[They force their eyes open, force themself to stumble upright, trying to focus on the violet silhouette moving carefully, warily closer. Not attacking them. Not attempting to trap them once more. A trap? A trick?]
[The taste of their own blood is bitter and hot. They spit another gobbet of it into the dirt, squinting at her.]
[She...she must have done something to them.]
[Something when she caught them, or when she sent them flying into the air. Some poison, some magic trick, some injury that's festering in the heart of them. That must be what this is. It has to be, because there's no other reason that this should be...that this should be happening.]
[They lurch for her. One hand falls to their blade, still secure beneath their cloak, and activates it with a cold hum.]
no subject
[The taste of their own blood is bitter and hot. They spit another gobbet of it into the dirt, squinting at her.]
[She...she must have done something to them.]
[Something when she caught them, or when she sent them flying into the air. Some poison, some magic trick, some injury that's festering in the heart of them. That must be what this is. It has to be, because there's no other reason that this should be...that this should be happening.]
[They lurch for her. One hand falls to their blade, still secure beneath their cloak, and activates it with a cold hum.]