didn't matter, that it kept her alive. But the human side of her wished she could get foreign sweetness on it's own. She smirked beneath her hood-- in more ways than one.

A part of her would always resent the Fates-- they had made it seem like Silvermist would be a gauntlet of difficult foes for her to best. And while she had found some challenge in this land, that was after years of ineffectual training. No one knew how her powers worked, no guidance was received on how better to consume misery, or prevent her luck from turning on her-- and so for years, she had lived as she did in Cairo, figuring things out on her own-- except this time in a completely foreign land, torn from the few people who's company she found enjoyable, and cold most of the time. Were it not for the prey she was finally allowed to hunt upon her 15th, she may have made an attempt on the Fates' lives by now. The rider shrugged under her cloak. Still might at some point, there were certainly students she wished to best, but couldn't because of their rules. By that logic, they must be strong enough to enforce them-- so certainly they'd make worthy opponents. Right?

The rider scowled. She'd never fought another mutant before-- skilled humans, sure-- but the darkness inside of her seemed to scream at her that fighting a mutant, a worthy mutant would be a whole other level. The darkness wanted her to grow, get stronger, change somehow. But how? She asked herself. She'd had this conversation with herself many times before, and always, there was never an answer to be found. Just that familiar hollow feeling her black insides left her with. She needed to keep training, she supposed-- keep getting stronger-- keep killing things that considered themselves strong until she could figure it out.

Speaking, metaphorically, of killing things. Was she nearly there? How long had she been riding now? The sun was no help-- but her guess was at least 10 hours since she had left that inn. The horse, strong as he was, would need to rest for the day soon. The rider adjusted herself to sit on the horse upright, the environment was still dead as she looked around. Easily fishing out the contract she was pursuing, along with a crudely drawn map of the region. She gazed at both, keeping them in front of her face-- she frowned as the horse continued to trot along, every now and then slowly moving out of the way of a barren tree.

"What the fuck does '2 days ride north' even mean, anyway?" She asked with a tilt of her head, pink hair peeking out beneath the hood as she did, "We have been going north, right? ♥" She leaned forward, asking the horse gently, receiving a snort from the animal in reply. "Hmmm..." here eyes still narrowed, she glanced from the map to the actual contract. Nothing of real use to her was on it, high danger, be prepared for a long trek, it was recommended as a multi-man job, no exact known location... whatever. The only part of the contract that mattered to her, was that these rebel knights were seeking to build up some sort of rebellion. Trained knights! And there were possibly more of them now, holed up somewhere up here-- her anticipation for the challenge filled her with such exquisite bloodlust that she had to stop herself from drooling!

Suddenly, a strong breeze picked up-- much stronger than the rider was prepared for-- both sheets of parchment went flying out of her gloved hand. She gazed expressionlessly as the two sheets seemed to fly forever into the sky, never to be seen again. As she slowly gazed forward again, she could make out a medium sized stone shack in the distance, seemingly attempting to be hidden by the snow, perhaps intentionally covered by the snow? It fit the description, that was probably it. How lucky! With a click of her teeth, the rider prompted the horse to pick up the pace toward the cabin.

After tying up her ride to a tree a ways away from where conflict was certainly about to ensue, the pink haired woman began to approach the cabin, "So damn cold..." she shivered, gripping the corners of her heavy cloak, further burying herself in the thing. Her boots, which she resented being forced to wear by the weather made soft sounds as she walked. She'd certainly be seen before she was heard. As she slowly left the scarce cover of the skeletal brown trees and entered the clearing where the cabin was located, she got a better look at everything.

The one story cabin was simple from what she could make out, underneath the artificial camouflage of snow, uneven and made out of gray cobblestone, it was wide though, presumably wide enough to house the beginnings of a revolution. The door was wooden and looked about ready to fall off of it's hinges. A single stump with an axe lodged in the middle was about 15 feet away from the door of the cabin, all along the sides and back of the building was firewood, save for a gap where a cellar door was-- she assumed this was where they kept the food needed for this little operation. There was a single crude window on the front of the building, through which the pink haired woman could make out figures walking back and forth, drinking out of flagons, and generally making merry. Listening closely, she could hear laughter coming from inside. Otherwise, the trees surrounding the cabin created an almost perfect circle, 30 feet in diameter.

All of this was useful information, the more variables in play, the stronger she was. Though, ideally she could get out of this without destroying the cabin, since she and the horse would need a warm place to spend the night. She continued taking steps forward, more confident than cautious, until she was next to the woodcutting log and axe. Suddenly, a voice boomed, to the pink haired woman's surprise, a feminine one. "Alright. That's quite far enough!" The pink haired woman eyes scanned everything in sight looking for the oddity, the source of the voice. On top of the building a figure had popped out, a brunette woman with skin like ivory lay prone, snow on her head, crossbow in her hands, one eye closed as she aimed at the pink haired woman.

The pink haired woman shrugged but responded enthusiastically, "Okay! ♥" A polite smile crossed her lips as soon as she was able to make eye contact with the woman. The pink haired woman's mind raced-- so was this woman just who they had on guard duty? Or was she their leader? The tone of authority in her voice certainly suggested this-- but a human woman leading a group of former knights? That was certainly... something. She could have been one of their wives perhaps-- or maybe the rebels were recruiting and arming peasants and she just happened to be competent enough to be put in some position of importance, even just as a lookout. Still... Meanwhile, inside the cabin, the pink haired woman could hear the sounds of merriment come to a halt-- they must be getting suited up, ready to fight the new threat. That was good, an organized group of knights would be a real challenge! The pink haired woman had to struggle not to let her excitement show on her face as she gazed up at the sniper.

The sniper fell silent for what felt like a long time. A slight commotion could be heard inside as men struggled to get their armor on and ready their weapons. She's stalling, that much is obvious. She decided to let the sniper have her way-- the pink haired woman was curious to see if the men would rush out on their own, or if she'd be the one giving the command. So the two would stand in silence, if that was what she wanted. However, the pink haired woman did activate her ability, maintaining her polite smile, she closed, or rather nearly closed her eyes, while looking up at the woman-- curious what effects her luck might have on their armor, she focused, bringing forth her ability from her unconscious, keeping her eyes nearly closed to avoid drawing attention to them with the sickly pink glow they gave off when fully active. The pink haired woman was fairly sure the sniper hadn't gathered she was a mutant yet.

After some time, the sniper broke the silence. "Wh-who are you? Who sent you? What do you want here?" The sniper was unnerved, the pink haired woman could taste it, though, not enough to drop her aim.

"Surely you've put it together by now, you've been laying in wait for someone like me all this time, after all!" She shook her head, "Really! You must be freezing. I know I am." The pink haired woman shrugged, briefly opening up her cloak as she did, holding her hands in the air. In an exasperated tone she told the truth. "I'm a dog of King, sent here to kill you all. ♠"

The sniper let out a laugh, her nerves subsiding. This annoyed the pink haired woman, "Just you?"

"Just me! ♥"

"And how do you intend to do that all on your own...?" As she said this, the pink haired woman was already fully opening her glowing eyes and pulling back her hood, feeling the cool wind on her face (much to her annoyance), revealing her unnaturally pink hair and horns. This did unnerve the sniper a bit again. _{"Mutie scum..."} she muttered, before continuing, "Even so, you're still just one pawn-- I have nearly 20 trained knights here!" The sniper lied, revealing more than she realized.

So she was their leader, the pink haired woman confirmed-- that was good to know, she'd need to keep her alive. Leaders tended to feel the most potent despair after an utter defeat. Especially ones like this, who actually believed in something, that they were doing something good. She had a few more suspicions to confirm. The sniper would probably reveal more if she could keep her talking-- which meant she'd need her to feel she had all the power in this exchange.

The pink haired woman was careful not to let the sniper know she knew she was lying, as she spoke "I am just a pawn..." She echoed, giving a sigh, "I'm obviously hopelessly outnumbered, and even with my pathetic powers I doubt I could even stop you from just shooting me here. How unfortunate." She gave a light pout.

The sniper's eyebrows furrowed at this. "Y- That's it? Then why did you even come all they way out here?"

"Well, why did you?"

"W--" The sniper stopped herself, took a breath, and gave a speech. One, it seemed to the pink haired woman, she'd never had the chance to use before, but had rehearsed many times in her head. "The King and Nobility have oppressed this land for far too long! Knights are seen as tools of war and are used by those in power to maintain a violent status quo over peasants who are too overworked and miserable to change anything themselves." The pink haired woman was well aware of the crimes and inequalities in this land, she didn't care, but she had eyes-- the real question was why did this woman care so much? "The Lords of this land live in a constant state of luxury and excess, while it's peasants, the farmers and smallfolk barely scrape by day to day--" She just gave it away. "-- either in a near constant state of squalor and terror in the cities, or enforced malnourishment in the countryside, due to the poaching laws, land regulations-- or, put simply-- government sanctioned criminals. The--"

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I've heard. Her thoughts interrupted the sniper as she continued to speak-- of course, that wasn't all she was. A few things had made the pink haired woman suspicious, but the word 'smallfolk' brought it all together. The woman was obviously educated, there could have been other explanations for that. Her use of the word 'pawn' was another big indicator-- as far as the pink haired woman knew, the poorer citizens of this land didn't play chess. However, what confirmed in was her use of the word 'smallfolk,' only someone raised in the nobility used that word. This woman wasn't some peasant revolutionary, she was a guilty noble! And the pink haired woman could feel the lady noble's guilt rising as she went on and on about the inequalities of the land, about the use of 'muties' to clean up the king's messes, how it was all a bandage to a solution he didn't want properly healed because he and the nobility actually benefited from a state of near-war in the land.

"Sure, sure. ♥" the pink haired woman interrupted... whatever the noble was saying, something about uniting the peasants and knights against the real enemy, with a gentle tone and a smile still on her face, "What I'm wondering is, why is a noble woman leading this little... rebellion?"

"How did y--"

"No, dear, it wasn't in my contract. You weren't mentioned anywhere at all. Just the 7 knights you defected with..." She was attempting to make this woman feel small, and by how she felt-- the anger welling up from within her, it was working, "I imagine your family has already disowned you. They probably want this done as quickly as possible, your treason erased from your family's memories-- I'm sure your brothers and sisters will forget you soon enough anyway." She crossed her arms, "You'll die here, with knights you used as tools before, and use as tools now... ♠" Her smile went even wider, "And those peasants, of course, won't be spared either-- you've led them into a slaughter. ♠" The pink haired woman was getting bored-- she knew what made her opponent tick, and she could feel despair beginning to overtake that. "And in it all, you'll be seen as nothing, just a guilty nobody-- a guilty failure, at that. You've only made the King richer by raiding some duke's carriages, contributing to the war you detest so much."

The noble woman's blood was boiling at this point, fire burned behind her eyes. she shifted underneath the snow to take better aim, taking her time to stand on the slippery roof as she aimed at the pink haired woman. Harsher winds began to whip around the two as the woman spoke. "I'll kill you!"

The pink haired woman had to focus on containing the growing warmth between her legs, "Oh don't look at me like that! She said, blushing a hot pink, "You're getting me distracted from the job. ♥"

As the woman fired, the cocked string snapped, snapping the bolt and sending it flying backwards-- directly into her eye. She let out a shrill howl that echoed into the dead woods as she fell backwards with all her weight against the uneven roof. She rolled off the cabin, landing first against the logs of firewood, then falling face first into the snow, where scarlet could be seen slowly pooling around the eye that had been shot. Like clockwork, the roof began to groan, the firewood fell in a messy pile on top of the noble woman, and a large man, a bit taller than the pink haired woman, covered in full plate armor kicked the door open responding as quickly as he could to the scream, now ready for battle. Men clamored behind him to fight whoever had harmed their leader, but only 3 more could exit before the cabin had had enough-- with a final groan, the ceiling collapsed, and the walls fell inward. Hard cobblestone clanged against armor, trapping-- or outright killing anyone still inside.



"Aww, gods be damned. Just my luck..." The pink haired woman muttered, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "Well where the fuck am I supposed to sleep now!" She asked the sky. As she returned her focus to the newly formed pile of rubble, and the 4 men before, her she eyed the cellar-- still probably not collapsed. "Ugh. ♠"

As the pink haired woman lamented her luck, the four men before her were torn between trying to save their comrades, and dealing with the black cloaked, pink haired threat before them. The men in chain mail recognized her after a moment, they were feeling fear, a bit scared to approach-- muttering between themselves that she might be the pink devil, the pink demon, the pink this, the pink that. It got old. You can't just put 'pink' in front of something and make it some terrible moniker.

The pink haired woman sighed, "Look sirs, those titles are all terrible. You should feel poorly about yourselves for subscribing to them. I'd rather you just call my by actual name, Im--"

The tall knight in full plate finally spoke up, "The Woe of the Sands..." He whispered softly.

"Oh! ♥" She snapped her fingers and pointed at the man (though, this was hard to manage with her leather gloves, "Not quite what I would have chosen, but points for creativity! I rather like that." She smiled politely at the man, "May I have your title, sir?"

"Nay. We chose to abandon our titles when we followed Lady Gwen--" He stopped, forcing himself to call her by just her name, as she had instructed them to, "Gwendolyn's crusade. And a plague like you isn't worth our names. You may call me, your death if you wish, woeful one." With this final comment, the man drew his large greatsword. The two average looking men in chain mail beside him drew short swords and shields and flanked both his sides. The fourth man was a bit smaller than the other three, drew two daggers, and got low to the ground, taking up the rear. It looked like these men had abandoned chivalry-- and were going to fight her all at once. A M A Z I N G!

Lady Gwendolyn, so that was her name, she looked briefly over to the pile of log wood, before returning her attention to the knights. "As you wish, Sir Death! ♥" She clapped her hands together giddily in excitement for the upcoming struggle. "If you hurry and kill me, you might be able to save her before she freezes!" Her small smile went menacingly wide, giggling as she spoke, "You won't though! Kill me, that is. I'm pretty fucking strong! I give you less than 5 minutes. ♠"

The 4 approached where the pink haired Woe of the Sands stood-- where she had been standing since she first began moving-- fast. They had gotten used to fighting together for... however long they'd been doing this. The pink haired Woe made no effort to move as death approached, instead letting her body go limp as the winds whipped around her. As the large knight went for a horizontal slash, attempting to decapitate the woman, she found herself pushed by a particularly strong gale to the left, which ended with her tripping over the woodcutting log she'd been and loosening the axe that had been lodged inside of it. The large knight shifted his weight, and brought down his sword on the pink haired woe just as she sat up, rubbing her rear from the mild pain of the trip, still giggling. Unfortunately the man to his right, had made a lunge toward the woman with his short sword, tripping on a rock hidden in the snow-- he landed right in the path of the powerful vertical slash-- chain mail only did so much against something that was 6 feet long, five inches thick, and generally more of a slab of steel than a sword, coming down with the force of pure muscle and gravity. His head rolled several feet away, his torso staining the snow next to the stump a deep crimson red.

One down.

The large knight was paralyzed by what he had done. He had just murdered this man-- his comrade-- his friend. Battle wasn't supposed to go like this. The other man with a sword and shield let out a scream and charged the laughing pink haired plague of a woman-- she wasn't even really doing anything, but it was like something was fueling her. When the first man had lunged, his trip had instead bashed her with his shield, sending her rolling away several feet as she let her body move with the force, she stood slowly and began to dust the snow off of her cloak. "That man had a family, you demon pink haired cunt!" The second chain mail knight yelled as he prepared to slash her, having closed the distance-- her back still to him-- with as powerful a horizontal slash as he could muster.

"Had. ♠" She said coolly. Her back was still to him, but she turned her head, so that a single, scarred, glowing pink eye gazed directly at him-- or rather, into him.

"W-what?" His strike was halted by that single word. His sword trembled in his hands as it failed to follow through on the slash.

Turning toward him completely, she spoke with a smile, throwing in a laugh every so often, "Well you know... We had to make sure there were no loose ends..." She lied, continuing "Anyone we could identify as being connected to being part of your little 'group' had to be killed so there would be no further chance of a coup, or even any revenge killings." She patted him on the shoulder twice as she began to walk past him. The man dropped his sword and fell to his knees. His despair tasted like biscuits. Bland. Still, she needed as much of it as she could get right now, so she'd let her new cattle be until it became too unruly. Placing a hand to her breasts, she could feel them a bit smaller than they were an hour ago, she was loosing a little essence, a little muscle, the returns from these men's misery weren't as great as the demands of her luck.

The large knight was pulling his sword from the woodcutting log it had lodged itself in. He was still feeling great despair over decapitating his fellow knight, but he was steeling himself for an attack. The pink haired cunt decided she'd let him approach her when he was ready. As she wondered where the other guy, the sneaky one was-- she had a coughing fit, bowling over on her knees-- coming from one of the sicknesses slowly eating away at her, she was sure. However, as she fell to the snow, two hands holding knives sliced the air where her throat had just been. Looking up, she noticed just who she had been looking for! The sneaky man! Reacting quickly, he flipped both knives around in his hands, and brought them down on her, like the fangs of a cobra. Instinctively, she brought an arm up to protect her neck. Both daggers sunk deeply into her arm-- in fact they sunk all the way through! The tips dripping pink blood onto her, mere inches away from her eyes as the handles pressed hard against the top of her arm. She couldn't help but let out a loud moan of pleasure at the sheer pain of it.

She needed this. The pain. There was something beautiful about it. Her pupils practically became the shape of hearts as the man began attempting to pull out the daggers. Snapping back to the fight, in between moans of ecstasy, she quickly gathered that while this man was the fasted and sneakiest of the group, he wasn't the strongest. He struggled for more than a second to pull out both daggers, before giving up, and using both hands to remove one. Instead of attempting, then, to remove the other dagger lodged deeply in her arm. He went for another killing blow with just the one-- the pink haired cunt assumed he thought her moans were those of pain, instead of pleasure-- she quickly brought up her arm, blocking the strike to her neck with the broad side of the dagger sticking out of her arm. Her legs tingled as pain shot up her arm. More pink blood fell on the snow. The sneaky man quickly jumped back several feet-- for second she had thought she'd unnerved him. But then she heard loud, heavy steps crunching through the snow-- the large knight attempting a lower horizontal strike as he charged at her. Attempting to get up quickly, the pink haired cunt found herself getting wrapped up and tumbling around in her cloak. The man's attack completely missed her due to this.

The large knight had to work hard to bring himself to a full stop. Giving the pink haired woman enough time to slowly get up, brush the snow off her cloak (again), and pull the dagger out of her arm. Pink blood dripped down her leather glove, spilling more onto the snow. "You gentlemen really know how to treat a lady! ♥" The two, the large knight and the sneaky man-- were circling her like starved predators, hunting other predators, like an oversized lion and a one-clawed cheetah circling a pink genet. She felt hunger for her life from both of them-- neither of them were thinking-- they were acting on pure instinct. She could respect these two as more than cattle. For what felt like a long time, but was mere seconds, no one moved.

The large knight was the first to move, charging the pink haired genet. The breeze pushed her, but even if it hadn't, she could have dodged his blow-- bringing up her arm, she splashed all the blood she could from her arm into the small visor that hid the man's eyes. The man had planned this obvious attack to be a feint, of course-- he had planned on kicking her when she dodged-- but his vision suddenly being taken from him-- he hadn't accounted for. He overshot his kick and fell backward, hard, creating a thundering thud next to where the pink haired genet stood. The lion temporarily out of commission, she turned her attention to the cheetah. She held her dagger, in her off-- non stabbed hand, as if ready to throw it. Wordlessly she seemed to ask the man, Shall we compare our knife throwing? The man, flipping the knife in his hand, wordlessly agreed-- showing just the slightest ghost of a smile. She closed her eyes and threw.

The pink haired woman had never thrown a knife in her life.

When she opened them, the sneaky man lay on the ground-- apparently, two pieces of parchment had flown into his face right before he threw-- a crudely drawn map, and a contract for rebel knights. The dagger lodged between his eyes, affixed them there like nail to a painting. As the parchment soaked up blood, it dripped onto the snow, adding more crimson to the white desolation that the ground just became around here this time of year. His, for the record, had hit her square in the right horn-- even without his eyes he nearly got her. Nearly. With a bit of yanking back and forth, she managed to pull the thing out.

Now it was time to deal with the lion. He was still on the ground, it seemed his armor was a bit too cumbersome to allow him to get up with ease, clawing at his face-- or rather, his helmet-- desperately trying to get the thing off. The pink haired woman's smile softened, eyes becoming harsher, and dimmer, as she returned her luck to her subconscious-- she wouldn't need it for him, after all. Out with a whimper? Pathetic. Dropping the dagger in the snow, she went to pick up the axe, laying next to the headless man. Waiting for the large man to finally unclasp his helmet-- admittedly he was probably having such a hard time due to simple bad luck, that she'd lain upon him-- but it was still quite the pathetic display. He was blonde haired and blue eyed with a chiseled jaw and high cheek bones-- the perfect vision of a knight. The pink haired woman had never been particularly fond of people like him. When his helmet came off, the axe came down-- he was immediately greeted by another strike, and another, and another. This went on long enough for the pink of her blood, occasionally spurting from her arm, to mix with the crimson, pink matter, and skull chunks of his in the snow. She laughed with each strike.

She had predicted the battle would last less than five minutes, and if you counted the man who had simply given up, it hadn't even lasted two.



Sighing, and panting. She moved nearer to the man. He was resigning. No longer feeling the despair she needed to live. She'd figured she could use the man to keep her feed for at least some of the ride back, but she couldn't get full off of someone who had completely given up-- resignation became a lack of feeling. She figured she had better just get rid of him too. Sighing, she walked over to the man, whistling an old Arabic tune she'd heard as a child. The man was still there of course-- on his knees, in this cold ass snow somehow-- but he looked noticeably worse, as if he'd aged by a decade and hadn't gotten a wink of sleep for a day of it. He was completely despondent, he didn't react to the pink haired woman squatting in from of him at all, didn't notice the arm that she let go limp-- dripping bright pink blood, didn't blink as she took his sword-- still dropped at his side, inches away from his hands that didn't react to the coolness of snow. Aside from the ravages of his despair, he had a rather plain face. Kinda curly brown hair, brown eyes so dark they almost looked black in the dying light of the afternoon, completely unremarkable aside from his freckles, and even those kind of added to the 'averageness.'

They sat like that for a minute, him, expressionless, staring at the ground-- her, a faded smile trying to find life in his eyes. She tried snapping a few times with her gloved hand. Nothing. He seemed... gone. She was just going to kill the guy, and finish this job-- but then she got it in her to ask something. "Hey, do you believe in God?"

The man remained silent for a long time, and then, like a candle was lit, his eyes raised from the ground slowly. _{"I... Do I what?"}

"God. You think He's real?" She tapped her fingers on the hilt of the sword-- his former sword--that she had drove into the ground to help steady her. "Christian God, specifically. The one all these Europeans are so crazy about. We can talk about the other ones later."

_{"I... think so?"}

She shook her head, visibly displeased with the answer, "Faith is a leap, sir-- you either take it or you don't." She sighed, "Let me put it in terms you can understand-- as a knight, what good is thinking you killed your opponent? You either did or didn't-- if you only think you'll never know, and if you never know, it'll always come back to bite you in some way."

_{"I received blessings as a knight--"}

"Lotta good that did you."

_{"-- I go to church every Sunday, I pray daily, I-I... I..."}

The pink haired woman blew a raspberry, "You're not answering my question, dammit! Those things are traditions-- but they're not belief."

_{"I-I don't think I know..."}

She tilted her head, "Know what?"

_{"Know... what belief is... or..."} He spoke up a bit, pulling off his chain mail cowl, "I think I only believe in things that are... there."

"Like Lady Gwendolyn, or your family?"

He winced at this, but nodded quickly, before adding, "Why... why are we talking about all this?"

The woman shrugged, favoring the arm that hadn't been stabbed twice. "Bored." She yawned, "But you're a pretty boring guy, I was hoping talking to someone going through such a crisis of faith might be more interesting. But all you have faith in is something to lead you around. You're worse a dog, what spiritual insights are to be had from a creature robbed of all instincts?"

The man went silent again, eyes back on the snow.

"So," She stood, wince-moaning as she dusted her cloak off as best she could, despite the fact that a good portion was covered in her own blood. At least there wouldn't be any fucking snow. "I guess it's time to finish you off. Got a job and all that. ♠"

_"W-wait."

"What?" She said with a forced smile, "You want last words or something? I don't really do that kind of thing, sir."

_{"You never told us your name..."}

"Oh! ♥" Her eyes glittered, "You're so right, sir! I tried, but things got a bit crazy when I tried to!" She sighed, "I'm Josephine! I've always gone by Josie though! ♥ What about you? What's your name?"

_"Adam..."

"Adam! And you don't believe in your Christian God?" She laughed, "That's just... Really ironic, sir!" As her giggling subsided, she tried her best to put on a sympathetic smile, she was sure this is how farmers felt when they put down an animal that could no longer produce, "Well, goodbye, Adam."

The man closed his eyes, looking down, seemingly accepting his fate. Pulling the sword from the ground with her remaining good hand, she held the tip just at the softest spot on his neck, a small bead of sanguine blood appeared. The two held this position for a long time. He finally spoke what would be his last words, _{"I hope you find your peace, Josephine."}

"Hey, what if I told you something insane?" She leaned down to whisper into the man's ear. Almost as soon as she began to speak, his eyes exploded open, they seemed to be bigger than dinner plates. He felt an explosion of emotion all at once, some of which Josie could even consume-- but so much of it at once actually hurt. She wasn't sure that had ever happened before. The man tried to stand up, and the sword slide cleanly into his throat as he did-- beginning the process of drowning the man in his own blood. Josie was thankful for it, as he began to focus on the pain and loss. Soon he crumpled back down to his knees, and then on his side. He was crying-- almost enough tears to rival the amount of blood he was losing. Josie turned to leave him to it-- there was another source of her nourishment nearby, one that could last as a source of food for her during the trip back.

Pulling cut logs away from the pile was a pain with only one arm, but Josie had managed-- it took about an hour in her state-- but she'd managed. And she would continue to manage. She always did.

Especially now! Because now she had a steady supply of misery. The woman tied to the chair across from her in the mostly barren cellar was the failed revolutionary Lady Gwendolyn. The woman-- while being dragged by her hair by Josie across the snow as she retrieved her horse, made a fire for it, gave it all the meager vegetable matter she could find in these failed revolutionaries pathetic "stores", and just generally as she scavenged enough from the destroyed building above to make sleeping in this cold cellar some approximation of 'comfortable' for the night-- had muttered nothing but _{"I'll kill you."} over and over again. Josie found it kind of romantic, actually.

But now that she was tied up? She'd simply resorted to glaring angrily at Josie with her eye and the occasional fit of crying. Josie to her credit-- actually took the time to read the full blood soaked contract and found that it would only be paid in full if Gwen was returned 'ALIVE.' Lucky that she'd gotten curious about that. As such, Josie had to take care to do what little she could to mend Gwendolyn's injuries. She'd yanked out the half of a bolt that took her eye-- that thing was definitely gone-- disinfected it as best she knew how. And done her best to set most of her broken bones. Which was a lot of them. She was no medical expert, nor did her powers have any real medical usage, aside from maybe luckily curing a disease one could naturally recover from, but she did what she could for the woman. The real trouble was the broken ribs. Josie had had her ribs broken before-- many times-- but she didn't have the abilities of the Academy here to fix them. At least they didn't seem to be piercing her lungs? As long as the ride over the next few days was smooth, she'd survive.

She'd be in immense pain, physically for at least a few months. Emotionally? Forever, maybe? Josie didn't care about all that though.

Josie herself was already feeling a bit better after the fight. She'd wrapped her arm tightly in some cloth after pouring the small bit of alcohol they had in this cellar on her wounds. She already found herself falling asleep-- she doubted she'd get many hours in these cold conditions, the nights were much colder than in the desert, but she had her cloak, now with blood mostly dried, and had made something of a coffin for herself out of the blankets and tunics she could scavenge from above. Her eyes felt heavy as she leaned against a pile of scrunched up tunics on the wall.

In the morning, there would be two riders.

The pink haired-- cunt, demon, devil, plague, The Rider, The Woe of the Sands, the whatever was restless.



Josie laid in her bed, staring at the featureless ceiling. In 5 years, she hadn't ever taken the time to really decorate her room. The walls around her were spacious, but barren-- they felt like the holding cells of Cairo, but less warm. There was a simple wooden desk (where there often bandages, bloody or ready to be bloodied, and a simple box for her jewelry sat) an uncomfortable chair, and her bed. Admittedly more comfortable than the scraps she'd share with her siblings in Cairo, but something about it was missing-- being more comfortable didn't make it better. She remembered when she first arrived here-- she hated remembering things-- she would often spend nights sleeping under the bed, or in the corner with a sheet wrapped around her like a mummy. It was uncomfortable and hard, just like home. The hard was underappreciated-- why sleep in a huddle with your brothers and sisters when you can sleep alone in a bed? She felt too many people thought that, that the soft and comfortable thing was the best. If you spend enough time around soft things, you'll perish like an over-pampered dog in the jaws of real hunter when the hard thing happened. If you weren't getting stronger to best the bigger threat, then you were worthless. Her hunger had taught her that.



Her thoughts turned to Lady Gwendolyn. She had just gotten back, but she found herself thinking a lot about the woman. It took some time to determine what she was tasting from the woman on their ride, during their stay in that abandoned shack where the two had to huddle together beneath her cloak. The woman still wanted to kill her, Josie had a difficult time understanding why, but she respected it. The woman was physically very soft-- but she had the resolve to become much harder. She wondered if Lady Gwen would agree with her worldview. They had gotten to talk a little, about philosophy, the spiritual world... the conversations, when Gwen was in the mood to talk and not just cry or remind Josie that she would kill her for hours-- were interesting. She saw revolution as something as not ending with the overthrow of a soft king ruling over those who were tricked into being his subjects, or simply did it because it was the 'soft' thing-- revolution was permanent, and existed on all levels, a philosophy couldn't dominate others much in the same way that a person couldn't. If there were gods, attempting to dictate fate without consent, we should kill them. Josie agreed, she wished they could have spoken on more.



Looking again at her room made the woman sigh. Maybe it would be pretty to decorate? She hardly spent money on anything, she could hang some of her dresses on the wall? Or buy new ones? Surely there had to be someone in this stupid Cloud city that specialized in Egyptian fashion? She could arrange them in any array of pleasing colors. But her hunger reminded her that there would be no point to this. She needed to consume, and fight, and get stronger. And then maybe she wouldn't be so empty. Her encounter with Adam reminded her that it had weaknesses she'd yet to discover-- so there must also be strengths she's yet to reach. She asked the blackness that swirled inside her body how to reach those new heights. She knew it wouldn't respond. She had to be patient and fight. But she couldn't do that right now because...



"Fuck." she said aloud.

She sat up with a grunt. Maybe she'd head to library? Or just wander the halls and eat holiday angst. She needed to clear her head. Or kill something.