The woman's eyes were fixed at an angle exactly in between Americas eyes. Her cold, cobalt stare would be on its own enough to deter a snake from striking, but this is Alfred Jones. He is not someone who would listen to the voice of reason in the back of his head even if he actually had one. Not to say that he isn't getting an uncomfortable prickle up and down his spine; unnerving is unnerving, no matter which country you are.
She had her hair up in a bun. Her face was very severe looking. In fact, she looked as if she had been sucking on lemons most of her life.* Her intensely drab, blandly colored dress was covered by a thick black cloak. Alfred would have liked to get a closer look at her hat, but he was drawn to stare at her mottled complexion. The tears leaking down from those cobalt eyes were also an excellent deterrent to further inspection.
At one time she would have been heart-stoppingly beautiful in the same way a well-oiled sword is beautiful just before it cleaves your head open. The blood spattered over her abdomen only served to add to the image. Through the rips of her skirt, a pair of long, pale legs could be seen, criss-crossed with angry red scars and cold blue warrior tattoos. Her feet were encased in a pair of formidably sturdy boots. Peeking over their edge was a pair of socks that looked as if they could shrug off a hammer blow.
At her side lay a dead cat. It wasn't a normal cat, as it was more scar tissue than fur. There were also the sad remains of a shattered broomstick, and broken glass littered the ground. An empty jug with the word 'Scumble' shakily scrawled on it lay next to her, its contents sublimating in the open mid spring air.
It was the scream, coming from within the cottage, which woke Alfred from his stupor. A young girl, no more than nine was steadily beating the skull of an elf in with a cast iron frying pan. When the last scream was cut off with a pained gurgle, the young girl looked up and turned to face America. He was, for a moment, caught in her angry glass green stare. At that moment he revised his earlier thought. This was not a nine year old girl.
"Who are you?" she said, voice scratchy with misuse.
"M-my name is Alfred J-jones. I'm the United States of America and the greatest hero ever! Um, who are you? A-and who is she?"
"I'm Tiffany Aching. I'm the Sto Plains. She's Esme 'Granny' Weatherwax. She is Lancre."
"U-um what happened to her?"
"Elves. Elves happened to her."
*Not the kind that come in the jelly beans, the actual fruit. With apologies to Mr. L. Wexler of 15th Crowne Plaza. A slur is a slur.
Sorry, if you guys really want me to, I'll make another chapter. I'm just not sure what to do.
PLEASE R&R! you know you wanna…