damned_institute | Night 58: Staff-Only Outdoor Patio Lounge/Eating Area

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Night 58: Staff-Only Outdoor Patio Lounge/Eating Area

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The rush of air that came with the opening door was not cold enough to be called biting, but was certainly cold enough to be a shock. Sesshoumaru's eyes widened in surprise at the smell of it - it smelled like the wind and snow, clean and cold and stripped of the harsh chemical scent that pervaded the facility so completely that the very smell of it had started to fade. He blinked before moving forwards again, out of the doorway, and into the moonlight.

The world was white.

Sesshoumaru's eyes flicked over the snow, which shone eerily in the moonlight. The muted light reflected dimly off of the white blanket, a few ice crystals that reflected the light a bit more strongly fading in and out of shadow, as clouds passed over the moon.

It was full tonight, or nearly full, Sesshoumaru reflected absently as he looked at it. The symbol of his house. And here, in the moonlit snow, he finally looked as though he might belong. The paleness of his skin, the silver blue cast of his hair - he seemed to be a creature of coldness, of the night. A few moments later he looked back down, taking in the scene. There were trees and what appeared to be benches covered lightly in snow, a small shed, a path that had been kept slightly clearer than the rest of the immediate landscape. And surrounding the grounds, there was a wall.

At last he turned his attention to the balcony that they were standing on. There were pathetic looking tables and chairs, poles coated in fabric raising high above them - some kind of umbrella, perhaps, as the fabric did seem designed to fold out, and Sesshoumaru could think of little else that it might be. There seemed little else in this place, between the rail and the wall - though the walls did hold two new doors.

He wondered where they might lead.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

When describing what was on the second floor, Edgar hadn't mentioned any of the things the girl had seen with her own eyes. The hall where they performed 'sleep studies' had been indicated to her by her companion, but she hadn't explored it herself. Nothing else she'd seen -- the library, the kitchen, this snow-filled outdoor nook of a platform -- had been mentioned.

It was chill, and her boots crunched in the lightly packed snow as they walked, but she already suspected this would not lead her to the sought-after file room. Probably not the chapel, either.

But she did not turn back to the hall they'd emerged from earlier in the night. Not yet. It would be a waste to skip a door, when they were already here.

The night was cold and clear, and everything was white and beautiful. This, perhaps, was where Sesshoumaru belonged - even in the black modern clothing he seemed far more natural here than indoors. And the clear air, clean and crisp, was once again such a change.

He wondered where they should go next, after they had checked this final room - if they could open this door. If they could, he wondered if this room would lead anywhere. Thus far they hadn't found signs of such - attempting to reach rooms through rooms had lead to dead ends - but that didn't mean this was the case everywhere.

Perched high on top of the institute's building were a pair of birds that, together, nearly took up the whole edge of the roof overlooking the patio. They weren't often pack hunters, but tonight, the aquila and its mate had their eye on one prey in particular: a girl, too slender to be a good meal, but decent enough.

A large shadow fell over the both of them as one of the birds flapped its wings, sending what appeared to be a light breeze through the trees. That was all the warning they got before one of them swooped down with startling speed, sharp talons extended and aimed straight for the girl.

The crunch crunch crunch of boots in snow was the loudest noise in the air at that moment, their previous quick strides slowed down for the obstacle. There was something about the cold and the snow that was familiar to her, but she didn't know what, or why. Perhaps she had seen snow in the life she could not remember? It seemed the most likely answer...

It was the shadow that caught her attention, as a cloud passing into moonlight, and it was only idle curiosity that had the girl glancing over her shoulder.

The thing, as it turned out, was not very much like a cloud at all. It seemed as though time stopped for that brief moment, her eyes locked on the beast, larger than any creature she could recall (though admittedly this was still not a difficult task), a ferocious looking thing whose dark feathers looked as though dragged from the grave.

Heart leaping into her throat, the girl tried to dodge those sharp talons the easiest way she knew how: dropping herself to the ground, with her hand holding fast the knife.

What was that thing?

The ice and snow were far more familiar to Sesshoumaru, and the quiet that lent even the moonlight a frozen feeling. And it was that silence that was an ally here.

Unlike his companion, Sesshoumaru did not turn to look when a shadow fell across the moon - or not immediately. And, before he could consider doing so, the soft sound of the girl falling was enough to make him turn.

He could smell something strange, like a rotting thing, he realized about half a second before he turned and saw the girl and... the monster.

Sesshoumaru hissed in anger and surprise - a youkai? Here? Some low-level piece of trash, but nonetheless dangerous. His eyes flashed to the bird and to its mate, but the girl had fallen, which would make him a more convenient target. He slid automatically into a fighting stance, hand going to his hip.

There was only the knife.

The knife would be something.

The bird took note of the blade glinting in the moonlight, but it was undeterred—and even if it was, it was moving too fast to stop.

The second aquila came from the opposite end, both of them going straight for the girl. Their claws tried to close around her almost at once, ready to dig in and drag her off—or tear her in two, even. They'd be satisfied with a half portion each.

Her companion, they ignored. He didn't suit their palette. His blood was impure; his flesh tainted and about as appetizing as roadkill.

The girl scrambled backwards through the snow, pushing on the heels of her palms and on the curl of her knuckles, not willing to lose knife or torch. Ice filled her sleeves as she moved; it climbed up higher in her pants legs when her boots kicked at the ground. Her heart was pounding, and her jaw almost chattering for fear or cold.

Any means necessary, she thought, the words instant and almost unnecessary. With the curved blade of the french knife she slashed at the nearest bird, but her focus was already turning inward, her lips forming words she could not sound out. Within her blood was something powerful, something she neither questioned nor understood.

She needed just a few more seconds--!

Sesshoumaru was baffled for maybe half a second at being so blatantly ignored - they could not have a hope of beating him, but to pay him no heed, as though he was neither a threat nor of any further interest-

He growled, a sound that was almost a snarl. They were attacking her, whoever she was, which would not be allowed to stand. He lept forward, a ragged scrap of night and moonlight darting through the air. The knife would be difficult to control and difficult to use, so he ignored it, slashing with poisoned fingertips at the bird closer to the girl.

He was trying to slice its throat, slip his fingers through the filthy feathers and draw a stream of blood. And, with poison all but dripping from his fingernails, even should he not accomplish his objective, the wound would burn.

At the other man's movement, the bird's mate swerved towards Sesshoumaru, intervening in the attack as its claws raked across his face. He wasn't food, but he'd proven himself a nuisance, a liability that needed to be taken care of.

The male aquila shot back into the air, having failed to take down its prey the first time—though not before the blade cut into the feathered flesh just above its legs. It screeched, but pulled back all the same. When it dived again, it was with even greater speed than before, fast and hard enough to at least send its talons into her.

From her prone position, still low to the ground and surrounded in snow, the highest point of her body was thus the easiest to attack. The bird tore into the lower part of her outer thigh; for all the fabric that made up a military uniform, the material seemed thin as rice paper, for the talons of the beast ripped through pants to flesh with ease. Pain lanced through the girl, muscle seizing and her breath almost a solid mass trapped in her throat, but she did not scream. A wheeze, a spasm of pain, but she couldn't waste her voice on this.

She could suffer injury and pain, she thought, even as much as she hated it. But she would not die here. Hot blood ran down her skin, staining cloth and snow alike.

But it was not all that bled from her. Power as well, power that no human ever rightly possessed lived in the blood the beast so desired, and for the first time the girl could remember, she let it loose.

"Fire!" she called, throwing full hands toward the thing above her, aiming. With only that word for warning, sudden flames exploded into life, one after another after another under and around the creature. Each bubbling burst of a flame was tall as a man, but not as large as the beast, and though each of the fires longed to burn those decayed feathers and unwelcome flesh, the scorching and burning force could not stay long. She aimed only for the one bird attacking her, for she dared not split the strength of the spell in half when she was so threatened, but she knew even that probably wouldn't be enough to kill the bird.

She twisted the knife in her hand for the next attack, lips already moving, preparing to repeat the spell.

This night was full of the unexpected.

Sesshoumaru darted back and almost managed to avoid the talons of the bird. But in the end he didn't move quite fast enough. His eyes were fine, and the cut was not bad, but he didn't move quite fast enough to dodge everything completely, and there was that unexpected thin sting of pain.

Sesshoumaru completely ignored it.

He could almost hear his father's voice in his head, scolding him for carelessness. Reminding him how best to kill. Instructing him how to use his claws, his fangs. The hours that he had spent tearing the hearts from monkeys, of separating out the white birds in the flock and killing them all - a soft pressure of claws against skin before it gave way, like the popping of a bubble, the slick feel of fat, the crack of bones, the tearing of muscles and ligaments, and flicking the shattered throats from his fingertips to kill another and another and another, as the air filled with their cries of alarm. He had been instructed well in killing, in the use of his weapons and the use of nothing but his claws, in the mask of bored indifference which was itself a weapon.

No joy, no pain, no sorrow, no fear...

Pain itself was nothing but a curiosity - not something which should be sought after, but no more something which should be given so much as a thought. There were not many that had been powerful enough to wound him, and anything capable of such would also have been powerful enough to notice any reaction, and press it for advantage. Pain was no more important than a cloud against the moon, something to be noticed and nothing more. And this was little but a scratch.

This bird was larger than those he had practiced killing when he had been young, but in principle it was the same, and beyond that it was an enemy. It was dead already.

An enemy is not truly alive, it is a corpse who has not yet realized that it is dead, and so has not yet stopped moving. They will try to kill you instead, but you are my son, and you are powerful. You will not fall to them.

Even here.

Even here.

He could smell the blood of his companion, bright and coppery against the snow and the fetid stench of these birds, as he finally pushed himself. He darted forward, speed blinding, intent on shoving his claws up through the jaw and skull of this bird, of releasing his acidic poison into the thing's brain.

And the night exploded into fire.

Despite its speed, the creature was too close to escape the fire unharmed. Its feathers lit up, sizzling. It flapped away, leaving a trail of smoke through the air and disappeared into the night.

The second bird didn't go unharmed, either: it was fast enough to dart out of the way, but the claws left long, deep scratches down its breast. Hot, black blood—rotting blood—spilled from the wound. It hissed angrily, but wheeled away, too. That wasn't the prey it wanted, anyway.

For a good minute or two, it seemed as if they'd both been chased off—until they dove again for the girl. The fire had burned out on the one, but when it hit the girl, the ragged remains of its wings made it clear it wouldn't be taking to the air again. No longer able to dive properly, it began snapping with its beak, trying to tear through anything: her arm, her throat, her eye.

They felt ceaselessly long, those scarce minutes. For several, the girl remained where she lay, prone and bleeding in the snow. Her fingers were numb for the cold, and their tight grip on their respective items. Her clothing was soaked. Pain throbbed through her leg. She panted, struggling to rise.

What were those things?

Between the cold and the injury, getting to her feet was not something she could have done by herself in such short time. It was hard to balance her weight on both hands when they each held such awkwardly shaped objects. She didn't really have anywhere to put the knife, thin as it was, but since the front of the flashlight flared out so much from the pillar of its grip, she could slip that between her hip and her loaded belt. A quick pat around her waist verified that the rest were in their proper places. That poor book had taken the force of her fall and was smothered in a great deal of snow, but stayed steady on her belt. The strange bottle had slipped out, so she returned that in a tighter squeeze. The clear bags remained closed and whole.

Satisfied that she wouldn't have to bend and recollect anything once she got to her feet, she tried to rise. It didn't work so well for her, as holding even her meager weight on the injured leg made her stagger, knees buckling. At least the snow served well to cushion her fall.

She could not stay down for long. Before she'd even noticed his approach, her companion was before her, his one hand taking her by the arm and hauling her up to her feet. She clung to that support as they moved, but her attention was focused more on his condition than hers. He was far less battered from the fight than she: his face had been cut, thin lines of blood running down his cheek, but the thick blood that covered his hand and his arm was not his.

Within a few seconds they reached the nearest of the snow-covered tables. The girl leaned against the lip of it, the snow just more cold against her soaked pants. She turned to examine the damage, empty hand tugging and tearing at the rip in the fabric.

The bleeding felt slow. Blood crawled down her thigh and past her knee, like some thick syrup. She'd need to fix that before they went any further.

Even for as long as a couple minutes could seem, they was too few. She heard the attacking beast on its approach this time. It did her little good. Her head whipped around, and fear was the thin layer of sweat on her face. There wasn't time to dodge, not positioned where she was, and the bird's weapon range was far greater than hers with only the small knife in hand. When it collided with her, the girl was knocked off the table, into and toppling and almost trapped by seats as white and as flimsy as the snow that covered them.

While it tried to rip her to pieces, she twisted and contorted to avoid the worst of the blows, though such evasions were not enough to avoid injury completely. In return, she slashed at anything her knife could reach -- its neck, its eyes, the juncture where its beak connected to its head, the underside of its monstrous wings.

Sesshoumaru had growled lightly, in surprise more than anything else, when his claws ripped into the bird - not in surprise at the hit, but surprise at the creature's blood, which smelled so foul and decayed that, were his nose anywhere close to what it should be, it would have been an effective weapon itself. He could feel drops of it spatter against him as the monster pulled back and growled again, in annoyance at the shallowness of the hit and annoyance that he was being hit by this blood. Even as weak as his nose was, he nearly gagged at it, at his gore-spattered arm and hand, and the flecks of blood soaking into the black material of his clothing.

But then they were pulling back and wheeling away, both of them, he snarled under his breath, wishing he could chase them down still, but he could not fly, he was weak, he was slow, this place, this place-

The sound of his companion falling again made him look over his shoulder to her, then move to her side to pull her to her feet - though her leg appeared to be injured enough that it would likely do little good. He looked to her leg, watched her examine it. He could tell that something needed to be done, the scent of her blood was singing, fresh and clean, through the rotted stuff of the monsters. Still, treating that would have to wait until their attackers were dead.

His eyes flashed sharp and hard as he looked at her. "If you bleed to death, girl, I will leave your body to them."

He turned again to look at the sky, which was when struck.

Behind him.

He heard it, but not in time to do anything, and then there was the soft thump of bodies hitting snow, the clatter of the tables and chairs. The girl still hadn't screamed, which was enough to leave Sesshoumaru somewhat impressed, but now was not the time to be concerned by that. And he was becoming tired of being ignored.

The thing was trying to strike at the girl, so Sesshoumaru hurled himself at it, trying to push it off of her. At the same time he struck, trying to shred its heart. Failing that, he could at least pump it full of the acidic poison that was his naturally.

Driven into a frenzy by the scent of blood—her blood, in particular—the animal was relentless in its attack, despite the freshly bleeding wounds the knife had opened up. It beat its wings, a deep red tinting its sharply curved beak. It was so focused on her that it paid little attention to anything else: when the other came for it, it noticed too late and its body wasn't designed to maneuver on the ground, anyway. It gave an ear-piercing cry—and then collapsed. Right on top of the girl.

All that was left was the other bird, slowed somewhat by the poison, but not enough to make it stop and the dead body of its mate only seemed to spur it further. It made to grab for the girl, ready to haul her from underneath the carcass and carry her somewhere it could actually eat in peace.

Where her knife slashed, feathers and blood were torn free, and trapped beneath the creature as she was there was was no avoiding such carnage from staining her body. The foulness of it clung to her clothes and smeared across her face. She tried not to gag at the smell or the taste of it; she was unable to clamp her mouth shut with her lips furiously laying the words and tinder for flame. She was terrified, the feeling greater than any she'd ever felt before, disorienting all its own. The creature was so large she could not even see her companion when he assisted; nothing more than wisps of white hair catching the moonlight.

Its scream caught her off guard, but the collapse was worse. It weighed so much, more than she could have guessed. It seemed impossible that something this heavy should be able to fly. It was crushing her ribs, her arms where she tried pushing against it. She was not strong enough to push it off her, or even dislodge it. She couldn't breathe. Between the feathers, the blood, the foul stench, the cold snow--

For that reason, it was a blessing that the second still desired her death. Its grab was successful, tearing into what fabric it could reach, and with a sharp tug and a tearing of her jacket it pulled her to freedom.

The knife, slick and dark from the fight, slipped from her hand. But it was alright. She could see the sky and the stars, and more importantly, she could see the bird. The blood of its mate was thick and dark on her face, in her hair, around her mouth. Within her grimace her teeth were a startling white.

"Fire!" was her unsteady shout, and once more the bright spell burst to life, seeking to consume the bird with as much hunger and ferocity as it desired her.

For the first time, Sesshoumaru found himself, bizarrely, somewhat grateful that, if this place was to weaken him, it had done so to such an extent. His arm was covered in blood, it was soaking through the material of his sleeve and the front of his shirt, causing the fabric to cling to him - a good deal of the fastidious neatness he was able to maintain in battle was, after all, a result of the power he wielded, and the speed with which he was able to bring it to bear. If his nose were not so weak as it was, this might actually have been a problem.

He felt momentarily dizzy as he pulled himself away from the bird, from the reek of its flesh and its feathers and the blood soaking from its wounds. It took him a few moments to even notice that the other bird was there, moments that he spent concentrating very very fiercely on not using his sense of smell at all, or any more than he could help. And, by the time he'd staggered to his feet and forced himself back into his usual icy control, the second of the birds had the girl. It had dragged her out from the corpse of the first, which had been sandwiched between the two of them, ready to resume its attempt at killing her.

Sesshoumaru snarled in frustration, but before he could move to once again jump to attack, the girl struck. She was rising in his estimation, certainly.

The daiyoukai jumped back to dodge the tongues of flame, then finally drew the knife with blood-slick fingers. It was not weighted nor designed for this purpose, but was still probably better than his hand, at least in this case, with fire licking across the decaying feathers of the thing and melting the snow.

He lept forward again, to stab, to drag the serrated edge through the creature's neck or chest or wings, anywhere that was easiest to strike, wherever he could inflict the most harm.

The bird had pulled her a foot off the ground when the burst of fire made it drop its prey again. It was hungry enough that instead of wheeling away to strike later, it went back immediately, even with the edges of its tail and wings aflame, crackling. The smell of blood and burnt flesh and feathers was overwhelming.

Still on fire, the creature lashed out with both flaming wings, half out of pain, like a giant torch. If they came too close, the blow was powerful enough to knock any full grown human flat and stun them if it struck. The knife would tear through the wing when it did, but that wasn't on its mind.

The girl fell with a muffled thump into the snow, twisting in air to catch herself on her elbows. Items from her belt fell with her -- the abused book, the condiment bottle, the wooden spoon -- and made their own small craters in the trampled white field. Thankfully the bags fastened to her belt remained closed and without tear, but for all the tossing around being done to her, she was sure to have bruises around her hips and upper thighs.

It was still alive, she'd misplaced her larger knife, and she did not have power enough to chain spell after spell in quick succession. Even if she had the advantage on land to the bird, between her injured leg and the beast's close proximity and dangerous wings, standing now would have simply knocked her back down. But she couldn't just lay there and wait for her power to grow; it would faster rip out her throat. The girl scrambled for cover, crawling on numb hands and through cold snow until she was under one of the plastic tables with its built-in umbrellas.

It probably wouldn't buy her much time, if any at all; regardless, the girl pushed at the underside of table, turning the whole structure over, the flat of the top and the staff of the umbrella between her and the burning beast.

The girl was not the only one who was knocked backwards by the blow, Sesshoumaru was as well.

And the damn bird was still attacking. He wondered if it was animated by some sort of spell, to explain its supernatural persistence - it would explain the stench if it was some thing that was already dead, raised by some kind of black priest or other magic user, as well as its sheer persistence. Of course, the question would then become why it was attacking the girl.

He was too slow, and too low to the ground, to react as quickly as he should have. As he normally would have. Too weak. Additionally, the sharp pain blossoming in his side was... distracting. But pain really was nothing more than a curiosity, and could be nothing more at the moment. Pain was only weakness, and weakness was not to be tolerated, especially in a situation such as this. At least, despite the fire raging across the bird, the melted snow and blood soaking through his skin and the briefness of the contact had protected him from serious burns. It was bad enough to fall.

The sweep of wings had knocked him backwards, sent him sprawling - which was humiliating and infuriating by itself, but the snow all around them was covered in gore, and Sesshoumaru had been knocked into it. Breathing without becoming dizzy or nauseous was becoming a battle itself, which Sesshoumaru shoved to the side as he rose once again. He did not look so elegant now, with half of his hair clinging to him in bloody strings, but that did not change who he was. He was Sesshoumaru, the Lord of the West, the Killing Perfection, and he would not lose to this animal. And the girl was a companion for the night, at least, and not as intolerable as some here - and, of course, there had been an implied agreement of protection.

She had scrambled under a table, was using it as a shield, and after a fraction of a second to consider, Sesshoumaru threw his knife to her - she appeared to have lost hers, and he preferred his claws, the pathetic thing was not weighted nor balanced for fighting, and did not have an edge that easily allowed anything.

He leapt at the thing again, to slam into it and drive it back as he had its companion, to give the girl time to cast more fire (it appeared to take time) or rip it apart with his bare claws, rip into it with his poison (though even that was beginning to seem odd - he felt oddly hollow, when compared to normal - still, enough to kill this bastard).

Such an attack would probably cause burns, but even in this place he was fast, and drove the limits of that speed as he struck, and power, and ignored the exhaustion already tugging at him.

And he would heal. He always healed.

The snow was crunchy and rough, iced over from the past couple of days, which made it difficult to move as it was and the bird wasn't made for fighting on the ground. Its left wing hung shredded and torn, almost skeletal. The monster wasn't even really attacking so much anymore as it thrashed, but it was still wild and dangerous.

When the male jumped on top of it, its already weak bone structure collapsed under the weight. There was a hiss as some of the flames sizzled out in the snow. It screeched and shook violently, trying to throw him off, but it was clear that all it would take was one well-placed blow before it was taken out for good.

Another scream. The girl flinched, her teeth grinding together at the sound. Everything about the beast was overwhelming in some way, from strength to stench to that piercing cry, but it did mean one thing. It was the sound the other had made just before its death; this, too, would die soon.

Better sooner.

Taking the knife her companion had tossed her way, the girl dragged herself to her feet with the help of the overturned table, balance cautious. The wound still hurt, and her leg throbbed under her weight and stung with fiercer pain as she walked. She limped, but did not fall.

She hesitated for a moment at the barrier of space, just out of reach of its natural weapons, but the pause was short. The girl practically threw herself onto the creature for the speed of her strike, the serrated blade plunging through the char and feathers at the bird's neck. She twisted the knife in the wound, blood spewing from the wider wound, and just as harshly the girl yanked the knife out, staggering backwards.

Sesshoumaru was having a difficult time reacting as quickly as he should have. Some dizzying combination of pain and weariness and the stench of this thing, particularly of its blood (mostly these last two, but the pain still didn't help) was slowing his reactions, making it harder to focus. As a result, the girl was there with the knife before he'd quite decided how he was going to kill it, and made the decision for him.

There was the knife he had lent her, and the blood spurting from the wound accompanying it - the spray mercifully lessened by the other wounds that the creature had sustained, but it was nonetheless in the air, he was breathing it, and that was motivation enough to move.

He was exhausted.

He didn't care.

Sesshoumaru managed to pull himself up and walk a few paces, over to where the snow was not covered in blood, and from there it was only with a great effort of will that he kept himself from collapsing entirely. His head hurt, he was weary down to his bones (more than he should be, but at the moment he was too tired to care), and a part of him just wanted to lie down in the snow and never move again. The only problem was that would require leaving him exposed to all the blood, which was making him gag. In the end he dropped to his knees and buried his hand in the icy snow, trying to scrape or scrub the worst of the blood away from that, at least, never mind the cold. It wasn't perfect, but it was a start, and his clothing was already filthy enough.

An almost pitiful gurgle was all that escape the bird when it crumpled into a heap of smoking feathers and broken bones. Its blood seeped into the remnants of the snow and the ground, leaving dark splotches of a blackish honey, like spilled molasses.

If there were others in the area, they wisely decided to stay away. The sky remained empty of anymore birdlike shadows.

The fury and fight of the beast had quelled, and with it the night seemed to return to quiet stillness. Her breathing was labored. Her body shook for the fear still tumbling through her veins. The winter was cold in her mouth, and rotten. Blood stained her face, and what of her clothing hadn't been black before the fight were stained dark enough to pass now. Between the ice and the blood and the dark night, the girl was freezing and growing colder. Her hands felt numb. Her boots were full of snow, water seeping between her toes. Around her the snow seemed just as wounded as she, uneven for the struggle and the heat, and the dark stains of blood seemed cancerous blights on the pale ground.

Was it... over? Really over this time?

Her blood-painted face cracked for a white smile. They did it! They really did it! For that moment, she was so glad to have emerged victorious that she threw her sore hands to the air, a breathy and exhilarated laugh escaping her in visible puffs of air. It was alright now, she thought. Nothing was trying to kill her anymore. She was only rank with the blood of those that had tried, and failed. She could sit down for a moment without much worry. She still had her magic, and her--

Oh, her things. Along with her kitchen knife, a small number of other objects had tumbled from her belt. One had already proved itself valuable; the girl couldn't leave it behind, and it would be a waste to leave the others as well. The girl had to hold her breath as she examined the snow, the carnage smelling so foul. Most were easy to find, near the first dead bird, and with slow care she retrieved the abused book, the yellow bottle, this and that.

As for the knife, it'd been covered in blood and gore when she dropped it, so it would definitely be somewhere the snow had been dyed. It took a few moments, but eventually her cold hands discovered colder metal, and she retrieved the blade from the black snow. She wiped it against the cloth covering her uninjured leg, for what good it did; even her pants were soaked through with blood, though not all belonged to the beast.

It was only then with her weapon returned that the girl began trying to wipe the blood from her face, on what clean patches of sleeves remained to her.

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