El Taco Taco — Roleplayer Guild

For one brief moment, Victoire considered cooperating with Evander Barius.

And then he called her sweetie, and any good will between them went to shit.

He grabbed her wrist, wrestling her wand arm down with an annoying strength that made her want to head butt him. Hexes and jinxes sprinted through her thoughts as her temper roared to life. Sweetie. A lady. Like she was some limp kneazle, some fragile flower that might wilt at the first sign of frost.

“Don’t touch me,” she hissed, trying to rip her wrist from his hand as he pulled her after him like a child. A child, instead of a decorated Curse Breaker, a woman who had stared down ancient magic and bent it to her will for the past six years and come out with all her limbs intact.

Her temper interfered with her senses, the veela in her veins burning, screaming in her head. Victoire noticed a moment too late that the ruins were locking them in. No, not the ruins—people. Not her colleagues, not Bulstrode. Intruders.

Victoire began to sprint, long strides easily keeping pace with Evander. He then proceeded to do something extremely daft; without hesitation, he braced the portcullis with his lanky frame. Instinct took over and Victoire slid through the disappearing gap. Half a breath later, the iron gate slammed to the stone floor with a very final sort of thud. 

“Merde.” 

The git was locked on the other side. Rising to her feet, wand sparking to the burn of her anger, Victoire took a steadying breath. Potential solutions began to form in her head, pale eyes scouring every inch of the portcullis to hunt for clues. Her thoughts stuttered once more—dear.

“Merlin’s sagging tits, I’m going to kill you myself once we’re out of here,” she snapped, nostrils flaring. Every instinct screamed at her to curse him halfway to next Tuesday, to leave him behind and let the damned ruin consume him, to make him pay for the insult. Reason and morals finally kicked into overdrive, and Victoire forced herself to turn away and collect herself.

In the distance there was fog, ripples of dark magic, and the faintest outline of robed figures. Her heart leapt in her chest. She had to find the others, had to warn them, protect them—
 
Victoire bolted, leaving only the flutter of pale hair, dark robes, and the faintest of footfalls in her wake.
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Schist happens.

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