[Hayame has never liked the feel of magic in her body. Others may be used to it, but she came from a world where the only thing that determined the outcome of a battle was physical strength, the quality of a weapon, and the luck or strategy of circumstance. None of these spells, that wove through veins and forced the body to do things that nature never intended. She has the warning, at least, but it does not stop her body from shivering in instinctual rejection of the magic belonging to a man she so resents and seethes against invading her being.
Disgusting. And she should be ashamed for taking it.
But it was required. The heat of the summoned flames crackles in the air and warms her skin and coat, the blast of hot hair sending her fetlock-length mane and tail whipping behind her in inky black streams, but her flesh does not burn and her hair does not singe. Someone else's might, though... if they do not run or use another method. Though she only has one eye... No, she doesn't, does she? As the flames spread, as she waits in the wake of Voryn's declaration for the faint sound of feet on stone or a break in the invisibility cloaking their enemy, Hayame reaches up to rip the patch from over what the leather's presence would imply ought to be a empty eyesocket or an ugly scar.
Instead, it is a perfect left eye... with a sickly green iris that does not match at all with the stormy grey of her right. And with those two eyes, she sees the subtle movement of flame within more flame colliding with something solid, the light reflecting strangely off a shield. A shield spell that she knows well, because she has begrudgingly learned it too. One she knows from experience... only lasts for the one attack. The tar-like ooze of the man's voice in communion brushes through her head, even if it does not seem to be for her, but regardless... she calls out, lips curled, fangs bared.]
Go thank your pet demon for dragging me off my high horse, gaki!
[She still remembers every poisonous word she'd been forced to listen to during the debate over Manon's shard. If it had only been that... she might have very little personal hate for the man called Silco, just a bit beyond her default hatred for all Zenites who fought to rob her of the change to redeem herself and return to her world. But Silco... He is the "master" supposedly holding the leash of the beast that had humiliated her, that had drugged her and bound her and shoved a bit into her mouth like an unbroken horse to cut into her skull and connect the shriveled remnants of her optic nerve to a cursed organ she never asked for. The beast that forced her to remember that no matter how loyal she was, how strong, how devoted... that maybe she was just a woman, just a mortal... just a dumb half-animal only valued until she asked to be.]
Now I can hunt you down in the mud where you're so fond of crawling!
[It is personal now. And with the benefit of the gift Sebastian Michaelis had kindly bestowed upon her to make them "even"... Her sharp aim is even truer, when a thick arrow over a meter long and tipped with sharp iron goes screaming through the air towards where she estimates Silco must be, loosed from the heavy, powerful bow of a jinba bred and trained solely to pursue... then capture or kill.
no subject
Disgusting. And she should be ashamed for taking it.
But it was required. The heat of the summoned flames crackles in the air and warms her skin and coat, the blast of hot hair sending her fetlock-length mane and tail whipping behind her in inky black streams, but her flesh does not burn and her hair does not singe. Someone else's might, though... if they do not run or use another method. Though she only has one eye... No, she doesn't, does she? As the flames spread, as she waits in the wake of Voryn's declaration for the faint sound of feet on stone or a break in the invisibility cloaking their enemy, Hayame reaches up to rip the patch from over what the leather's presence would imply ought to be a empty eyesocket or an ugly scar.
Instead, it is a perfect left eye... with a sickly green iris that does not match at all with the stormy grey of her right. And with those two eyes, she sees the subtle movement of flame within more flame colliding with something solid, the light reflecting strangely off a shield. A shield spell that she knows well, because she has begrudgingly learned it too. One she knows from experience... only lasts for the one attack. The tar-like ooze of the man's voice in communion brushes through her head, even if it does not seem to be for her, but regardless... she calls out, lips curled, fangs bared.]
Go thank your pet demon for dragging me off my high horse, gaki!
[She still remembers every poisonous word she'd been forced to listen to during the debate over Manon's shard. If it had only been that... she might have very little personal hate for the man called Silco, just a bit beyond her default hatred for all Zenites who fought to rob her of the change to redeem herself and return to her world. But Silco... He is the "master" supposedly holding the leash of the beast that had humiliated her, that had drugged her and bound her and shoved a bit into her mouth like an unbroken horse to cut into her skull and connect the shriveled remnants of her optic nerve to a cursed organ she never asked for. The beast that forced her to remember that no matter how loyal she was, how strong, how devoted... that maybe she was just a woman, just a mortal... just a dumb half-animal only valued until she asked to be.]
Now I can hunt you down in the mud where you're so fond of crawling!
[It is personal now. And with the benefit of the gift Sebastian Michaelis had kindly bestowed upon her to make them "even"... Her sharp aim is even truer, when a thick arrow over a meter long and tipped with sharp iron goes screaming through the air towards where she estimates Silco must be, loosed from the heavy, powerful bow of a jinba bred and trained solely to pursue... then capture or kill.
But she has no intention of capturing Silco.]