Front toward enemy

Something fishy

Unbeknownst to even herself, Gentle Annis no longer thought. She felt.

 

Unaware that the internal monologue of her demented psychopathic mind had gone, and specific to this, she was totally beyond recognising that everything she now did was entirely sensory or emotive. Gentle Annis now worked as an unthinking response to her needs. ‘Want’ no longer applied to her, empathy and reason evaporating with it.

 

Dragging foot after tired foot, what she felt as she slowly walked toward the main trading gate of the castle, the very same castle where she had once married, been savagely beaten and raped, committed murder most horrific and foul, and most importantly, lost her mind, was fatigue, annoyance, and hunger. Anger lurked somewhere in the background, and the weight of her now dry ankle length cloak irritated her.

 

Reaching the gate, a guard spoke to her, yet her exhaustion had his words falling uncomprehended in her ears. Reaching to her belt, she drew the ridiculously sharp knife she had carried over from Then, and stabbed him once in the groin, opening the femoral artery. Next, she stabbed him through the carotid artery, destroying his larynx in the same movement, forcing the wicked knife up to the hilt in his neck. With his voice box cut, and bright red arterial blood pumping with the beat of his heart, the guard fell silently to his knees groping his neck; the doomed man unsuccessfully stemming the the feather like squirts of blood. Laughter manically exploding from her all the while.

 

As deftly as she had mortally wounded him, Gentle Annis removed her cloak from her shoulders, wrapping the dying man within its folds and dragged him back into the guard house. Gore covered and grinning horribly, she startled the second sentry who was currently sitting on a three legged stool, his feet propped up on the ratty desk within. There, the ‘almost’ dead man’s blood drained on to her cloak, and without any more than the compulsion for more blood to sate her longing for the power the cloak gave her, she fell upon the still shocked guard, the grotesque task of killing falling in sync with the deftness of her knife. Splattered blood spotted her face and deliciously blonde hair, her lithe body moving sensuously in  rhythm with her deft cutting strokes. With her pupils wildly dilated, first one, then the other guard was drained of all blood onto her ghastly now red cloak, and a powerful unseen ripple went out across The Now. 

 

Unnoticed, a cat named ‘Sardine’, seven centuries and one continent away flinched at the upset in the ether, hissed, and fled beneath the couch supporting a girl named Bast.   

 

To the picture above! There’s not one moment to lose!

 

N.

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