[Cliffs of Moher] The Pot

Intriguing. An appropriate term to describe the scene that this agent of death’s distant shadow was privy to, but one that scarcely imparts the gravity of interest. Riveting? Entertaining? Tantalizing? Perhaps all of the above. An intimate bloodbath atop the cliffs of Moher, mete out by naught but bare hand, by a killer of killers whose modus operandi favored long distance and remarkable precision. A dance of death, technique unstyled but honed to perfect precision, moving as if every spell and every strike had been rehearsed a thousand times before. Unerring fluidity in action, like her. It was almost as if he was putting on an exhibition, for her? No, this was not the trip his shadow had expected. This was a treat.

Now he lay in repose, awash in the blood of his prey, deep heavy breaths. But, he was not winded, nor was he quite reveling in the carnage. Those were breaths of control. She had to know, just how honed were his senses? What was he trying to control? In the distance, movement. A blur of black and green, moving from cover to cover, as silent as the smattering of clouds drifting high above. Roughly a hundred feet out, in the direction the man’s head lay, if he had not yet reacted to her presence a glint of metal would be drawn from a sleeve on the shadows hip; a throwing needle, roughly seven inches in length, which would be loosed with exacting precision at the meat of the man’s right shoulder between the clavicle and the shoulder blade.

There she would remain, a clearly feminine figure garbed in black and green. Her armor matte, composite, and form fitting with no loose fabric to catch wind (not unlike so). Her head covered in a matching balaclava style mask, face adorned with a demonic half skull (not unlike so), her eyes unnervingly cold in the moonlight. No word would escape her guise, no sound from her step, and she would sweep her throw with the direction of the wind to minimize turbulence. So, how keen were his senses? How sharp his instinct?

Ooh~ his senses were sharp. He may have waited till the last second, but this shadow had the unshakeable impression this agent of death felt her long before she deigned to draw blood. And, what’s this? A lift of the cowl, breath, deep. Invoking a tilt of the head by his assailant. His poise, his eyes, was that hint of delight she sensed? Curious~ - ”Here to dance, Dama de la Muerte?” - His choice of words, his tone, peculiar~ Could he tell how fitting that was? Did he know?

”You are a most intriguing creature.”~ A voice, feminine but distorted, filtered through the demonic half-mask. Tone playful, giddy almost, and laced with sinister mirth as she began a slow approach; path indirect, traipsing over several gutted corpses along the way. ”A marksman, painting with bare hand in strokes of van Gogh.”~ She paused for a moment to examine his work out of the corner of her eye, her foot rolling the body of a faceless man onto his back.

”Me atrevo a decir, podría disfrutar de un baile. But, I wonder...”~ (I dare say, I might enjoy a dance) Her right hand tensed, fingers curling in anticipation. ”This display. A self exposition, or a performance for two?”~ Her head would tilt once more, belying a genuine curiosity. Mirthful tone masking a voracious hunger within.

Laughter, not at her but at the scenario he finds himself in. A touch of acceptance? Something more... - ”I aim to please. It isn’t just anyone who can see the strokes for what they truly are.” - Eyes unblinking, her gaze locked to him with cold intensity. His actions she could see, but depth behind word remained murky. - ”Que bonita. This is for you, Muerte. I felt your eyes on me, on my quarry, and decided to give you something worth watching,” - His words ring true, though his pathing belied the pursuit of favorable ground. This was not simply flattery to buy time, it seemed like... - ”Something more intimate.” - Curious~

- ”Are you entertained? Enough to let me continue...?” - Showing off his work? Was he secretly one of her flock? No, they revel in the opportunity to die by her hand. Yet, this exhibition was to both please her and appease her? He was asking her to spare him so that he might carry on his work? Curious indeed~ ”Querido mío...”~ (My Dear) She’d start, tilting her head in the opposite direction. ”If you were not ready to dance with me, you should not have been so enticing.”~ Mid sentence, a tone shift. Viciousness bleeding through mirth. Eye’s narrow on her prey, action.

Sprinting forth, directly on target. A blur to any normal man, she narrowed the gap with rapidity, and would pursue if need be. But, she would not attack straight forth. A few paces away, a sudden leap, rightward low along the grass. Her intention to land on her right leg roughly ten feet to his left flank then immediately spring forth, skirting the grass with a low kick. Left leg straight, heel aimed at the side of his left knee. Her right leg would re-coil, ready to shift direction or break momentum as needed. Both arms in a loose guard, expecting riposte. How quick was he? Would he seek to dodge or counter? How well could he read her?

Reaction, last second. Hilt dug into earth with boot, tip of blade brought directly into her path, and a backwards bound. He knew exactly what she planned to do, could he read her that well or was it something more reactive? Her rear boot digs into the earth, lifting, shifting, and slowing her body as her lead foot stamps the blade flat to the ground. A defensive posture as he lands, no counterattack, press the advance. Lunge, left fingers curled into claw, tantalizingly close to rending abdomen. Narrow avoidance, as expected. Pivot, momentum fuel for a spinning sweep with her back leg, he dances just past her heel. Less expected, promising.

Pivot once more, grounded leg coils and releases, spin used to fuel a bounding jab the back of his shoulder before his sight returns to her. A duck, painfully close, shifting once more beyond her reach. Unexpected, interesting~ He was not like her, no, he could not have seen that coming. Yet, he avoided it nonetheless. With eerie grace, mid flight she curled, landing with prey ahead and needles unfurled. Three each hand, twixt each finger, claws of metal gleam as she lingered. Precognition? Sight beyond sight? Instinct? A rare trait, whatever the means, perhaps he is more than he seems?

”I’m curious, querido mío. You follow my lead with no missed step, yet are content to wait when you could direct?” (my dear) She’d ask, tone of sinister mirth as before, yet still genuine in inquiry. As she spoke her right hand would raise, needles waved as a conductor might guide a symphony, gesture to ensure her point was mete. ”Am I not worthy of the effort?” Her raised hand would return to her side with a flick so rapid that the air whistled past her makeshift claws. ”Or am I that frightful a partner?”

- ”Why direct when you do so well? I am not so mired in my ego that I must demand the spotlight. No, I am just as happy dancing to ‘your’ beat.” - A tilt of the head to the left, reading him, his words, his stance. Deference? Praise? - ”There are so many more answers than fear and finding someone lacking. You are worth worship, Muerte.” - Her eyes narrow ever so slightly, not in annoyance or ire but in incredulity, skepticism of the veracity her uncanny insight applied to his words. - ”If you wish for me to direct, why, ask it of me. All I offered was a dance, and dance we have.” -

”Me tienes ahí, querido mío.”~ (You got me there, my dear.) Tone mirthful, her head shifts. Rightward tilt, a nod paired with a slight shrug. ”I am not the same pareja as they, you have no reason to dance with me as them.”~ (pareja - partner) Her arms spread slightly, a gesture to the corpses littered across their moonlit stage. ”Perhaps I got ahead of myself...”~ As she spoke, her right hand would reach over shoulder and pinch the fabric at the base of her neck, then lift.

An opportunity for him, if he chose to take it. But if his senses were as keen as they seemed to be, he would know she was far from defenseless in this brief moment without her sight. A certain invisible ninja found that out the hard way. The half mask would fall first, slipping free as the chord holding it crested her head and hitting the ground with a faint thud, followed by the balaclava blowing away with a seabreeze gust. Raven black hair loosed to the wind, dancing across a visage of oriental descent. ”Perdóname. It has been so long since I’ve happened across such a promising pareja.”~ (Forgive me) She’d finish, a playful smirk upon her face, even if he gave her something to react to in the process.