Let us play, pet.
She heard it before she saw it. The sharp sound a drawn sword makes as it is pulled out of its sheath.
She whirled around, her instincts kicking in as she raised up her daggers to be met with a clang.
She made for a jab but whirled away, spinning on her foot to stand behind her opponent. But whoever it was-they were too fast, and turned quickly, as if they sensed her intentions.
She grinned. Interesting.
Blade on blade, no other sounds but their heavy breathing and the clash of their weapons. It was a dance, a dangerous one. When she pressed, so did her opponent, and when she lept back, the dark figure sliced at her. She parried with her hunting knives, panting. The only difference was that unlike her opponent, she was panting from excitement, the thrill.
As she ducked and twirled, she decided she could not go on calling the person “opponent” anymore.
I’ll name him Lassus. Latin for tired. She snickered to herself. Appropriate.
After a few more minutes of play as she lept out of Lassus's way, and teased the way her life was close to ending, she was ready for the finale.
She smirked. You could almost taste the exhaustion of her Lassus in the air. How unfortunate that he had to die, he had been an opponent worthy of her game.
Her hunting knives paused in the air.
Well...not quite worthy.
As she paused, so did Lassus, startled by her sudden stop. She smiled slowly, a wicked, wicked thing, filled with mischief and promises of danger.
Then she attacked.
There was nothing to describe what she was.
She was simply shadow, mist, and darkness. Before Lassus could even draw his sword again, she was there. Behind him. With a swift kick, he was on the ground. She ground the heel of her boot into his back.
And for the first time, she spoke.
"Well little mouse, what should we do with you?" she purred.
She made sure to pull up her hood, noting where the moon stood and how it would hit her eyes just right.
She was a picture, cloak shrouding her body, eyes glinting silver and gold, and her hair unbound, a gleaming, mess the color of ravens.
Lassus gave no answer but a whimper.
"Get up," she whispered, a hint of promise in her voice.
Lassus looked up startled, but did nothing.
"I said get up." She did not whisper this time, and it was nothing short of a snarl.
"I-I can't."
A refusal? This night would be more enjoyable than she had imagined.
"Whyever not, my pet?"
"You-your foot."
She noticed that her foot was still on top of him, pressing down. She sniffed distastefully and removed her foot.
"Now." Obediently, he raised himself onto his knees, and as soon as his feet were steady on the ground, she ducked into his arms and tugged his face closer to hers.
She looked into his eyes, honey brown with green flecks.
Before he knew what was happening, he was dead.
She looked at her knife, covered in blood, and Lassus, whose throat was spilling all over her cloak.
He had died looking into her eyes.
And then she was gone before you could say murder.