[Hayame has killed herself twice in the Hall of Mirrors that is nothing like its name. This time, she thinks, she is prepared... but this time, someone else has entered first. Her own memories in the ice are flickers along the way, but they are weakened by the lingering ripples of the one who passed before her, and by the time it tries to show her a man better than she deserved risking his life to save her... She finds the someone else.
It is Amos. Or rather, it is Amos and a twin born of the cursed ice of the Scorching Isles, wrestling on the ground... and Amos is losing. If this were Highstorm or Springstar, perhaps she would have given her aid without a second of hesitation. She owed him, after all, for the weakness she had accidentally shown under the influence of the strange pollen that had blanketed the cities. She had a bow in her hand, and an arrow already notched on the string. Even with only a single eye left to her, she is an expert surely capable of making the shot even at that distance.
... But this isn't Highstorm or Springstar. It is a mission, a so-called "Oracle", whatever the hell that was, was at stake, and supposedly their power was the only thing currently deemed able to help Meridian return the shard-bearers to their worlds. To succeed, they needed [TIME]... and Amos is about to lose his. It would be easy to shoot him herself. It would be even easier to let his own doppelganger steal it, and then steal it from that thing by using the time it took to kill the source to hunt down the mirror holding its true reflection.
For a moment... It seems like she might just do it. Until, that is... the Amos of the ice says that. "Be grateful." Be grateful that is all I'm doing. Where had she heard that before? This man sounds nothing like the groom that had been tasked with raising her, and yet in that instant she can see the broken, pathetic Armless that had borne her as clear as day. She can remember the shame and disgust she felt seeing that mare's dun haunches and black tail smeared with the proof of bestial rutting season as she was led limping to the breeding stall, how the groom's fingers had felt carding through her hair like a man absently petting an animal. If you keep up your training, you might be able to make a warrior out of yourself yet.
The bow is in her hand. Amos is looking at her, his eyes as wild as those she used to hunt. He doesn't want to die humiliated and ashamed. He wants a warrior's death, like she did (surely). He-
By the time the bow clatters to the ice she is already halfway there, bearing down upon like every inch the terrifying force that humans so desired for their battlefields. And by the time the bow stills... it's too late for it to get up, to dodge, before a half ton of muscle and perfect breeding for strength and swiftness slams into the doppelganger with enough force to break bones, hauling it off... and into a wrestling match with a much stronger opponent.]
there will be cws this whole thread
It is Amos. Or rather, it is Amos and a twin born of the cursed ice of the Scorching Isles, wrestling on the ground... and Amos is losing. If this were Highstorm or Springstar, perhaps she would have given her aid without a second of hesitation. She owed him, after all, for the weakness she had accidentally shown under the influence of the strange pollen that had blanketed the cities. She had a bow in her hand, and an arrow already notched on the string. Even with only a single eye left to her, she is an expert surely capable of making the shot even at that distance.
... But this isn't Highstorm or Springstar. It is a mission, a so-called "Oracle", whatever the hell that was, was at stake, and supposedly their power was the only thing currently deemed able to help Meridian return the shard-bearers to their worlds. To succeed, they needed [TIME]... and Amos is about to lose his. It would be easy to shoot him herself. It would be even easier to let his own doppelganger steal it, and then steal it from that thing by using the time it took to kill the source to hunt down the mirror holding its true reflection.
For a moment... It seems like she might just do it. Until, that is... the Amos of the ice says that. "Be grateful." Be grateful that is all I'm doing. Where had she heard that before? This man sounds nothing like the groom that had been tasked with raising her, and yet in that instant she can see the broken, pathetic Armless that had borne her as clear as day. She can remember the shame and disgust she felt seeing that mare's dun haunches and black tail smeared with the proof of bestial rutting season as she was led limping to the breeding stall, how the groom's fingers had felt carding through her hair like a man absently petting an animal. If you keep up your training, you might be able to make a warrior out of yourself yet.
The bow is in her hand. Amos is looking at her, his eyes as wild as those she used to hunt. He doesn't want to die humiliated and ashamed. He wants a warrior's death, like she did (surely). He-
By the time the bow clatters to the ice she is already halfway there, bearing down upon like every inch the terrifying force that humans so desired for their battlefields. And by the time the bow stills... it's too late for it to get up, to dodge, before a half ton of muscle and perfect breeding for strength and swiftness slams into the doppelganger with enough force to break bones, hauling it off... and into a wrestling match with a much stronger opponent.]