It sounds - he has the briefest chance to think - pretty cool,
And then he’s up and he's not thinking at all, thinking slows you down, elbow rocking to bring the blade up that same stupid way got the last guy killed. Too late to see the bandit close. By the time a fist clamps his neck, Astrid's arrow has already found its mark.
(These are hard years for apostates. They were never easy ones, but now there are bellies to fill. Rent to pay. Demands, and demands, in an Age that only seems to grow hungrier -)
Blood burbles. The mage chokes. Lazar flings the sword over the chasm. Bolts streak wide, swallow the blade in their rush for ground. The grip on his neck tightens. Vision spots. The swordsman on Astrid howls as her knee comes up, hair shot wild in the whirling static. Lazar’s heels dig in, hold, but prying hands don’t shake the fucker. Pressure,
The world reels.
Everyone’s little, when you’re big enough. Lazar's body slumps, boneless; and as he falls, the man folds beneath the weight of him. Breath returns: Sluggish now, struggling to reorient, to recall the thrashing face below.
"Astrid," He wheezes. Can’t make himself heard. "Fuck."
There’s a knife strapped on the bandit’s leg. Pinned like this, he can’t twist far enough to reach. Lazar glances back, takes in the struggle on the bridge. Can’t get up without handling this guy. Can’t get to that knife without playing twinsies.
He spits. Lazar reaches his free hand up, and digs a thumb deep into his eye. Takes more pressure than you'd think. Takes less time. The bandit screams, claws feral at his face, at the ground, at anything that might stop this stop this stop.
Lazar stoops to collect the knife, advances on the bridge.
cw some eye gore - lmk if there are any issues w that and i can edit somethin else ❤
And then he’s up and he's not thinking at all, thinking slows you down, elbow rocking to bring the blade up that same stupid way got the last guy killed. Too late to see the bandit close. By the time a fist clamps his neck, Astrid's arrow has already found its mark.
(These are hard years for apostates. They were never easy ones, but now there are bellies to fill. Rent to pay. Demands, and demands, in an Age that only seems to grow hungrier -)
Blood burbles. The mage chokes. Lazar flings the sword over the chasm. Bolts streak wide, swallow the blade in their rush for ground. The grip on his neck tightens. Vision spots. The swordsman on Astrid howls as her knee comes up, hair shot wild in the whirling static. Lazar’s heels dig in, hold, but prying hands don’t shake the fucker. Pressure,
The world reels.
Everyone’s little, when you’re big enough. Lazar's body slumps, boneless; and as he falls, the man folds beneath the weight of him. Breath returns: Sluggish now, struggling to reorient, to recall the thrashing face below.
"Astrid," He wheezes. Can’t make himself heard. "Fuck."
There’s a knife strapped on the bandit’s leg. Pinned like this, he can’t twist far enough to reach. Lazar glances back, takes in the struggle on the bridge. Can’t get up without handling this guy. Can’t get to that knife without playing twinsies.
He spits. Lazar reaches his free hand up, and digs a thumb deep into his eye. Takes more pressure than you'd think. Takes less time. The bandit screams, claws feral at his face, at the ground, at anything that might stop this stop this stop.
Lazar stoops to collect the knife, advances on the bridge.
One left.