Flying sucks. Anyone willing to do it after the first experience must be psychotic.
Flying in the stratosphere slowly in Autumn is close to psychotic, though she couldn't claim that she was willing. Strategically, it's Shakira's best option without engaging or alerting her enemies; the thousands currently arriving by dimensional ports in remote areas on the island, where they can find them.
Last night, after she disappeared from under the scouts' noses, Shakira sought anything even suggesting an aura-rich spot on this island, absorbing the raw material into her chakra cores then cycling it to be ruled under her power. Surprisingly, as an animal, it was easier to draw energy vibrations into her magnetic field to her dominant aura cycle at the center of her being.
Galling!
She's had some shitty things happen to her in her life. Crazy things that if they didn't happen to her, she would've had a difficult time believing it from the mouth of someone else.
But how the hell did I turn into a cat?
The answer escapes her notice. Elusive like mist, the question dangles its secrets just at the edge of her focus, tempting her with nagging curiosity. Like the itch in your skin a centimeter from your fingernails, relief is a tantalizing inevitability. It tempts her to spear a moment, a second she didn't have to understand, though she needs all her concentration coordinating her flight. Deviation from that will throw her at gravity's mercy. And that bitch has never heard of mercy.
Those aura spots will take weeks to be restored. The thought of that gave Shakira some satisfaction.
On an island like this, where there are miles of wilderness and sparse gathering of local people, you could march an army for days without being seen. Ethian and his ban of cutthroats will not use normal means when they arrive. They have the technology, and they will use it to sniff her out of her hiding place even if that means messing up this planet's natural growth cycle by introducing advanced technology and knowledge where it doesn't have a place, yet. Which is frightening, just in case that's not clear.
Shakira will be outnumbered should they engage her in a battle. No going around that fact. She is just one person, and her crew is literally in another universe with no way to contact them should she need their help. And from the look of things, Ethian and the other mercenary captains in this group are taking her capture/death very seriously.
But to think. The many-faced-sons of whores think they have the balls to take me on. Shakira thought gleefully over the roar of the artic winds trying to rip off the protective gear she's wearing that covers her entire head, neck, and her shoulder blades.
Like molten leather, it clung and stayed despite the seductive whispers of the winds. A nano-netting built into the hoodie collects every strand of violet under its covering, permitting none to pass its border. Microscopic nods within the netting gather the strands using static electricity, then magnetism from the band interlocks the nods into a tight, secure formless bun, that always looks like a bird's nest on top of her head when she removes the hoodie. A faceguard shields her eyes, nose, and mouth from the stings of the winds, the particles of dirt flowing so high looking down below, and the bugs.
Dark Stars! The bugs!
There's none here in the stratosphere, the air is too thin for a bug's life, but it will not be pretty as she descends. No one tells you these things the first time you fly. They just let it all happen to you.
The beauty of first-time experiences. Shakira's thoughts could suck the moisture from a cloud, they were so dry.
In her experiences, the first time doing something has never been about beauty. The first time she drunk hard liquor. The first time she watched the light die from the eyes of a sentient being. By all reports, virgins never have a good time their first time. The first time someone's fist met her face with fury behind the propulsion, there was no beauty in that. Oh, maybe for the bastard delivering the knuckle sandwich with extra shiner on the side. Then sure. Yippee for him. And the same can be said for flying.
Let's be clear. Humans were never meant to fly. Not under their power. Not without the use of technology. Their very D.N.A. and biological mapping would need to change to register under the laws of physics and the laws of nature. If we're talking wings, then for an average size human to fly, they would need the wing-span of a young Drogo known in layman's terms as a dragon.
Did you know that all the dragons on first earth, Terra in old speech, are in sleep-comas in unexplored sections of Earth's oceans and have been that way for thousands of years since the Era of Vikings? All those underwater mountains might not all be rocks. But let's not digress.
So, humans flying. Right. Wing-spans about 40ft from tip to upper-backbone. And let's face it if you discover a human such as that, it's fellow 'humane citizens' through fear and ignorance for differences in any capacity, would kill it first, and examine it later. And that's if the latter didn't win out, consumed with curiosity in the name of science and the 'greater good.' On a quest to defy the laws of nature and whatnot.
Shakira rolls her golden eyes at that thought. Having been the victim of similar pretexts in her short life already.
When you hear people talk about defying the laws of nature, you can be sure you're listening to idiots. There is no defying that which is responsible for your very existence. The moment you try to defy the inexorable Laws such as Nature, herself, you die. She's not forgiving when it comes to that. Try jumping off the top of a building without aids or some safety net and see what happens. Oh, wait! You won't.
All that being said, what do you call a 'Shakira' currently flying hundreds of feet above ground without the aids of technology or wings; much more spans of 40ft from tip to upper backbone? Yet, here she is. Soaring, cruising, navigating her physical body against the winds of Paradise Island, being careful not to build up a whistling from the airflow circulating over and around her body that will carry over the clouds to ears on the ground. And they didn't have planes here.
Nothing paradise about this place. An oxymoron. Some inside joke. Shakira once again observed with annoyance at the back of her throat like stinging vomit.
No spells or incantations are weaved into the fabric of the air around Shakira, brought active by her deeds, words, or thoughts, shepherd her body from the atmospheric pressure bearing down on all with impunity. So, what do you call that?
"A neat little trick." Shakira grins to herself as she began to descent, coming up on the designated rendezvous point. Hells below! Here come the bugs. She grimaces as she enters the troposphere. All smiles disappearing as the first enterprising wing hit the glass of her faceguard with a clink.
Her enemies call her an abomination. Most of them are from religious departments. Crazies, the lot of them. Petty greed and small-mindedness ground them in spirit and bines them in reality.
Jealous of my talents. That I can do what they and their deaf gods cannot.
"Not to be born! Unnatural!" They'd shrieked at their first encounter and henceforth, it's been like their themed song. Especially, when she refused to die by their machinations, traps, schemes, and assassination attempts. Oh, and she's refused all applications to be a sacrifice to whichever god is in season and needs a power boost from her death aura, no matter what hair-splitting oratory spills from their loyal cowards' lips.
"If it's such a fantastic idea to kill yourself, why don't you go first, take the heavenly rewards for yourself then send me a selfie from Novana." one of her conversations with a High Priest from the Seven World Council ended like that seconds before a fight, alright, it was a battle, broke out.
Shakira calls herself the exception to the rules. Her golden eyes see the facts as they are and not through a film of propaganda like everyone else. You'd be surprised how many people don't agree with this lifestyle.
Not sure why their option should matter. It's not their life. Shakira thought, pissed as the bugs came in their droves at her face-guard. The thick glass held against their onslaught and then some as it was designed to do, but it still made her skin crawl imagining the first time she did this without a face-guard and protective gear. Bugs in her teeth. Bugs in her hair. Bugs in her earholes. Bugs in places you don't want to know about, but they crawled up in there. Shakira nearly lost her balance against the wind as an involuntary shudder spread like a wave over her body.
Rather than being so interested in my life, Shakira repositions her body in the stiff posture it had to maintain to not be blown off course, the cold numbing the blood in her legs. If the members of the Seven World Council spent a quarter of the time penciling out their sorry lives instead of harassing me. No, seriously, maybe not even a quarter. Just use that fragmented time to find out what their definiteness of purpose is, and why the universe bothered to form their bodies in the primordial gas of their mother's cunts from the seeds of their nameless fathers. She huffed, allowing the insult to fall from her mind as the angry thought breathes its last in wake of a calming exhale, repositioning her focus where it should be. Not falling out of the sky like a meteor. The release of warm breath fogs up the glass under her nose as she got closer to the ground as she steadies herself, controlling herself.
Govern your emotions, Shakira. Yes. That's it.
Calm spread through her like heat through metal. And she took another deep breath for good measure.
You wanna always make sure you get the landing right. Flying sucks, yes, but you want to be careful not to wring an ankle or something when your feet touch the ground. And if anything can fuck up your concentration, it's your emotions.
By the wolf, today's not the day for that.
There's nothing special in what Shakira's doing. Any idiot, with a working brain, a willingness to train their body for the differences in conditions, and acclimation, can just as easily descend from the skies as she's doing right now. Okay, maybe not as easy because there is always the fourth realm to consider- Time and the Rhythm of Habit, but still very much possible. Shakira didn't defy the Laws of Nature. A death sentence, remember? All she does is bent them to her will.
A contradiction? Not at all.
Yes. Humans are not meant to fly under their own power. That's an irrefutable fact. The physics of the Air Element cannot accommodate our mass. The weight of blood, muscles, skin, tissues, and bones in the human body is mathematically disproportionate to air density. What Shakira's doing right now is called a fusion of matter and mind. Huge difference between wishful thinking and the aforementioned. Like the width of an ocean, huge. Or maybe wider. And it's not the power of belief, either. Belief can't even get you to levitate 2 feet off the ground. You'd pop a head vein before that happens.
But just as matter consists of the four elements; water, fire, earth, and air, so does the mind hold true to the four aggregates of knowledge, consciousness, conception, and perception.
Without going into specifies and by way of an example: when you witness an inanimate object swaying in a breeze, it is not the breeze that's responsible for its animation. Nor can the object take credit for its movement. But it is your mind that moves in reality. Our brains are only receiving sets connected by our subconsciousness to the Universal Storehouse of Infinite Intelligence. Our subconscious- which is NOT a physical anything, organ, or whatever. Neither is it a soul mapping, bullshit- stores masses of universal energy, which is streamlined through the Universal Storehouse of Infinite Intelligence, and that's where things like ideas and inspiration come from. This is where all things that have ever been, will ever be, and all that is, is stored.
Shakira flying demonstrates what a human who's mastered and harvested their mind power can do. Flying is but a taste of what's possible.
Inconsistency? Hey, take it or leave it. Up to you. There are no inconsistencies in facts. It is your understanding that is limited and made worst, you're the one who limits yourself. You hold the keys to your self-made prisons, and you're the one not conscious of your mind's power or how to use it effectively. But let's not digress.
All is energy. And all energy vibrates. Change the frequency of the vibrations, and you get a different result. Water to ice. Air to sound. Electricity to taste or lightning.
What the hell do you think happens in your tongue when you eat something? The nerve endings, tiny electrical signals get messages to your brain. The receiving set.
All sentient beings have masses of Ether Vibrational Energy, referred to as Universal Energy. If you apply the principles of the Law of Vibration coupled with the principles of the Law of Harmony to your mental constitution, your physical state would have no alternative but to comply with the aggregate on the plains of conception and perception.
"Perception is reality," Shakira remarks. "Whatsoever a man can conceive, he can achieve."
Sounds familiar? These are not pretty sayings or nursery rhymes. This is how people walk on water. Why there're reports confirming beings standing on solid air as if its fluidity matters not, because it doesn't. Not to their mental constitution.
The formula is simple. Your burning desires, fueled by the torrent of universal energy, are channeled through the Universal Storehouse of Infinite Intelligence via the Law of Thought backed by definiteness of purpose (A.K.A stubbornness). It's then crystalized by the shortest route possible thanks to the Law of Causality onto the physical plane. This process is called Ether Vibrational Manipulation. E.V.M. for anyone taking notes.
Landing softly and ankle-wring-free but cramped in the shins, Shakira's boots disturbed the tall grass living next door to a gentle stream. She'd banked an undetectable personal Void Pocket Domain here last night when she finished setting up her traps.
A dimensional pocket or pocket domain is like a threshold only instead of just a doorway, it serves as a hiding place rooted just under the fabric of the element it grows from. It can be hung like a spell onto a physical object. Preferably one unmoving like a boulder or a deep-rooted tree. Something with strong ties to the Earth Element is always a sure bet. But quintessentially, any element can be used as a foundation for a pocket domain, earth is just easier to use than air and water. And who would want to make a pocket domain out of fire element? Shakira could think of a reason but don't see how it's worth the trouble, not to mention the focus and energy it would take to grow the pocket domain under the fickle embrace of fire and heat.
Thankfully, her storage locale was deserted of all sentient life at this time of the morning. A forest encroaches on the opposite bank of the steam where Shakira stands now with her void key glowing a sapphire light under the skin of her wrists, spanning the circumferences of bracelets. A second later, the door opens and Shakira enters into the space. It's not a physical door. Were an observer to watch this happen, it would seem as though a woman just walk into the trunk of a tree and disappeared from this life. And the aura flaring from the opening of a domain space, in reality, is kinda spooky. As designed. Like an invisible sign silently screaming, "danger! Warning! You! Stay away!"
This cache held only a few supplies, food, two modes of transport, and her weapons. Chief among her arsenal were her offensive weapons.
The Giant-Bone Snow Twin Blades- Fire Cut And Moon Slasher are strong as titanium. Both forged in the magma of an erupting volcano by a master sword-smith. Their shark-skin grip will prevent any slips as she sliced and dice her enemies today. Even as their blood coats her wrists and quenches the thirst of Paradise Island. The bone swords are perfectly balanced and built from the smallest bones of an ancient creature that once killed humans and other sentient beings alike for its entertainment. Most people thought her defiled for welding such weapons.
Yes! And most people go choke on a cock.
The Whip Sword- Zephyl was taken on the battlefield from the severed arm of an enemy with an affinity to use the damn thing. If Shakira had been any more careless, the retractable double-edged razor-sharp blades would have cleaved her backbone into four parts.
No mistakes like that today, okay. Shakira said as much to herself as well as to Zephyl, Fire Cut and Moon Slasher.
These are the weapons she uses most often in battle, but she had a recent addition to the family. A weapon she'd only practice with a few times but never in battle. A staff. Stranger still, it wasn't a staff at all.
The weapons store owner was quick to present the thing to Shakira when he found her staring at it with intensity. The poor fellow must've been trying to sell the piece of wood, beautifully craved without elaborations or sigils. The craftsman knew his work, but no one in Naine wanted a staff. Black and beautiful as it is, it was little more than a walking stick.
"How much did you pay for this?" Shakira has asked the porgy man with the limp, interrupting his sales pitch blabbering. A nauseating concoction of flattery and flirtation dribbled from his dry-cracking lips. "Truth, now," Shakira turned to him. He was taller than she was. Who isn't? But the tone she held was sub-Artic at the time. She was in a mood, having just argued with her second in command, Olfaire, an hour before they both stamped off to give each other space. Arguing with Olfaire is like wrenching your teeth out. They were both stubborn. Wait, stubborn is too meek of a word. They both had a temper, but there's a catch. While her temper would cool in a matter of hours, Olfaire needed to rage and break things before he could calm down. Made all the more dangerous when Shakira is calm since they share a Soul's Sphere- a little secret they keep just between themselves. Not even Revy or Hoshii knows about that about this connection. And just so. If anyone with the right ambition for committing heinous atrocities, with world domination on their minds found out that, the universe would quake. If that sound's armageddon-ish, it is. Shakira is Olfaire's Gothie, and the only being in any of the three existences; the past, present, and the future, who will ever be able to kill him.
Coming off fresh from an argument with the bastard, Shakira was steaming as she entered the weapon's shop where a little bell over the threshold rang to announce her presence.
The man told her the price, and Shakira nodded when she didn't see a change in his aura. It was cheap. Ten rubbes, which insulted the onyx weapon in front of her. Had the store owner been less ignorant of what he has in his showcase, he would've done better than 10 rubbes. And when she double the price, he should've been outraged and not blabbering praises at her generosity at the meager increase of getting more than what he'd bargained for. It was the least Shakira could do for such an exquisite weapon. If the store owner was slobbering before, he turned into her bitch after she did that. Then he got smart. Typical in Naine, if you're a woman or a child, people tried to rip you off in any way they can. By the time Shakira paid and turned for the door, three rough-looking boys were blocking the exit.
It's clear what happened next. Summary, the owner of the store didn't get to her rubbes, but he did get a matching limp, so did everyone who blocked her way out of the store.
Before she picked up the weapon in her hand, Shakira can feel it pulsing the second her aura, condensed as it is and hidden under a cloak of void, made contact with dark wood. She can feel it's hungry. Not the hunger of anything living. Living beings understand "enough". They understand "satisfaction." This inanimate object knows only fuel and consumption.
Shakira held the weapon in her hand. Cold to the touch, almost ice.
"Easy, R.D, easy now," Shakira soothes, her fingertips still brushing the smooth black wooden finish.
Seems trifling to the average observer. A girl stroking a beautiful black staff admiringly. The head of it was slightly bigger than her palm, the length longer than her entire arm. Consciously, it's a battle of wills between the inanimate object, consumed with hunger unsatisfied and need unquenched, as it attempts to overpower the living being within its proximity. It's willpower clashing, crashing, attempting to crush then take. And take. Until everything is nothing and ashes.
"Know your place!" Shakira whispers menacing to the Reaper and a short burst of power crackled the air between weapon and master. Sparks of electrical energy push off air currents in the pocket domain, bounce off the vibrations before dying out. R.D stands for the Reaper's Dance and it was broodingly quiet after that.
The staff is for long-range attacks up to 40 feet. Not far, but enough to give Shakira a few seconds to catch her breath should she get caught in pincer movement or boxed in on all sides by the enemy.
There were others weapons, of course. Some defensive, others made to spring traps when activated. Still, others were inhumane once deployed and it made Shakira question her humanity as she packs one deadly weapon after the other in three capacity chains on her body; one on her right ankle, one around her stomach like an invisible belt, and the last stretching from her left underarm cross to her right collar bone. No one will see these unless she reveals them but Shakira will feel their comforting weight on her body. Despite carrying enough weapons and devices plus two modes of transport, to need a trailer or a carrier plane to hold everything and move them from point A to B, the capacity chains combined weighs are less than a light novel on her body.
With Shakira's abilities and understanding, it's easier than anyone could ever comprehend to step over the thin line between monster and human. She almost hesitated last night while testing out one of her traps, set in a dense forest of giant trees stretching their tops to the skies. On another planet, trees this tall and taller are call Moon Rakers because of how their leaves under the influence of the wind, seem to sweep under the silvery chin of the moon/moons depending on the orbit of the planet.
The trap, made of web-thin threads, stronger than gold-steel, capable of holding tons under their weight carries high volts of electricity stored in the hubs where they connect. When triggered, they'll fry the prey to a husk. Their sharp strings will draw blood from deep wounds should the target be caught at an accelerated pace.
She knows there will be no quarter given this battle. She's done her homework and has an accurate understanding of not only what but whom she will face in a matter of hours.
But just to be safe.
Shakira folds her legs underneath, her butt making a soft sound on hitting the glass floor. If she looks down, she would see nothing but roots and dirt. The insects, sensing the unnatural space in its creation phase, moved out in a hurry, leaving behind ting tracks of marching feet or the slithering patterns of earthworms. As if saying, "we were here,"
She close her eyes then inhaled slowly. Deeply. The incantation in her mind turning the keys to her technique.
Shakira collects energy in her stomach, where all energy in the body comes from. Why not use her aura cores, tapping into harnessed energy in storage already, taken from the spots all over the island? The problem with that is, her energy signature can be traced back to her location if the proper techniques are activated. And the bad guys are not stupid, unfortunately for her. Using earth aura as a mask, she can spy on the enemy without being tracked.
After about a minute, Shakira channels the torrent of energy up through her heart chakra, where the vibrations propelled it in waves up to the vocal cords of her throat. Shakira takes a moment to focus. Allowing this much energy to pass through her mouth at once could reduce her tongue to ashes or rip her voice box in half. That would suck. Even in waves as she's split it, it still can leave her throat a raw bloody mess. But she made her breathing even. The potential damage from using this incantation dimming to a flimsy thought at the back of her head. A minor worry if she can confirm who's with Ethian on this day out into the country to chop her head off her shoulders. Or worst.
Concentrating on the sigils burning on her mind's surface. Like a mosquito coil drenched in gas oil, they burn red, picking up the pace, the taste of fuel driving them on. Though she is above it on the pocket domain, Shakira can feel the earthen aura. Golden veins of energy dance to a rhythm she knew well to resist less she got drawn into the whirlpool of the element. In her mind's eye, Shakira can see the network of aura veins beneath her, around her, above her stretching into a million directions. Aura-webbings of green and gold and black. Of blue and grey and shadow. All before her.
Shakira breathes in deeply again before speaking the first line of incantation. Had she been in the presence of another human or sentient being, she couldn't speak these words out loud. The decibel whispered from her lips would burst the eardrums and blood vessels of anyone unprepared for the vibrational energy she releases into this world.
"Know that which stand at your gateway, Daughter of Chaos,"
Her heart thrums, matching the frequency humming from the golden earthen aura spread out without uniform. Without order, yet it is ordered and balanced down to the last vein.
"Bear witness, Terra, Mistress of the Skies. Wife of the Seas as my left-hand tears open the Great Black Cavity"
Shakira feels her heart in her chest like a percussion beating strong and deep. Her focus element, earth, stretches out to her with tendrils of golden auras. It's attention on her. Like hot brands, they intermingle with her spirit; a familiar heat. Pushing against her spirit with its own. Vitality and life and, unmovable resolve enter into Shakira's body in a flood attempting to overwhelm her. Consume her very existence.
With an element, you cannot push back. No matter how powerful you are. Neither can you allow it to sway you. An element has no direction, vast as it is. Not from a shallow-minded perceptive, anyway. Yet, it can be directed.
"Celosia consumes the stone which bridges the world's and melts the blade binding reality,"
"LET THE UNIVERSE BEND TO MY WILL!"
The air became thicker like she was breathing through a mask of wet cloth. Her lungs felt like someone's holding a lighter under them with a full tank. But she didn't stop.
"Ten Thousand-Eye Technique,"
"Te-Rus-Thia! Pe-Rah-Gus!"
The words sound shrill in her ears. Her stomach, empty. Behind her eyes, golden veins of earth aura pulsated in every direction. Shakira tentatively stretches out her mind to one of the beating veins.
Flash!
Like traversing a great distance in one long moment. Images of scenery blur on either side of Shakira's peripheral vision. Nuances of things and animals but nothing in detail until she's transported to an area where the life force aura is strong. A village burning not far from her location. Chaos. Death aura. People were dying and suffering in pain and despair. Things-Titans were feeding with impunity. Shakira observes these things without emotion. She had her problems, and she couldn't go slapping on an S on her chest and some spandex and play supergirl, now can she?
Hells below! She's a mercenary commander. Hero work costs extra. Besides, she didn't have the time to spear.
She stretches out her mind more, accessing veins of golden aura. This time, it's in the direction of the few aura spots she left behind long the south-westerly corners of Paradise Island. No portals can be opened otherwise. To her knowledge, no one from the Seven World Council had been on this planet before. That path should lead the invaders close to what the locals call Wall Maria. Completely abandoned because of the attack, there were no residents within fifty miles of the place just open country.
There, the life force aura spiked a bright sapphire blues, blazing oranges, and hot greens pool and bleed before her vision even before she came to an all stop. Before Shakira, beings like ants crawl through tri-gram portals designed to admit large numbers for spatial travel. With this much earth aura pouring into the Ten-Thousand-Eye technique, the image unfolding in real-time before her is clear as any on an LCD monitor. It sent icicles into her blood just watching them.
The first group she noticed is Celeste's, head of the Bloods Fangs. Hides her true form in the skin of her victims. Her minions follow her example. In the light of shadows, she's hideous to gaze upon. An emaciated humanoid with elongated fingers and half a head. Her nails are claws. Rotten fangs drip black saliva.
There was Vargus, head of the Blackwater Mercenary Troup. A compactly build male, standing over seven feet tall. Blackwater Mercenary only goes for contracts. Ethian must have hired Vargus. But then why hire the Blood Fangs? Vargus wouldn't be caught near the Blood Fangs for love or money. Something didn't fit here.
Birsha was next in her focus and she immediately felt the need to gag. A royal prince of an ancient planetary house, they've met on one too many unpleasant encounters. Birsha wants Shakira for sexual slavery. A unique addition to his growing collection of unusual females. He has a contingent of soldiers plus his royal house guard, five hundred strong.
Iblis and Malacoda need no mercenary group or additional soldiers at their broad backs. The two are legendary hunters who never missed a target. The Dark King- Cephas must have hired them to come after her in retribution for raids Shakira lead on his strongholds. They weren't that strongly held as it turns out.
Valarian, a strapping, handsome man or woman, it was hard to tell, is the head commander of Ethian's army, five thousand strong and the largest of the groups Shakira can see. Powerbase as a seeker. And a bloody good one at that. He or she or they can use anything of their target's to find them. A personal possession, a photo, a drop of blood, a strand of hair.
Ethian himself is equal in height to his commander and has a weird idiosyncrasy. If you're gonna be in his army, you had to be beautiful and deadly. He doesn't not like ugly fighters.
Ravana is alone though she must have hired Zagan and Stheno along with their three thousand. Sitting on the large stomp of a boulder, her jet hair hides the crazy wild look in her sunken eyes. And from the wide berth everyone was giving her, her career speaks for itself. She is a curse speaker and a screamer. If in range, that sound can burst every blood vessel in her target's head before it explodes like a melon. You don't want to be around her. At all.
There were representatives of Seline, the moon goddess, rumors proclaims. The rumors also state that she is the most beautiful female in all the galaxies but she was dying.
One of those, huh? Hoping to thwart death's embrace.
Put together, the armies arrayed against her were ten thousand strong.
Irony on the eve of battle no less.
And they're all here for me. Shakira thought impressed. Afraid. Anticipation warred with misgivings in her ability to win against so many before a hunger grew from the pit of her being. Her survival instinct rising inside her like an awakening. There were no armies in the next moment. In her focus, all were prey. Their numbers mattering not.
"I'm honored."
One by one, the edges of the incantation got darker, losing power. Not because the earth aura was weak but Shakira was. She couldn't handle all of this elemental power running through her being for too long. Her time is up. Just as she was about to shut off the technique, Shakira spied a large portal being opened. A group of Valarian's pretty boys dragged along something. Pulling it with chains attached. Whatever they were pulling resisted with the strength of a demon. Some of the pretty boys got flung meters into the air like rag dolls. Where gravity took over, there was blood splatter and brain matter and entrails. These fools have brought a weapon to use against her that's turning against them already? Maybe they weren't all that smart.
Shakira let the incantation die out, satisfied with the confirmation she received. Residual energy was still in her spirit from the technique but gradually, she would stop seeing golden veins of earth aura, of life force blues and fire orange.
Existing the pocket domain, her capacity chains packed with all that she needs, Shakira collapse the spatial void by breaking the sapphire circle around her wrist.
As she was doing this, feeling the foundations of the domain cracking and sinking onto itself like a quicksand, Shakira caught a glimpse of something at the edge of her peripheral vision. Something was trying to get her attention by being elusive. Because of the residuals of the Earth aura still bouncing around in her, leaking out of her fast but still there, she saw an electric -blue against a gradient of grey. Not life force aura. Not life. Curiosity turns her head in the direction of this intruder to her morning.
Could this be one of the Blood Fangs? Had they mapped her location even as she was doing that seek incantation?
If so, then she need to take care of the scout before he had the opportunity to report back to his mistress.
Shakira removes Zephyl from its capacity chains around her shoulder. She didn't need to face the armies here. She didn't set any traps in this location so she'd be at a disadvantage should they come after her now.
Shakira pushes power into her legs, burning the ground around her in a sigil pattern. With one step, she was at the clearing where the figure was standing just seconds before, a quarter-mile from where the pocket domain is now history, leaving a crater as a parting gift to Paradise Island.
Whatever it is, the fucker is fast. By the time she got a glimpse of its aura, she was in the forest beyond the stream. Sunlight was permitted through the foliage, gracing the dead leaves of the forest floor.
Shakira turns in a circle, crouched, ready to spring. She didn't have time for this cat and mouse game. She didn't want to do a sweep scan for the little rat.
"I know you're here," she calls conversationally.
A flicker of electric blue in front of Shakira to her right drew her up short. A tall man with blond cropped hair, about six-feet-two had his back turned to her. What surprised her was the symbol embroidered on his brown jacket, like Armin's.
"A scout!" Shakira said without thinking. So she was right but wrong about the faction. There's something off about this man. Where the sun strained through the trees, it's almost as if the ray passed through him.
"I don't have a lot of time," his deep voice was commanding.
Someone used to getting what they wanted, eh? A commander, maybe. She analyzed.
"Welcome to the club, brother," Shakira retorted automatically. She felt rather than saw his upper lip quirk up.
Creep factor. She thought. Shakira hasn't taken another step towards a man with his back turned to her. At the back of her mind, the equation worked itself out.
Electric-blue against a gradient of gray. Gray as in death aura. And that type of blue aura is usually given off from,
Spirits. Oh, fuck! Not this shit again. Shakira thought in conclusion just as the man turned to her. Bushy eyebrows sat atop piercing-blue-eyes, gave her a penetrating look. One of his arms was missing.
"They need you," the ghost said suddenly.
"And who would that be, Mr. Ghost?" Shakira asks boldly. She can fight people. With the proper technique, a shadow can be bounded. But spirits still walking the land of the living is not to be fucked with.
A pulsation from her right ankle indicated R.D's aggressive disposition towards this stranger.
It's never done that before.
"They'll be here soon. They'll need your protection."
This man is selfish. Shakira thought, irritated. "I need my own protection. Not interested in a security detail at present. Maybe another time when I'm not facing down death. Not jockeying for a membership to your club." She spat.
"Keep them safe," the irritating ghost said as if her words passed through one ear then came out the other end.
"Did you die deaf? I said I'm not protecting anyone." Shakira stretches her arm, Zephyl flexes in her grip like an extension of her body. Its razor-sharp vertebrates contracted for the moment before flexing in a wave, like a snake carefully watching for the opportunity to strike.
"When you see Levi-" the ghost was saying turning away from her towards a denser part of the forest. "-tell him-"
"I'm not your message goeffer," Shakira snapped cutting him off, "manifest in front of him yourself and have a chat,"
"You're the reason I could be here." The ghost said. Then he disappeared.
"And what the fuck does that mean?!" She yelled after him. It. Not only goddess and fanatics but spirits, too? Who do these beings think she is? She exhaled frustration from her lungs.
At least Mr. Ghost didn't try to kidnap me. Or enslave me or sacrifice me for life force aura as some age-defying elixir. Never a dull moment in this I have.
Shakira turned readying to head south. She shouldn't be bothered for the first couple of hours. Armies move like rivers, even with portals and advance technology. And from her spying, they don't seem to be the best of friends. This will be a competitive race. Who can get to her, the prize, first.
Shakira bends her knees as if testing their balls and sockets was lubricated enough for another burst step. A ring of emerald burns under and around her in a wide circumference. Crouched, she readied to spring into action. Then she heard it, the screams of children coming from the direction the ghost disappeared.
"Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me." Shakira groaned miserably, closing her eyes.
They were running from something. Most likely from a titan. They must be from the burning village she saw earlier.
"That! That! Aaah!" Shakira growl in irritation. Leaning slightly backward, she leaps up and over the top of a tree like a spring jumper at the Olympics clear a high bar.
To the end of the arc over the tree, she saw them. Five of them. The youngest, a little blond, was flung over a broad shoulder like a bunch of bananas. The one holding him is the tallest and looks the eldest of the gang. He had the hand of a girl in his and pulling her along as they ran. Behind them were two red-heads. Maybe brothers. Twins, even. They were lagging, and the brut behind was catching up.
Shakira was descending at a controlled pace when one of the red-heads tripped over a tree root, spitefully grown there it would seem, waiting for this very moment.
The titan, created by a deity in a bad mood, is disfigured. Large eyes caught sight of its prey just in reach. The other brother- realizing that his twin is about to become titan food, picks up the largest stick he could find and run towards the titan, currently bending down, then, with a rather surprising delicate pincher movement, left the boy in his gigantic stubby fingers by the back of the shirt. The fabric ripped and release the child to plummet. But as easily as a predator catching an escaping prey, the titan deftly caught the boy in his mighty fist by one leg. As if to punish the child for the audacity of his shirt to attempt to rob him of his meal, the titan squeezed down on the trapped leg and Shakira could hear bones sickeningly snapping like twigs. The boy screamed! He was still conscious which Shakira found impressive. That must hurt like a son of bitch. Most adults pass out from the pain of a broken leg much more, multiple broken bones.
His twin, the one run with the stick, screamed desperately. Calling out his brother's name.
"Let him go! Let him go! You bastard!"
The others seem to have forgotten that they had the task of survival to consider. They stopped too, bawling or screaming desperate words. Empty threats falling on the deaf ears of the monster about to have its meal. Their friend. Their brother.
Enough. Shakira sighed.
She was falling, ok floating down, on a cushion of air aura behind the titan, who has kindly tilted his head back, his maw opened wide to give his victim the full-heart-stopping experience of being eaten alive. Mentally, she aims at the spots she wanted to slice. Zephyl, responding to the change in her perception, expands the space between its vertebrates.
"Extend," with a flick of her wrist, Zephyl shot out. The next second, the titan was full encased in razor-sharp edges cutting into its skin, bringing all movements to a stop. The snake-sword wrapped its five-meter prey into her teeth from head to mid-drift and she wasn't going to stop squeezing until their silver edges were dripping crimson blood.
"Contract, Zephyl,"
In a rush of blood and flesh and bone, Zephyl minced the towering beast, killing it instantly.
Shakira manufactured a dense shield of air before her to catch any spraying hot blood seeking revenge on her leather jacket. Her boots crunched the dead foliage when she landed.
Stunned eyes gaped at her, mouths hung for enterprising flies to make a touch on their tongues.
Zephyl's vertebrates made soft clinging sounds as they knitted back together to its original form, nineteen inches of razor-sharp steel.
After a long moment of awed silence, in which the raised stick fell to the ground anticlimactically, now that help has arrived, Shakira asked the question she eagerly wanted to know the answer to.
"So, tell me, Red, what were you planning to do with a stick? Hm? Tickle the titan's foot bottom with it?"