Living on Writer's Block

“Well hello, there, missy; yeh’re a pretty little thing to be running with this lot, ain’t yeh?”

She smiled politely, but her scarlet streak flared brightly and her eyes turned to a cool, hard, dangerous shade of navy. “I’d rather run with them than with you, my good man,” she said politely. “They’re much better dressed.”

The mercenary glanced quizzically at her hair as it flashed brightly. “Funny hair, this girl’s got,” he said, looking over his shoulder. A second mercenary loomed behind him, looking over the first man’s shoulder at Ramona as she stood, still as a frozen waterfall, her scarlet hair and skirt glowing in the bright sunlight as they swirled faintly in the breeze, one hand behind her back and the other down by her side, her fingers wrapped loosely around a fold in the material. The second man blinked.

“Don’t much care about ‘er hair or ‘ow funny it is,” he said, “but she’s a mighty pretty girl, that’s fer sure.” The men grinned and began to walk toward her slowly, stalking her. She watched them coolly, a thin smile curving her lip. Her eyes narrowed by degrees, a reddish-gold gleam of anticipation in their depths. She was motionless as a fire, only the edges of her silhouette moving as her hair and skirt rippled and leaped in the wind. She caught sight of Samuel looking at her from a little ways away, and her mouth quirked up in a wider grin at him, as if to say, watch this. As the second mercenary dashed in from her left and the first came from the right, she leapt into the air, spinning gracefully, and landed light as a rose petal on the side of the ship, her arms outstretched like a dancer’s. The two men crashed together and cursed violently. Ramona crossed her arms and put her weight on one leg, clicking her tongue.

“Tsk, tsk. You ought not to say such things,” she said, in a gentle voice. As they spun around to face her, rubbing angrily at bruised shoulders and heads, she smiled. “Oh come, can’t you do better than that?” 

As they glanced at each other, she tilted her chin up, regarding them coolly, the faint grin curving her lips still. Their eyes flicked up at her then back down together as they plotted wordlessly. As they moved  to begin to triangulate on her again, she laughed and shook her head. “You’re not really going to try that again, are you?”

As they dove for the side, she leapt over their grimy heads effortlessly. She turned in the air and landed in a crouch, one hand lightly tracing over the deck as she skidded back. As she slid to a stop and then rose to her feet, she could not hold back a smile. She raised her chin and crossed her arms, head cocked a little to the side as she studied them. “They really did try it. How creative,” she said, as if to herself, but loud enough to enrage the soldiers. 

His chest heaving with exertion, the first man waved his comrade back. “I wanna take ‘er myself,” he rasped.

“I really must thank you, my good man,” she said, casually stepping aside as the man drove forward, rapier outstretched. As the man recovered himself and stepped back to rejoin his comrade, she continued. “I’m rather enjoying myself.”

The two mercenaries gawked at her. “What’s yer name, girl?” spat the second. “No woman can beat us like this.”

One eyebrow quirked upward as she considered, then she smiled. She swept into a beautifully elaborate curtsey. “You may know me,” she said, “as Bloodhawk.”

“Blood’awk?” they said in unison. 

The second looked at his companion. “Don’ I know that name? Ain’t that the assassin?”

“I never knew the name belonged to a wisp o’ a girl,” said the first incredulously. A grin creased his face evilly. “Be interestin’, having this one aroun’,” he said. Suddenly their voices dropped in hurried discussion. They exchanged a heated argument and then straightened up, squaring their shoulders. She watched them calmly. Behind her back, she put a hand on her borrowed knife and drew it silently. The mercenaries turned towards her, swords out. They stood stock still for a moment, staring her down. It was a long moment. Ramona’s eyes began to glaze over as she kept up her facade of quiet interest. She was not quite alert when suddenly the first mercenary lunged at her, sword pointed at her midsection. Quick, like a spark, she brought the knife out and blocked the blow, stepping back with a strange and careless elegance. The man gave her not half a second to dance away; he thrust at her again and she sidestepped, knocking the rapier blade aside as she did, suddenly aware that the man’s longer reach and greater strength would wear her down. Abruptly he closed with her, his hand guard locking against the knife. She began to fight back in earnest, her mind automatically calculating and responding to each attack with the skills she’d learned as a slave to the witch. As they battled, going in circles, sometimes one and sometimes the other gaining the upper hand as her greater training and his better weapon each served them, she noticed the rapier in his hand. It was beautiful, light, and very strong; his use of it, however, showed clearly that he didn’t know that there was a different fight style for rapiers. She gained the advantage again as he stumbled back, and immediately pressed forward, getting in a good solid swipe to his face.  She stepped back and considered the wound she’d inflicted. It scored through his eyebrow, and he was immediately blinded, spitting out his own blood as it trickled into his mouth. He clapped a hand to his forehead and glared at her. 

“Why, yeh little—!” he swore at her foully.

Her eyes flicked wide briefly before narrowing down again. “Oh, you’d better not,” she said with an eerie softness to her tone, and with another artful spin and flick of the knife blade she gave him a matching slice through his other eyebrow. Enraged he pressed forward against her, meeting her as she inflicted the injury, more effectively using his advantage of the greater reach now and driving her back. As she fell back a step, he lunged, finally scoring a slice across her face with the point of his rapier. She let out a gasp of pain, and was immediately being forced backwards, harder and faster than before, and she knew something was up — a moment too late she remembered the other mercenary, and she heard something behind her that froze her marrow. A snigger, very close, sounded in her ear and then before she could do anything there was something very sharp and pointed pressing against the small of her back. She stopped, paralyzed by the knowledge that somehow these dimwitted ruffians had outsmarted her. Her lips tightened in quiet rage as she stared her opponent in the face. 

“Not so quick now, are yeh, little bird?” His breath stank of grog. He grinned, showing grey teeth. 

She smiled coldly. “No, but you must admit, I was good,” she said, a faintly threatening coyness to her voice. 

He chuckled dourly. “Looks like yeh’ll be runnin’ with us lot now after all, missy.”

“I’ll ask you kindly not to call me missy,” she flashed, eyes sparking electric blue momentarily before returning to the red-tinted amber. 

He laughed, eyebrows raised at his companion. “We got oursel’es a fiery little one here, matey.”

“Didn’t think a famous assassin’d be like this,” said the second.

“Aye, easier to get than I’d guessed.” 

Ouch, that stung, she thought.

“Yeah,  but yeh ruined ‘er looks, buckoe,” the man behind her said. 

“Li’l stitchin’ an’ she’ll be right as rain,” said the first mercenary, tracing the deep cut with a dirty fingernail. She flinched away. 

“No it won’t, tha’ll be a right nasty big scar on ‘er face,” retorted the second.

“As long as everythin’ else about ‘er looks’s alright, no one’ll mind a tiny cut,” said the first adamantly.

She groaned suddenly, rolling her eyes. “Ugh — look, will you two please stop chatting and either tie me up or kill me? I’m getting tired standing like this,” she said, but they ignored her. She was bent far backwards, the second mercenary’s rusty sword at her back and the first’s rapier resting a little too close for comfort at her throat. Her core ached.

“Ar, suppose it is a pity I ‘ad to ruin ‘er pretty face,” finally conceded the one who’d done so. “But she’s still pretty ‘nough.” The mercenaries looked at each other, a slow, knowing smile spreading across their faces like swamp mud.