Title: Lady Lancer
Characters/Pairings: Steiner, Beatrix
Summary: She rules the skies
Notes: In-game. Prompt: #2 Mist.
"Rei of foam and sea, give thy blessing of gentle breath," Freya whispers fiercely. The power of her faith flickers. Her lance pulsates in response and a coolness washes over her and her companions like soothing rippling water, a deep contrast to the sharp pinpricks of rain pouring from the black sky. Steiner grunts in surprise, and at a lull in the battle, salutes her. Beatrix does not notice.
It doesn't matter. Freya slides behind the Mistodon attacking Steiner and sinks her blade deep.
Mistodons. There are tales of them in the Burmecian tomes. Monsters of myth and mist. They rush together like the mist, suffocating, continuous, wave after wave of devil-spawn white breath and black blood. Their claws cut through stone like fingers through liquid, like a blade through supple silk. But they are vermin, nothing more. Behind their thick carapaces, they are slaves of consumption. They congregate and charge like cavalry before the thundering sweep of a catastrophe. Or so the priests say.
They are vicious vermin, at any rate.
"To the left," comes the whisper, near silent in the chaos, and like liquid shadow Beatrix slips away. It is undoubtedly her way of saying thanks. Freya responds on instinct—she pulls her lance up just in time to block a lunging mistadon. Its pincers snap inches at her face before she heaves, using its momentum to propel it to her left. She spins, finds two more at her back and a third approaching her side. Freya curses, then begins to chant. The soles of her feet burn, hot and green and to the bone.
Just before the pincers catch her, she Jumps.
The land falls away like the idle turn of a page. Freya soars through the rainy sky, shooting through static and mist. Electricity snaps at her skin, clinging like reproachful lover. Instead of fatigue, Freya finds her pulse racing faster. She nears the peak of her jump with a breathless laugh as the storm of mist chases her twitching tail.
For a brief moment, gravity suspends. She holds in space, transfixed in the delicate stillness. Slowly, her eyes fix on the crawling pinpricks below.
The chant falls from her lips like a verdict. "Rei of shade and storm, let thy axe of judgment purge the unworthy."
Her lance hums, and for a beautiful moment she feels them. Her people. An overturned cart. A child's laughter. The rain falling on blue cobblestones like the echoing of bells. In her inner eye, she falls into an ocean of green vaster than the Gaian seas, feels the touch of her brethren's minds like a kiss. They are one; that is the Burmecian way. This is her religion, her faith, the source of her people's magic. No other race can understand the singular beauty of being nothing and everything at once. She is a tool with a purpose, an extension, a grain of sand on an eternal beach.
She is a warrior. She has her role in the hierarchy of their world. She will kill.
The timeless moment shatters like crystalline glass. The earth tugs and she begins to fall, slowly at first, then faster so that her throat closes tight from the terror of it. But there is a thrill too, because Freya knows she will be fine. She has faith.
The courtyard of Alexandria flies towards her. The mistidon who had nearly decapitated her seconds ago hardly gives a twitch when her lance parts it's shell like warm butter. She has sunk knee-deep into cold flesh before time seems to catch up. The thing screams a tortured sound that reverberates in her bones, taking out the corner of a building in its writhing. After a few useless seconds it shudders, then slides into neat halves.
When Freya climbs out of the smoking, squelching remains, Steiner stumbles a bit, mouth agape. Beatrix's gaze is calculating.