[Now, Friede suddenly feels like she shouldn't have her back to this woman. The statement sets off two alarm bells in her head: One, that the woman seems to know that she is cursed (something that could be inferred, perhaps), and two: That the woman here does not share her curse. That Friede is some kind of other.
Her thumb tests the edge of the knife. They truly are sharp.
She pulls it a little further under her sleeve, a slow, purposeful maneuver that predicates an attack. Or at least some kind of defensive maneuver.
Though they're shadowed deep in her still-drawn hood, her violet eyes take stock of the woman. Tall, muscular in a way that tells of good fitness, and...
Her hand is skeletal. It isn't a trick of the light, or a fancy glove, Friede can see through it. Suddenly, the assuredness that someone might try to run her out of this clearly human establishment for being Undead is supplanted by confusion. It isn't totally unheard of for older Hollows to begin to rot and skeletonize, especially not in Londor, but this is... not that.
Yet, for all of that, Friede locks it away, and rather than question the statement, she lifts the knife, turns so she's sideways on to both the person on the board, and the woman behind her, and throws the knife.
It thocks into the board near the person's shoulder, furrowing a deep gouge in their flesh. Not a direct hit, like the one to the leg, but not a light graze, either. Her aim isn't quite that good.
The sight of blood, once again, brings that thrill down Friede's spine that she doesn't like is so involuntary.]
Then it seems I will try to aim beneath the neck and away from the gut.
no subject
Her thumb tests the edge of the knife. They truly are sharp.
She pulls it a little further under her sleeve, a slow, purposeful maneuver that predicates an attack. Or at least some kind of defensive maneuver.
Though they're shadowed deep in her still-drawn hood, her violet eyes take stock of the woman. Tall, muscular in a way that tells of good fitness, and...
Her hand is skeletal. It isn't a trick of the light, or a fancy glove, Friede can see through it. Suddenly, the assuredness that someone might try to run her out of this clearly human establishment for being Undead is supplanted by confusion. It isn't totally unheard of for older Hollows to begin to rot and skeletonize, especially not in Londor, but this is... not that.
Yet, for all of that, Friede locks it away, and rather than question the statement, she lifts the knife, turns so she's sideways on to both the person on the board, and the woman behind her, and throws the knife.
It thocks into the board near the person's shoulder, furrowing a deep gouge in their flesh. Not a direct hit, like the one to the leg, but not a light graze, either. Her aim isn't quite that good.
The sight of blood, once again, brings that thrill down Friede's spine that she doesn't like is so involuntary.]
Then it seems I will try to aim beneath the neck and away from the gut.
[But, she has thrown away her weapon.
Or, well, the obvious one.]
But what do you know of undead as I am?