Fairy Tail RP

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    No Time for Words [Job]


    Lineage : Light of Luna
    Position : None
    Posts : 77
    Guild : Guildless
    Cosmic Coins : 0
    Dungeon Tokens : 0
    Experience : 250

    Character Sheet
    First Magic: Earth Dragon Slayer
    Second Magic: Lunar Arts
    Third Magic:

    No Time for Words [Job] Empty No Time for Words [Job]

    Post by Lothric 7th November 2021, 7:30 pm

    646/500 WORDS
    One day, I too will carve my name upon this wretched earth.
    HP: 200/200
    SP: 150/150
    MP: 50/50
    Active Spells: Spell 1 (duration), Spell 2 (x/x posts), Spell 3 (x/x posts)
    Active Techniques: Technique 1 (duration), Technique 2 (x/x posts), Technique 3 (x/x posts)
    Cooldown: Spell 1 (x/x posts), Spell 2 (x/x posts), Spell 3 (x/x posts)
    Passives/Buffs: Passive 1, Buff 1, Buff 2 (only for those that currently apply)
    Items Used: Item 1, Item 2
    Monsters Killed: x/x
    Her stance spread. Her hand hovered over the sheath of her katana. It never touched it, nor did it ever draw too far away. It existed in limbo, perpetually stuck between the two options until the necessary play presented itself. Her eye was near-closed, open only to a slit and dead focused on the man across the field from her.
    Such an odd request, it was. A duel to the death; not like the word held any meaning to Lothric anymore. She never did consider other people plights well. Merely swayed at the sight of a few jewel on a table.
    Her stare did not falter.
    Who was she to deny such conviction? She ill knew what she wanted. She never had. She went on because she wanted to keep living, but for what she lived besides life itself had not made itself known to her. The one across from her, sword raised, was wiser. Or, perhaps, less wise. She knew not which. She knew only that he would die. Once, that would have been enough for her. No longer; yet she'd not the conviction to tell him he was wrong. Not the conviction to sway from the price. This was what she was good at, and she was getting paid for it. Perhaps this was who she really was. Perhaps this was all rubbish. She knew not. She knew little, when she thought about it.
    A slow breath filtered through her gritted teeth, and her hand finally made a decision. The only part of herself that Lothric trusted to choose right.

    The sound of the clang was deafening; of the clashing blades. She drew her sword up, slamming it upwards into the one what probably would have took her head off and launching it into the air. She drew it back, swung it around. He caught it with his shield—watched as it got severed in half. She drew it back again, lifted it up by her head. A straight thrust. It was over in seconds.
    The sound made Lothric reactively shut her eyes. Of her piercing his neck. She flinched at it, turned her head away; flinched again at the blood. She didn't know who he was. Why he was here. She was unworthy of this. The best she could give him was her silence, and a reaffirmed stare at what she'd done. She'd look him in the eyes as the light faded, even if it killed her inside to do so.
    She let go of a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.

    Inhale. Exhale. The sickening sound of removal.

    Lothric swung her blade with one hand, spraying the grass with excess blood before running the blunt edge along the inside of her left elbow. Red smeared along her jacket. She'd have to wash it out later; but it was a better alternative to rusting her sword. Another slow inhale as he finally collapsed, and Lothric let herself fall forward in a shallow bow. She wondered at that moment, if he regretted it. She didn't understand religious beliefs. Perhaps, then, the fault lied with her.
    Her eye flicked around the body she'd made—she'd made—and she suppressed the guilt what racked her. It pleased her, if only a little, that she felt something now. Made her feel like the work she'd done on herself had meant something.
    She withheld her huff, and placed her sword tip to his chest—drew an arc up through the air, till she pointed at the clouds. She was not a religious woman, but it felt right. She knew the gesture meant nothing, but... It felt right.
    Another cut through the air, before she touched the hilt to her sheath, drew the blade along it, and slipped it inside.
    The click it made, to Lothric, was not a sound of finality. It equated, simply, to saying "next".

    For what can we do but leave our mark?

      Current date/time is 4th December 2021, 3:52 pm