Blood blinds her left eye. Pouring from a gash across her brow, another across her nose, there was no time to contemplate her situation. Only as she found the ground beneath her feet, daggers drawn, did she realize. It was a set-up.
She stills her mind. There would be time to piece it all together. Before that, though, she had to survive. She knew before the job that none she'd meet that day would have well intentions toward her. She prepared for the possibility of a ruse.
"Expect the unexpected, an' prepare accordingly. But ultimately, remember which side of the blade yer on."
A personal approach to her profession, that was the code she was taught to abide by. If she hadn't, those cuts might have been that much deeper and it wouldn't just have been her feet finding solid ground.
As the miqo'te, swift of mind, and swifter of body, pressed away from the ground beneath her, she dodged yet another cheap shot from her opponent. In her world, there was no display of arms. No grandiose acrobatics. No martial art. Her pursuer wanted her dead. It was that simple.
"No sens'a pride..." she'd default to that thought. Even now, her mind focused on that statement; still in that resolve.
She took flight from her would-be assassin, soon as she could get a proper step. It was all she had in her to dodge the fast bladework, her petite size and counter parries giving her only so much leeway. Unfortunately she had run out of space in a matter of seconds.
They were in a small storehouse, with boat rigging and miscellaneous boxes. Two had walked in. The miqo'te's attacker sought for only one to walk out.
She stills her mind. There would be time to piece it all together. Before that, though, she had to survive. She knew before the job that none she'd meet that day would have well intentions toward her. She prepared for the possibility of a ruse.
"Expect the unexpected, an' prepare accordingly. But ultimately, remember which side of the blade yer on."
A personal approach to her profession, that was the code she was taught to abide by. If she hadn't, those cuts might have been that much deeper and it wouldn't just have been her feet finding solid ground.
As the miqo'te, swift of mind, and swifter of body, pressed away from the ground beneath her, she dodged yet another cheap shot from her opponent. In her world, there was no display of arms. No grandiose acrobatics. No martial art. Her pursuer wanted her dead. It was that simple.
"No sens'a pride..." she'd default to that thought. Even now, her mind focused on that statement; still in that resolve.
She took flight from her would-be assassin, soon as she could get a proper step. It was all she had in her to dodge the fast bladework, her petite size and counter parries giving her only so much leeway. Unfortunately she had run out of space in a matter of seconds.
They were in a small storehouse, with boat rigging and miscellaneous boxes. Two had walked in. The miqo'te's attacker sought for only one to walk out.
