she was in just the mood to oblige them. She turned around slowly, to see a group of five men fronted by the Fang who had taken such delight in goading her that morning. He had a knife in his right hand and ran the flat of the blade casually back and forth across his left palm as he spoke. One of the others hefted a crude club. The intention to intimidate was as blatant as it was amusing.
"Wonderful. Playtime for the Fang Gang. That's all I need."
The man appeared not to have heard. "No Tattooed Man 'ere to protect you this time, my little darlin'." His smile was lecherous, triumphant and sly all at once; pure evil in a single leer. He went to step towards her.
Kat laughed. There was nothing theatrical or exaggerated in the sound, it was just a laugh. The Fang looked a little uncertain and his grin faltered; this clearly wasn't the reaction he'd anticipated.
"Is that what you think?" Kat demanded, incredulous. "You brecking idiot! M'gruth wasn't protecting me, he was restraining me!"
It wasn't so much a red mist that descended upon her then as a thrill, a singing of the blood, a sense of elation that here finally was a chance to let loose the beast inside her; that element which had enabled her to survive the Pits and emerge as one of its greatest and most feared champions. She welcomed the primordial presence as the old friend it was, opening herself to the bloodlust and allowing it free access to her mind, her heart, her soul. Kat snarled: a chilling, animal sound. She drew her two short swords in a single smooth motion and danced forward, swift as a striking serpent. An expression of almost comic startlement now graced the first man's face – her cocky would-be tormentor. He struck out with his own knife but Kat's move had caught him off-guard and he hadn't troubled to set his feet properly; the result was a poorly timed blow made in panic by a man who'd thought he was in charge of the situation and hadn't yet caught up with dawning reality. Kat swayed and ducked, while never interrupting her forward momentum. The man's arm and blade flashed past and above her shoulder. She plunged her own sword forward, feeling sudden resistance as the blade bit home. At no point did she even consider leniency.
The man screamed, others were yelling and cursing; Kat paid them no heed. She lashed out with the other sword, feeling it rake across a man's side to her left even as she ripped the right-hand blade from the leading Fang's torso, conscious of the splatter of warm blood on her arm. She didn't push the second blade deeper, wary in case it became entangled in the ribcage. Someone tried to grapple her right arm from behind. She brought her elbow back sharply, feeling it crunch into the attacker's face, mashing his nose. The arm came free again.
A fist swung towards her. She didn't have time to register whether or not it held a blade, she simply ducked, swivelled and kicked out, the heel of her foot slamming into the man's knee. It hit at an angle and she heard an audible crack as the leg buckled and the joint or bone gave way. Another scream. Another one down.
Suddenly she was free of attackers and had some breathing space. She turned, adopting the fighter's crouch which came as naturally to her as breathing. Mollified by this brief taste of freedom, the beast began to relent, to slip away into the recesses of her subconscious once more.
The five Fangs no longer looked quite so menacing. Two were on the ground. One lay in a foetal position, curled up as if to protect his belly, dead or dying; the other writhed and clutched his knee, groaning in marked contrast to the other's silence. Of the three standing, one pressed a hand to his nose, blood flowing freely from beneath to cover mouth, chin and throat. A second was brave enough to still hold a sword, though the wound to his side wept redness and was plainly visible through the rent in his black shirt. The final Fang, the one she hadn't come
"Wonderful. Playtime for the Fang Gang. That's all I need."
The man appeared not to have heard. "No Tattooed Man 'ere to protect you this time, my little darlin'." His smile was lecherous, triumphant and sly all at once; pure evil in a single leer. He went to step towards her.
Kat laughed. There was nothing theatrical or exaggerated in the sound, it was just a laugh. The Fang looked a little uncertain and his grin faltered; this clearly wasn't the reaction he'd anticipated.
"Is that what you think?" Kat demanded, incredulous. "You brecking idiot! M'gruth wasn't protecting me, he was restraining me!"
It wasn't so much a red mist that descended upon her then as a thrill, a singing of the blood, a sense of elation that here finally was a chance to let loose the beast inside her; that element which had enabled her to survive the Pits and emerge as one of its greatest and most feared champions. She welcomed the primordial presence as the old friend it was, opening herself to the bloodlust and allowing it free access to her mind, her heart, her soul. Kat snarled: a chilling, animal sound. She drew her two short swords in a single smooth motion and danced forward, swift as a striking serpent. An expression of almost comic startlement now graced the first man's face – her cocky would-be tormentor. He struck out with his own knife but Kat's move had caught him off-guard and he hadn't troubled to set his feet properly; the result was a poorly timed blow made in panic by a man who'd thought he was in charge of the situation and hadn't yet caught up with dawning reality. Kat swayed and ducked, while never interrupting her forward momentum. The man's arm and blade flashed past and above her shoulder. She plunged her own sword forward, feeling sudden resistance as the blade bit home. At no point did she even consider leniency.
The man screamed, others were yelling and cursing; Kat paid them no heed. She lashed out with the other sword, feeling it rake across a man's side to her left even as she ripped the right-hand blade from the leading Fang's torso, conscious of the splatter of warm blood on her arm. She didn't push the second blade deeper, wary in case it became entangled in the ribcage. Someone tried to grapple her right arm from behind. She brought her elbow back sharply, feeling it crunch into the attacker's face, mashing his nose. The arm came free again.
A fist swung towards her. She didn't have time to register whether or not it held a blade, she simply ducked, swivelled and kicked out, the heel of her foot slamming into the man's knee. It hit at an angle and she heard an audible crack as the leg buckled and the joint or bone gave way. Another scream. Another one down.
Suddenly she was free of attackers and had some breathing space. She turned, adopting the fighter's crouch which came as naturally to her as breathing. Mollified by this brief taste of freedom, the beast began to relent, to slip away into the recesses of her subconscious once more.
The five Fangs no longer looked quite so menacing. Two were on the ground. One lay in a foetal position, curled up as if to protect his belly, dead or dying; the other writhed and clutched his knee, groaning in marked contrast to the other's silence. Of the three standing, one pressed a hand to his nose, blood flowing freely from beneath to cover mouth, chin and throat. A second was brave enough to still hold a sword, though the wound to his side wept redness and was plainly visible through the rent in his black shirt. The final Fang, the one she hadn't come
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