Her Reason - By Kirika
A Claymore fic. Teresa died. What the fudge? Clearly this is unacceptable. I might have lived with it if her demise had been glorious, but even her death sucked! Naturally, I cannot abide this. Time to rewrite history for the good of all yuridom!
Now with linebreaks! Thanks for screwing up formatting FF.
Teresa of the Faint Smile stood over her all but vanquished enemy, watching dispassionately as on her knees she begged for death. Fool girl, although she-'Priscilla', Teresa thought she had overheard during one of their earlier clashes-was merely a scrap of a girl now. Perhaps it would have been more compassionate if Teresa had executed Priscilla back in town when the older warrior had been considering it, rather than have the girl degenerate into the repugnant form she existed as now here in the desolate, craggy mountains. It needn't have come to this-Priscilla's pride had led her to this folly. The feral, bulbous body yet housed a human heart, however. There was something in that, at least. Priscilla would die still knowing humanity.
Mercy had stayed Teresa's hand before, and it was mercy that had her blade over the snivelling, cowed girl now. Too heavy and unwieldy for most humans and sharing the name they gave Teresa's kind, the two-handed sword-the claymore-sported in Teresa's grasp would easily take Priscilla's head quickly and painlessly when she swung it. Even the heated prior skirmishes she'd had with her former allies turned would-be assassins had not tired her arms, though the blood trickling from her forehead down her tranquil pallid face proved she hadn't escaped the encounters completely untouched.
"Alright. I'll put you out of your misery." Priscilla's head was bowed, her coursing tears dripping on the grey rock ground-waiting for the peace only a kiss of a blade could give. It wasn't the first time Teresa had been asked to perform the grim task; other sisters had sought her out in past for the final rite, though none so young, so newly birthed as Priscilla. It made no difference. There were some fates worse than death, and Priscilla was on the brink of facing one. Still, Priscilla could have been majestic; she could have been like Teresa. Even now at the end Teresa was awash in the girl's incredible yoki; it streamed off of her, so much it was an impossibility to read. A pity. Priscilla would die unsung and unfulfilled, all her vast potential squandered. And for nothing.
Teresa's grip on her claymore tightened, preparing to deliver the final blow. The tiniest sound of metal scraping stone reached her ears; so soft she might have missed it on another day. It came from below.
Instinct shot Teresa's lithe body into motion, barely the shred of a moment to draw her claymore back defensively to her chest and face. Priscilla's claymore flashed in front of her, a multitude of sparks erupting as the duplicitous girl's blade ran across the length of Teresa's own. It had been close-*very* close-but there was not an instant to spare to thought; Priscilla was on her feet, tears dried and pushing forward, determined to press the offensive onwards-determined to make a kill herself.
Priscilla's follow-up attack was as fast and brutal as her opening one-she wanted Teresa's head. Her speed was amazing, and Teresa was reeling, her guard lax and desperately trying to recover. Teresa could scarcely mount a defence, let alone think of countering. So suddenly it came. It was Teresa's end, not Priscilla's.
The edge of Priscilla's blade bit into Teresa's neck, and the older youma slayer's eyes widened in shock as her jugular was severed, several locks of wavy flaxen hair sliced cleanly along with it. The steel didn't stop, but cut deeper until it collided with Teresa's raised claymore somehow still held solid in both her hands; stalwart battle discipline, brute strength, pure luck, or all three preventing a full-blown decapitation.
But the wound was mortal enough. Arterial blood sprayed freely, and Teresa sunk to her knees as the life was sapped from her legs. The strength in her arms finally faltered; her sword suddenly a massive weight that dragged down the limbs. They dropped limply to her sides, her claymore held in the paralysed fingers of her right hand. Her view of the rough mountain range toppled, and it took her a moment to realise her face was in the dust.
Lying, *dying* on her side, Teresa saw a pool of crimson spread rapidly on the stone before her eyes. She wanted to shut it out, let her eyelids descend, and sink into the growing lethargy. The stricken warrior balanced on a knife-edge, death waiting for her should she fall.
Teresa could hear Priscilla's bestial roars and feel gusts of wind against her back, and pebbles showered the ground in front of her waning gaze. She then heard Priscilla speak, her voice devoid of the agony of humanity dying in favour of the risen demonic; it had become assured, sinister-consumed. She heard the sounds of melee waged, and the sudden, almost silent killings of her former sisters. But most of all she heard Clare's stammering voice call her name; too stunned for abject despair yet, but the plea for Teresa to not be dead; the *need* for Teresa; laced throughout.
Teresa mustered what sliver of strength she had left and reached out. Outwardly her arm weakly twitched then was dragged flaccidly through the blood and dirt nearer her sliced neck, but within the woman reached for the youma that shared half her body which she normally kept zealously suppressed. Teresa unlocked the cage; loosened the restraints; opened herself to the unholy font of power.
Her eyes suddenly flared like dying embers breathed to life, glowing with the might that dwelled behind them. But Teresa needed more. Much more if she wanted to live. And she *had* to live. Teresa hadn't seen it for herself, but she knew what great evil had manifested at her back. She was the only realistic defence Clare had against it. Teresa's assassins had stood no chance; she had bathed in Priscilla's immense yoki; Irene and the others had been mere droplets to that flood. Teresa was the best the organisation had-or did have-and even she had bent under the volume of power at Priscilla's command. The hope of victory was slim, even if Teresa could get up and bring her claymore to bear. But she would give it her all without a second thought.
It wasn't about Teresa's defection from the organisation's ranks anymore. It wasn't about duty either. None of the youma she had slain recently had been about duty, or old habits, she realised. It was about Clare and her protection. Teresa could not die yet.
Teresa's hand clamped down on the cut across her neck, staunching the wound. Her face distorted as she unleashed more of her power, beautiful serenity devolving into primitive animalistic fury. Her mouth gaped into a maw, teeth lengthening to rows of fangs. The rage of a youma saturated her, a burning for destruction in her soul, but Teresa channelled it to her crippling injury, knitting flesh and rebinding muscle. It took nearly everything her youma half had to give, so much so Teresa feared she'd have to submit herself to even more of its untapped power, however eventually she felt sensation seep into her limbs and vigour ignite in her heart, each new thump giving way to increased momentum and verve. Teresa's fingers closed into a fist around the handle of her sword.
The revived warrior arose to the sight of what Priscilla had become standing over the corpse of Irene, the demon's claymore wet with her blood. It turned, sensing Teresa.
It-Priscilla-had grown. She stood tall, maybe half again as tall as an average human. Dark blessing had bestowed her leathery wings sprouting from her back, and a single curved horn erupting from her forehead. Muscle rippled as she moved, but her figure was lissom, slender; fast as well as strong. Built for murder.
Her complexion had darkened into a blue, almost purple hue; however Priscilla's face was recognisable on the demonic form and her hair was still blonde as her sisters' had been and as Teresa's was.
But with her other mutations there was no mistaking what Priscilla had transformed into. Teresa had never laid eyes on an Awakened One before, or a 'Voracious Eater' in the human parlance-a sister that'd had the change come upon her so suddenly she'd been unable to deal her black card, or had failed to hold out long enough for the execution request to be granted-but she had heard of the curse. Rarely, *very* rarely, did it befall a sister of the organisation; normally they were better disciplined than to succumb to temptation or weakness. If Priscilla's charade under Teresa's blade had been a result of her will losing out to her youma blood or of her embracing it from the start, it mattered not. She embraced it wholeheartedly now.
Clare's voice was soft; surprised; relieved. It was as good an inspiration as a speech from the mouth of a decorated general at the head of his army.
"You're still alive?" Priscilla said slowly, an unearthly languidness to her words. "You should have accepted the death I gave you. I tried to make it quick. Perhaps I won't be so merciful this time."
Teresa tried to control her sneer, her lips trembling as her humanity fought with the demonic within her. "Save your mercy for yourself," she spurned, her voice at least civilised with only an edge of ferocity creeping in. "You'll need it, for you'll get none from me."
A smug, ominous smile slowly bloomed on Priscilla's face. If Teresa had been awash in her foe's yoki before, she drowned in it now. Priscilla's latent potential Teresa had detected had come to fruition all at once in her demonic powerhouse of a body; she was the great challenge Teresa had prophesised she would grow to be in years to come, except realised today, here and now.
As though some silent bell had tolled, Priscilla streaked toward Teresa the precise second the woman executed her own charge, two claymores raised for battle. The demon trampled the butchered bodies of Noel and Sophia, a last indignity for the fallen sisters, before reaching Teresa and carving the air with her blade. It met with Teresa's with a mighty ring that loosened and tumbled rock around them; the older warrior leaping toward her enemy, utterly fearless. Victory or death, there was no middle ground. Neither Teresa nor Priscilla would flee, and neither would cease until their broken bodies made the decision for them.
The jarring melody of their duel continued; the thunderous clang of steel on steel over and over shaking the ground and rock faces. A thrust only to be parried; a riposte afterward only to be likewise deflected; a swing and a duck, a sweep and a jump-moves too fast for a human eye to follow, but Teresa and Priscilla traced every stab and every slice. Sparks flew, but not a drop of red or purple blood did.
Teresa's youma half raged, throwing itself against the chains the woman still kept wrapped around it. She couldn't risk releasing more of its power lest it take her. The desire was there; the urge to roar and rampage, to bring every bit of that strength against the demonic creature before her and relish in its annihilation. But it was the reckless haste of a beast. Teresa needed to maintain her discipline above all and fight like the champion she was and not as an untamed monster.
Priscilla pushed her claymore off of Teresa's, employing the force to spring backwards, putting some distance between them. Teresa's legs tensed to follow, but the slight grin from what was once a girl gave her pause.
Priscilla levelled her free hand at Teresa, fingers splayed, and then suddenly the digits elongated and surged toward the surprised woman, each finger-tendril topped with a spiked talon.
Teresa bolted, darting and diving as the tendrils flashed through the air above, below, and behind her, threatening to pin her on the spot or kill her outright. She rolled over her shoulder as Priscilla resorted to cracking her stretched fingers like whips after her, snapping over her head, but grimaced as one barb found its mark, slicing open the back of her right thigh.
Thinking nothing of the wound, Teresa was on her feet an instant later and hopping over the rocky terrain, attempting to outflank Priscilla while she was occupied with her long range assault.
"Why do you resist…? You're making me so hungry…" Priscilla drawled, fingers racing and splitting stone at Teresa's heels. "Maybe… a little… something…." She turned her head, her eyes shifting to Clare.
Teresa launched herself from the peak of a boulder, her claymore hefted over her back as she prepared to bring it down with crushing might on the Awakened One. Clare would not be a snack for Priscilla.
Priscilla's eyes darted back to Teresa and her smile widened. She lazily swept her claymore upwards at Teresa, the two blades smacking together with a tremendous bang. The vibrations in the aftermath rippled through the metal, testing Teresa's fierce grip on the weapon.
Her attack repelled and her momentum drained, Teresa was left open and in close proximity to the unholy behemoth. The air whistled as Priscilla retracted her fingers to normal length and tore at Teresa's chest with her five claws, ripping gouges in flesh. It was a feat not to scream. Teresa didn't want Clare to hear her scream.
Priscilla was not finished; her sword chopped at Teresa's head, content to end the duel with a simple beheading. Flat-footed, it was all Teresa could do to raise her armoured left shoulder.
The pauldron bore the brunt of the swing and shattered on impact, silver shards flying in every direction. Several scraped across Teresa's cheek, cutting rivulets, but they were meagre compared to the injury Priscilla's claymore would have inflicted.
It was the distraction needed however and Teresa leapt upon it, jumping back into a crouch away from Priscilla to catch her breath and regain her footing. She felt what remained of her pauldrons gradually slip and then drop off her shoulders altogether, taking her cloak with them into the dirt.
Priscilla dangled the fingers soaked with Teresa's blood above her open mouth and let a few drips land on her extended tongue. In the second that followed she spat on the ground. "The taste is wrong," she intoned. "But I could get used to it…."
Again the demon violently lashed out with her vine-like fingers, compelling Teresa to carry out an evasive roll to the side, the spears digging into the rock ground instead. The youma slayer's retort came in a vertical slash that caught one of the tendrils, severing it with a spurt of purple blood.
Priscilla unleashed her first primal roar of the battle, her fingers snapping back to her hand. Half of her middle finger was missing. She stared at, and to Teresa's escalating grim unease, the stump re-grew into a full finger right in front of her eyes.
"Did you really think there was anything you could do to kill me? There is nothing."
Priscilla's fingers sprouted once more, but this time wound around a large boulder. It broke off like brittle ice from the rest of the mountainside, and was hurled effortlessly at Teresa.
Teresa bound into the giant rock's path and brought her claymore down, smiting it into two large halves and countless rubble, and burst through the cascading stones to get to Priscilla. If Priscilla could regenerate maimed limbs, Teresa would simply cut off enough until it went beyond the demon's limit.
Teresa grunted as abruptly one of Priscilla's finger-tendrils punched into her shoulder and punctured the flesh right through the bone and out her back, trapping her in mid-flight. She snarled, her youma side expressing itself through her briefly, and swiftly lopped off the tentacle, condemning the warrior woman to a plummet to the ground. She reached behind her shoulder blade and tore out the rest of the twitching appendage as she fell, and crushed it in her fist upon landing.
A blast of wind and speckles of dust hit Teresa, and she saw Priscilla beat her wings and take flight. The finger barbs shot at her again, the lost digit already healed, and Teresa was forced to stoop and sidestep to elude them until all five had pierced into the rock at her rear. The warrior sensed movement behind her and barely twisted her body enough to avoid being impaled as the tendrils curled and reversed their thrusts, attempting a sneak attack at her back after she had dismissed them. Teresa was not quick enough to dodge them completely however; one wrapped around her waist and another squeezed around her throat while a third laboured to withhold her sword arm, and all three lifted her into the skies as Priscilla soared higher above the mountains.
Teresa struggled ferociously, frantically trying to get her claymore free to slice her binds. Higher still Priscilla climbed, riding the cold mountain drafts. Too high. A fall from this height would likely pulverise Teresa. Yet still the warrior fought, one hand raking at the tendril wringing the life out of her, while her sword arm pitted its might against another tendril.
Suddenly Teresa bellowed, and her bicep bulged, potent youma strength rushing into the limb as she relaxed the chains suppressing her demonic power. She wrenched the arm, separating sinew as she stretched the finger-tendril to its limits, until finally it exploded in gouts of purple blood. Her claymore unbound, she hacked off the tentacle around her neck and the one around her body, but held on tightly to one of the writhing appendages as they retreated in pain to their mistress-bringing Teresa with them.
Priscilla glanced down-too late to see Teresa was flying through the air toward her. The youma slayer used the pull of the finger-tendril to propel herself into the Awakened One and drive her claymore to the hilt in the creature's stomach.
Priscilla's ascent dwindled and then she started to fall, her lifeless wings fluttering uselessly against the buffeting of the wind during the descent. Teresa held on to her blade's handle all but kneeling on top of the demon's stomach, enduring the plunge with her enemy.
The ground rushing up to meet them, Teresa scowled as she noticed Priscilla was alive and smiling at her. She grabbed Teresa's claymore with her one clawed hand, gradually pulling it from her gut, while hammering the pommel of her own sword again and again against the woman's back. Priscilla's intended for her to release into the sky and surely die or become wholly crippled when she struck the mountainside, easy pickings to finish off at the demon's leisure.
The cutting wind brought stinging tears to Teresa's eyes, but she did not let go. This was for Clare. Even if the fall killed her and Priscilla both, it was a good outcome.
At the last possible instant, Priscilla unfolded her wings and soared just above the ground, wheeling away from impact. Teresa kicked off of her chest, tugging her blood-splattered sword with her, and somersaulted onto blessed solid ground, tearing clefts in the rock where her feet skidded.
It was not over. Priscilla veered back around and swooped in, slashing with her claymore, her gaping stomach wound not seeming to be a problem for her. Teresa skirted the gleaming blade and spun around, readying herself for a second aerial charge.
As Priscilla neared, Teresa this time took the fight to her and leapt into the skies, intercepting the Awakened One midway in her descent. Yet Teresa was as a gnat to Priscilla's airborne superiority; the demon's sword smashed against Teresa's, smacking her back down to earth. The woman landed hard, pounding a crater into the stone.
It required an enormous effort to roll aside as Priscilla whipped past her, the Awakened One's claymore scraping the ground where she had lain. Teresa was hurting; her wounds finally taking a toll on her strength and slowing her down. Conversely Priscilla appeared still at her peak-*nothing* Teresa had wreaked upon her had weakened her. Despair wanted to emerge, a new emotion for the undefeated Teresa, but she held it at bay. Clare needed her resolve, her *strength* right now, not her hopelessness.
Priscilla returned for yet another diving run, but Teresa stood to meet it. Their claymores flashed at the same moment they passed each other.
Priscilla barked an unearthly cry and spun out of control through the air while Teresa dropped to one knee, nursing a deep gash in her side that poured blood over her white glove.
"Clare!" Teresa yelled, whirling around.
Clare, half in a daze, scrambled to her feet and ran for her life just before Priscilla careered into the rocks behind her, demolishing the formations to smithereens. Through the dust Teresa saw the silhouette of the demon rise, bellowing with all fury of the unholy, her left wing riddled with a spasm before folding against her back. Priscilla would not fly again, for now.
Teresa forced herself to her feet and shook her head, the blood in her eyes spattering on the ground. The tip of her claymore dragged along the rock as she struggled toward Priscilla, needing to finish it soon before her foe regenerated and before she succumbed to her injuries or was too weak to put up a fight. Her youma half did its utmost to tend to her ravaged body, but its power waned as her own did. It could not do much.
Teresa stood at the rim of the destruction created by Priscilla's crash landing and hefted her claymore upright, seizing it in both hands. Her head. It was Teresa's best hope. Remove Priscilla's head and she would not recover from that. Teresa prayed she would not recover from that.
"You've made me move so much…" Priscilla crooned, limping slightly through the settling dust. She was bleeding in places, but nowhere near to the degree Teresa suffered. "I'm so hungry now. That town… I'll have to devour the entire town. Every… single… one of them…."
Teresa charged. There wasn't anything to say. It was all or nothing; victory or death indeed.
Priscilla blocked her incoming slice, but Teresa moved with it, her weapon bouncing from the deflection to spin her body around and lash out again in the opposite direction, the razor edge aiming for the neck. All or nothing.
To Teresa's shock, Priscilla, missing none of her alacrity, dropped her head and locked the horn embedded in her forehead against the wishful sword, the bone proving the tougher. Her offensive stalled past salvation, Teresa had nothing to prevent her cruel and immediate impalement on the end of Priscilla's claymore.
"Not pleasant, is it? But appropriate…."
Teresa gasped, and then choked as her breath was engulfed with collecting blood in the back of her throat. She had lost. She had been defeated. She clawed desperately for the youma that shared her soul, reaching for something, *anything*; opened herself to everything it had, everything it was. But there was nothing to reach for; nothing left.
Teresa's face calmed into pain-wracked beauty and her eyes dimmed to silver jewels as her youma rage faded from her body, lacking the strength to even maintain it. It abandoned her dying form, knowing she was beyond hope, beyond saving. Teresa would be another corpse like Irene and Noel and Sophia, exterminated in the awakening of a grand demon-a footnote during its ascension. And Clare's corpse would soon join hers. Teresa had failed utterly and without redemption.
Tears amassed in her glassy, silvery pools; tears not for herself, but shed for the young girl she had let down.
Clare screamed for her, but a mouthful of blood was all the answer Teresa could give. The woman prayed she would run and not stay to witness this-run and *live*.
Teresa tried to look back, tried to capture the image of the young girl that had opened her to so much one last time, but she couldn't see through the blur of tears. Soon she couldn't even keep her head up. Her muscles slackened; her arms boneless at her sides. Clare.
"Shh…" Priscilla whispered, and in a cloudy corner of her eye Teresa saw the demon point her fingers at her.
The finger-tendrils flew forth, streaking for Teresa's face.
Blood erupted from Teresa's mouth as her left hand shot out and snatched all five tendrils in an iron grip, twisting them away from her head. They flailed wildly, already correcting course, but this was Teresa's moment. Death would have to wait a little longer. As long as some sliver of life persisted inside her, human or youma, she would use it to protect Clare.
Teresa raised her head and her sword, lifting the length of the claymore's blade straight upwards parallel to the ground in a vicious uppercut. She cleaved through flesh and bone, shearing off Priscilla's arm at the wrist and every elongated finger in one deft move. Time slowed as Teresa was aware of every grain of energy she had pumping in her veins, every scrap she had left to dedicate to Clare's defence. Her arm came down, the edge of her claymore cutting into Priscilla's shoulder and further, deeper, bursting out of the Awakened One's ruined hip as she completed the diagonal blow.
The demon's segmented torso whirled in the air with the sheer force of the attack, turning upside down. Teresa dropped the wriggling tentacles to grab her claymore in her two hands and reverse her slash, heaving the heavy steel back over her head. She did what she had meant to do from the start. Priscilla's severed head spun like a top, holding in the air for a second, and then fell and rolled at Teresa's feet. The girl's face stared up at her, astonishment written over it. The demonic light had vanished from her eyes.
Priscilla's legs and what was left of her abdomen toppled, and Teresa feebly stabbed her bloodied claymore into the ground and crumpled to her knees. One hand still clutched the blade's handle; the only thing keeping her upright. With her other hand she grasped Priscilla's sword that ran through her middle and eased it out of her body. There was no pain, now.
Priscilla had been the challenge and more that Teresa had known her to be. But a challenge did not mean a surety of defeat. Not until you admitted it yourself. It was Teresa's most triumphant victory, her greatest battle. It took a team of sisters to do what she had achieved today. But for the first time she had *really* fought for something. Something she believed in. Something that was worth wielding the claymore for.
Teresa's vision lurched, fading in and out, and through the sheet of blood and failing sight she saw Clare come for her, weeping torrents down her pretty face. Teresa wished for more; their time had been so short. Yet the feelings she had experienced then had been a lifetime's. Teresa never knew her body could hold such emotion; have such heart. There was no weakness in feeling. She'd had a real purpose for fighting; for living day to day. She'd enjoyed life for once, seen more beyond the duty, seen that compassion was not a lost concept for her. Teresa had had a passion that being a sister of the organisation had never provided her with. Teresa had been human.
Teresa smiled the faint smile she was named for. Her grip on her sword slipped. She fell.
Teresa's silver eyes crept open, and was surprised that they could, and by her surroundings. She was in a bed in a cosy room, swaddled in rough bandages that smelt of crude salves. A room at the last town's inn, she recognised. One that hadn't been destroyed.
None of the inn room's trappings interested Teresa however; it was the girl hugging herself on a chair at her bedside that her bleary gaze tried focusing on.
Clare looked a little worse for wear; dirty and dishevelled, akin to the time they had first encountered one another.
"Teresa…!" Clare perked up immediately, but her voice rapidly lost liveliness. "You're awake…. You were asleep for so long…. Days…."
"And it looks like you've had no sleep." Teresa panned her gaze around the room again. "How did I get here…?" Teresa's brow furrowed, spotting her tattered cloak and her sheathed claymore on a table at the foot of the bed. She was impressed Clare had managed to retrieve her sword from where she had embedded it in the mountainside.
"I… carried you… on that." Clare glanced at Teresa's frayed and grubby cloak.
"You…?" For such a young and scrawny girl, it was tremendous accomplishment.
Clare nodded solemnly. "The town apothecary tended you…. We didn't have to pay because of what you did, with that youma…" Clare explained softly, looking down at her bruised and scraped hands balled on her lap. "I was so scared…" Her voice shook, and although her light brown fringe curtained her eyes, Teresa could tell of her tears.
"I'm sorry…" Teresa turned her head away, gazing out the window. "I wish you hadn't seen me like that. My face…."
"Not your face," Clare said, leaning forwards to gingerly place her hand over Teresa's.
The woman turned back sheepishly. "Oh."
Clare carefully lay beside Teresa on the bed, still warming the woman's hand, and stared intently into her eyes. Teresa could see the wet trails her crying had scoured through the grime on her face. "When you're better, we'll go far away. So far away they won't ever find us," Clare's heartfelt whispers murmured in Teresa's ear.
Teresa merely smiled that faint smile of hers, wise enough to understand that the organisation would never stop no matter where they went. But she'd fight them all-every single one they sent. And she'd beat them. No one, not even they, could take away what Teresa had found. She should have died on that mountainside. Nothing should have saved her; her body too broken to go on, the foe too overwhelming. But she had survived. She had smote her enemy. And it wasn't her skill that had kept her fighting. It wasn't the youma in her. It had been her humanity. It had been her love.
It had been Clare.
The End… for now.
Wow, that turned out rather short! But think of it as an alternate ending to episode 8, rather than a short story in itself. I'm very likely going to make a series of ongoing one-shots centred on Teresa and Clare as they are now, and this fic was a nice little wrap up of the old and a new beginning for that purpose. Teresa is too awesome a character to forget about.
Thanks to sosofine78 for Claymore research help, and for bugging me enough to write this one-shot. ^_^