There had never been a doubt in anyone's mind, she supposed, that once they arrived, once the fighting started - that would be it. There would be nothing else. So perhaps it should not surprise her, that she does not seem him over much once it truly does start.
Not that there was much for her to do - she had never experience ship to ship combat. It was strange, and marvelling, as she stood back to watch the Admiral and his mercenaries work. How seamless they knew each other like she knew her own forces. Even if it felt like swallowing fire to know that this was the war for her home, and she could nothing from here and she must leave it into his hands. Doing her best not to snap for it, like a captured predator prowling at cage doors. She fills in the time with her training. With their exchanges when they have them. A slow process of getting to know each other. It does enough, in the intermediate, soothe her. But it doesn't take it away, that pent-up aggression, that awful sense of fate in her hands that was as strong as silk, fine as a single thread that could take a weight and snap when pulled too hard. Feeling it between her hands as she withdrew quieter as they came closer. Her mind clearly taken up even in their conversations. This would not be like the wars she had fought before, it must not be. She has risked too much. She laughed loudly, hit harder, and fell silent as mountains in preparation.
Not until they began boarding, taking over the ship according to his plan. She didn't hesitate. She would be the first to go, and no one else besides. For he had done his behalf, the surprise attack - getting everything into place. Now it was time for her to do her own part. Do what she had been born for, fated too. She doesn't see him before the battle, dressed by her own guards, protected to the last by them as they flanked her. The star and crescent moon painted onto her brow, that in turn with a red vermillion, she painted a dot to each of her guard's brow. Each of their fingers stained darkly. The sieging of a ship was something none of them had done before either, but at least the steps were familiar. Readied themselves to the ritualistic formula for it.
Even if maybe that once the fighting spills out, from that fight to the next - they aren't the best at anything at range. Neither she nor they, quite seem to grasp the concept of using cover outside of their own shields, archaic things that at least do the simple task of blocking nerve disruptor fire. But they get in close, with weapons the UC's armour considered itself superior too, so there wasn't much to stop her men when they got knives into throats. When they jammed plasma rifle into a stomach and blasted them apart. She wonders briefly, in the carnage of it all, if her people can see it, far below on the surface. Battle's that shone like Gods' light as she felt the shake of the ground - the ship - below her feet in a battle she understood far less of, but knew the importance - it would be as unforgiving as her sword through a man's chest.
She kills, and nearly is killed, and then kills again. Every quiet moment of their journey, every still moment, coming out harsh and all at once. It turns to a blur under her hands as it goes, for however long. Like this, there is no sense of time. It could be minutes or it could be days until it's over to her mind's eye.
Then it was, then there was no one left alive that was still fighting, there was only those that gave in, to the surprise of it all. The UC was fat as a spoiled pig, lumbering at its own weight. The commander of the ship that falls to his knees in front of her in surrender. That she sees his face - and she realises, she knows this man. She knows him. Knows him from when he made widows clear up the bodies of their own husbands. What little of them there was left when they had only dared to fight for food.
She doesn't even realise she's moving until the sword is in her hand again. Until she hears one of his soldier's cry to tell her to stop as she advances on him. It's too late, she wants to tell them, she won't be stopped. The commander had already made his choices. He would pay for them.
His head comes off in one clear-cut. Hitting the ground with a splatter of blood and a wet thump. Rolling with widely spinning eyes as brain caught up with death, until the stare turned glassy, and the mouth was open in an agonising scream. Breathing hard, fast, righteous in the action she turned back to - see him, to look only for him, nodding to him. "The spoils are yours." As promised by their agreement, she had no further business on the ship.
With that - she left. Retreated there firmly, for the next cycle of day and night, even if she's learned that means nothing when there is no sky when there is nothing but black and flickers of light. Takes food and drink - takes a lot of drink, more than she had ever imbibed for most of her life - and sends even her own away, her son kept far from the battle does not need to see his mother like this. Kashi had known her too long to know that it was anything she would like anyone to see.
Drunk, on blood and misery and whatever it was that they had been procured.
no subject
Not that there was much for her to do - she had never experience ship to ship combat. It was strange, and marvelling, as she stood back to watch the Admiral and his mercenaries work. How seamless they knew each other like she knew her own forces. Even if it felt like swallowing fire to know that this was the war for her home, and she could nothing from here and she must leave it into his hands. Doing her best not to snap for it, like a captured predator prowling at cage doors. She fills in the time with her training. With their exchanges when they have them. A slow process of getting to know each other. It does enough, in the intermediate, soothe her. But it doesn't take it away, that pent-up aggression, that awful sense of fate in her hands that was as strong as silk, fine as a single thread that could take a weight and snap when pulled too hard. Feeling it between her hands as she withdrew quieter as they came closer. Her mind clearly taken up even in their conversations. This would not be like the wars she had fought before, it must not be. She has risked too much. She laughed loudly, hit harder, and fell silent as mountains in preparation.
Not until they began boarding, taking over the ship according to his plan. She didn't hesitate. She would be the first to go, and no one else besides. For he had done his behalf, the surprise attack - getting everything into place. Now it was time for her to do her own part. Do what she had been born for, fated too. She doesn't see him before the battle, dressed by her own guards, protected to the last by them as they flanked her. The star and crescent moon painted onto her brow, that in turn with a red vermillion, she painted a dot to each of her guard's brow. Each of their fingers stained darkly. The sieging of a ship was something none of them had done before either, but at least the steps were familiar. Readied themselves to the ritualistic formula for it.
Even if maybe that once the fighting spills out, from that fight to the next - they aren't the best at anything at range. Neither she nor they, quite seem to grasp the concept of using cover outside of their own shields, archaic things that at least do the simple task of blocking nerve disruptor fire. But they get in close, with weapons the UC's armour considered itself superior too, so there wasn't much to stop her men when they got knives into throats. When they jammed plasma rifle into a stomach and blasted them apart. She wonders briefly, in the carnage of it all, if her people can see it, far below on the surface. Battle's that shone like Gods' light as she felt the shake of the ground - the ship - below her feet in a battle she understood far less of, but knew the importance - it would be as unforgiving as her sword through a man's chest.
She kills, and nearly is killed, and then kills again. Every quiet moment of their journey, every still moment, coming out harsh and all at once. It turns to a blur under her hands as it goes, for however long. Like this, there is no sense of time. It could be minutes or it could be days until it's over to her mind's eye.
Then it was, then there was no one left alive that was still fighting, there was only those that gave in, to the surprise of it all. The UC was fat as a spoiled pig, lumbering at its own weight. The commander of the ship that falls to his knees in front of her in surrender. That she sees his face - and she realises, she knows this man. She knows him. Knows him from when he made widows clear up the bodies of their own husbands. What little of them there was left when they had only dared to fight for food.
She doesn't even realise she's moving until the sword is in her hand again. Until she hears one of his soldier's cry to tell her to stop as she advances on him. It's too late, she wants to tell them, she won't be stopped. The commander had already made his choices. He would pay for them.
His head comes off in one clear-cut. Hitting the ground with a splatter of blood and a wet thump. Rolling with widely spinning eyes as brain caught up with death, until the stare turned glassy, and the mouth was open in an agonising scream. Breathing hard, fast, righteous in the action she turned back to - see him, to look only for him, nodding to him. "The spoils are yours." As promised by their agreement, she had no further business on the ship.
With that - she left. Retreated there firmly, for the next cycle of day and night, even if she's learned that means nothing when there is no sky when there is nothing but black and flickers of light. Takes food and drink - takes a lot of drink, more than she had ever imbibed for most of her life - and sends even her own away, her son kept far from the battle does not need to see his mother like this. Kashi had known her too long to know that it was anything she would like anyone to see.
Drunk, on blood and misery and whatever it was that they had been procured.