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werewolves still [Jun. 7th, 2006|03:10 pm]
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[the_bashar]


“Max was caught of guard, you cheap prick. But now there is blood in the air, I will kill you!” Calla felt the anger, the rage rise up with her. But she knew she could not let it control her, not completely. Its was a tool and it had to be wielded carefully. One wrong move with this cat and she would be dead. She watched him as wiped the blood of his sword, when he had finished he calmly folded the handkerchief up and put back in his pocket. It was like watching a bad movie.
“Star, go back and help the others with their guest.”
No one needed to tell the girl a second time, she ran almost as fast as calla could through a door at the end of the hallway. The boy cracked his neck and then assumed a fighting stance.
“Your friend is dead, and though I may be tired, do you really want to see if it was luck or skill?”
Calla let the rage fill her, and the gauru form become her and charged. She went straight for his left, catching his arm in her jaw and biting down hard. She heard the bone snap and felt the blade of his sword come down into her back. She threw all her weight onto her left and threw him as hard as she could. The boy sailed through the air and landed on his back. He slid several more feet but even so he got up.
It was his turn to charge. When he got near her he went down, rolling behind and throwing a blow that cut through her hamstrings. Even injured he was fast, his movement little more than a blur in the corner of her eye. She felt her hamstring begin to knit itself back together as he ducked and weaved in and around her avoiding her blows and throwing in his own. She kept him from landing anything major, but even so she could the stings of a thousand little cut. He came at her again, but this time she ducked and kicked out his feet from under him. As he fell she brought her right hand up, the claws sinking deep in to his flesh and moving upwards. Blood flew and she new from the feel that she had scraped the bown.
Down he went, falling somewhere behind her, landing with a thud. Calla could not help but to smile, he had been a hard opponent but now his threat was dead. She turn to see just how much damage her claws had down. The pain was like having an iron rod shoved through her head, thought the rod was in fact a sword. The blade had been shoved up through her jaw and out through her nozzle. The damn boy did not know when to die. Blood flowed from his wounds like a river, and one arm hung limp at his side. But yet he stood, the sword in his one good arm held out before him. He had stabbed upwards and just the right time, catching off guard. Yet he had stroke in the wrong place, and Calla could not help feeling somewhat relieved. It was not a fatal hit, nor even a crippling one.
She grasped his arm and pulled. There was a ringing crack and again he flew. Landing in the doorway, the hilt of his sword still clasped in his hand. This time, when we got up, it was plain to see that he was all but spent. Calla ripped the blade out of her jaw and hurled it towards him. He ducked and the blade clattered behind him in the corridor. Calla howled, for it was a good fight and she was thankful for it. When she lowered her head things were not as she expected. He was not charging, as she was sure he would, indeed he was running! Furious, Calla took off after the boy, running into the corridor after him.
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