Title: Venus Going Down, or Mars
Pairings/Characters: Masha, who is now a cursor.
Rating: T for violence.
Notes: Masha on a mission. (Why wasn't a Knight Flora called in to do this? Because this is so much cooler.)
Masha breathes in and out. In and out, in and out. The slow, nearly silent rhythm fills her ears and she lets her thoughts, such as they are, pool into the cool metal of the knives in each of her hands. Her fingers are dry and the leather hilts fit neatly into her palms. They are well-balanced weapons: practical and sharp and easy to conceal in a sleeve or boot. Good.
In and out.
There are no trees here. The land hereabouts is not the lush, damp, green hills of Masha's home, but the scorched, sun-baked hills of the southeast of the Realm. The town is filthy and filled to the brim with smugglers, petty thieves, and human misery; the air is choked with it and she fancies that the ancient, craggy stone walls have imbibed it. That would make sense: the entire place reeks with generations of ambitions thwarted and dreams gone long sour. She wishes in a far distant corner of her mind for dappled shadow of trees and the pleasant feel of dew on her cheeks. She grips her knives harder.
In and out.
Her eyes narrow, but not against the sun or against he sweat dripping down her forehead. A shadow separates itself from a narrow alley—big, brawny and covered in a cloak, and unusual during the hottest hours of the day, when even criminals would retreat indoors until the cool evening. Another shadow, barely a flicker, behind it, and the motion, merely a rotation of a wrist and a flash of two fingers. Mark.
In and out.
She resettles her grip and aims.
In and—
Her motion is smooth and practiced. A flick of each wrist and the knives are flying away from her. They bury themselves to the hilt, one knife for each of the man's knees. His cry rings from the stones as he buckles.
Out.