[ It's easy enough to pinpoint the site of battle; flashy lights and an airborne struggle are akin to a stage spotlight. The Knave arrives in time to witness the height of the violence: a winged form wrenched from the air by crimson spikes, the act sharp and brutal in its efficiency. She watches clinically, if with a touch of annoyance at the clear handiwork of her mannequin with its pilfered bloodfire. It's a creature too crafty and dangerous — behavior likely modeled after her own. She would feel pity for the past recipients of her attentions if they hadn't been so utterly deserving.
Speaking of, it seems the mannequin has pinned its prey to the earth like a butterfly on a board. In that moment, the mannequin meets The Knave's eyes across the parking lot with a dark mirth. It directs a mocking bow in her direction... before unceremoniously turning around and walking away. Flaunting her inability to act against it, of course. It knows that her emotions won't be swayed by simple acts of delinquency, even should they be done in her image. But with increasing intensity and frequency, even The Knave might feel a need to take responsibility.
For now, there seems to be someone dying in the parking lot. Someone familiar, in fact: that idealistic fellow from the apartments, Adrian. Even so, there's a lack of urgency as she approaches him, his wrung out words dragging themselves over the stillness of the lot. Conventional wisdom would hold that he's already a dead man; the thorn of bloodfire piercing his lung is much more than she could attempt to address with first aid alone. He could breathe his last at any moment... and those are the words he'd waste his precious seconds on?
She would think this merely a pathetic attempt to guilt trip his killer, had he not spoken as he did when they parted last. On death's door, does he truly concern himself with the cleanliness of her soul? A laughable notion.
She finally arrives at his side, uncaring of whether he thinks her real or mannequin in the haze of his injury. There's little he can do to her in this state either way. ]
Spare me your supplications.
[ Harsh, blunt, unlike the lyrical mockery of her mannequin. She eyes Adrian's state, feels the responsiveness of the stake of blood running through him. ]
You are a healer, yes? So heal.
[ That's all the warning he gets, and the one second she grants him to process it, before the spike piercing him abruptly slithers back into the earth. She could be gentler, perhaps make an attempt to double-check his capabilities — but when a man's lung is in jeopardy, there's little room for conversation. If he can heal himself, then he will; if he cannot, then he'll die as he would have anyway. It's as simple as that.
... Though... The Knave will assist in the one way she can think of. The instant after she forces the mannequin's spike away, her own true bloodfire manifests to stop the gaping holes left in its wake. Her blood is searing, molten in the split second it takes to flow over Adrian's wounds, before rapidly cooling to a semi-solid, almost comforting warmth. It should be enough to plug his wounds on the surface for now. ]
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Speaking of, it seems the mannequin has pinned its prey to the earth like a butterfly on a board. In that moment, the mannequin meets The Knave's eyes across the parking lot with a dark mirth. It directs a mocking bow in her direction... before unceremoniously turning around and walking away. Flaunting her inability to act against it, of course. It knows that her emotions won't be swayed by simple acts of delinquency, even should they be done in her image. But with increasing intensity and frequency, even The Knave might feel a need to take responsibility.
For now, there seems to be someone dying in the parking lot. Someone familiar, in fact: that idealistic fellow from the apartments, Adrian. Even so, there's a lack of urgency as she approaches him, his wrung out words dragging themselves over the stillness of the lot. Conventional wisdom would hold that he's already a dead man; the thorn of bloodfire piercing his lung is much more than she could attempt to address with first aid alone. He could breathe his last at any moment... and those are the words he'd waste his precious seconds on?
She would think this merely a pathetic attempt to guilt trip his killer, had he not spoken as he did when they parted last. On death's door, does he truly concern himself with the cleanliness of her soul? A laughable notion.
She finally arrives at his side, uncaring of whether he thinks her real or mannequin in the haze of his injury. There's little he can do to her in this state either way. ]
Spare me your supplications.
[ Harsh, blunt, unlike the lyrical mockery of her mannequin. She eyes Adrian's state, feels the responsiveness of the stake of blood running through him. ]
You are a healer, yes? So heal.
[ That's all the warning he gets, and the one second she grants him to process it, before the spike piercing him abruptly slithers back into the earth. She could be gentler, perhaps make an attempt to double-check his capabilities — but when a man's lung is in jeopardy, there's little room for conversation. If he can heal himself, then he will; if he cannot, then he'll die as he would have anyway. It's as simple as that.
... Though... The Knave will assist in the one way she can think of. The instant after she forces the mannequin's spike away, her own true bloodfire manifests to stop the gaping holes left in its wake. Her blood is searing, molten in the split second it takes to flow over Adrian's wounds, before rapidly cooling to a semi-solid, almost comforting warmth. It should be enough to plug his wounds on the surface for now. ]