vetrowolf

Once she’d finally found a good spot, she remembered what she was trying to do. Slowly and steadily, she brought her hand up and over his chest, the light sheet rippling above her the only thing keeping them from the warm autumn night. Again, she brought it down past the end of the hair on his belly and only stopped once she felt that rough patch of hair just above his groin. With only the moon filtering through the sheet above she could barely make it out as she peered over her dad’s waist. Short and curly, much curlier than his armpit hair, pitch-black, though most of his hair was with only a bit of grey poking through.

A solid kick to Viktor’s balls brought him to the ground, but Noah wouldn’t let him go that easily. Several hard stomps pulverized the man’s legs, and then he seized his broken right arm and continued snapping the bones, along with his fingers. One might think the audience, having cheered through gruesome violence for fight after fight, would be overjoyed by this display of brutality, but it was the opposite. They were dead silent, feeling their earlier excitement wither with every pained howl, and when Noah twisted Viktor’s left arm until his broken bones tore through his flesh, many turned away, unable to watch anymore.

Noah continued punching the bag in her place. “Since when has it ever been fair? When I was in Handent, I fought a Profane who forced me to fake my death in order to escape, and another captured me like a fly in a web. In Welindar, the battle was lost because I failed to kill Kaisen before he could transform. This is the struggle of fighting against the Profane, the struggle of being outclassed and overpowered. In this war, surviving with just a bruised ego is victory enough. You stood up to that monster, you fought, you survived.