12.17.08 - The Road is Not Our Friend
Location: Dirt Road
Characters Involved: Jove, Caspian, Darklett
Thump-thump-thump. What is that? It's the steady beat of hareish feet carrying Jove down the dirt road. "Dunno why ah didn' do this earliah," the doe mutters to herself as she slows to a halt, looking about this particular patch of roadside while her breath forms little clouds in the frigid air. Her nose wrinkles; she taps her saber's hilt thoughtfully and starts again at a much slower pace, ears up and alert while she searches for something on the ground. "Ehh.. huh. Righ', y'buggah, where're yeh.."
... it's the sound of fresh meat. And, in true predator nature, Caspian is drawn by it. He's far enough from the Abbey to not be worried about it, either. This is the road. It's open terrain, and as it starts to get dark and snow comes down in a thicker flurry, the big tabby emerges from out of the trees. 'Big' .. is definitely a word for him, yes. He's a literal wall of a feline, sword already in his hand as he emerges from the shadowy roadside where the trees begin. Snow crunches under his boots and his muzzle spreads into a wide, toothy smile. "Hey there, girly." He's almost close enough to just reach out and grab her.
Jove stops and looks up.. and up, nose aquiver. "Evenin'," she grins back, or at least bares her completely herbivorous teeth. Her saber slides out of its scabbard and moves to a guard position as she bounds backward, out of reach. "Don' suppose y're th'quartermastah 'round these parts," the doe sniffs, eyes darting about the area for any accomplices. "But if y'are, seen a sewin' kit by chance?"
Caspian looks genuinely amused. "A sewing kit?" He looks skyward. "Y' hear that? I have a /sewing/ kit t' thank for tonight's entertainment!" He takes one casual step forward and just about covers the distance of that bound; then another follows, and he makes an unhurried grab to try to catch the doe by one arm. The tabby isn't slow-moving, just nonchalant. His claws are free from his fingertips, teeth flashing in a threatening smile.
"Mothah," Jove mutters, then "Righ', bloody riot!" as her saber flicks out for that hand. "Can't see yeh's verrah pop'lar wi' th'girls wi' those kinds o' mannahs." Another backwards leap; the doe's eyes are wide and intent, and it's probably occurring to her that here is an enemy with /six/ pointy weapons, and a considerably longer reach.
With the same kind of casual motion Caspian brings up his own sword, in the other hand, and blocks the first gesture from Jove's sabre. The weapons clang together and there's a soft hiss as the blades slide for a moment, before Caspian takes a sidestep and circles around, staring at the hare with a malicious expression. His eyes are sharp green, teeth showing - he just /looks/ evil. "You'd be surprised th' luck I have," he hisses at her, and makes a lunge, slashing his weapon at an angle toward the Long Patroller.
Fast. Jove pivots, sword arm coming around. It's an awkward block, and it takes her body a half-second to catch up with it. "Ah prolleh would," she snorts, but her nose is rapidly aquiver and her big brown eyes are wide and round. With a grunt, she kicks out for a kneecap with one of those powerful hare feet while she can recover her saber.
Kicking Caspian is like kicking a tree trunk. It pauses him for just a second, and he flicks an eyebrow up, then makes another slash. The sabre is wielded like an extension of him arm, and he makes a few fast, fluid strokes; right shoulder to left hip, left shoulder to right hip, coaxing a response. He's trying to manipulate the motion of her own sword and make an opening for himself.
"'Ell," Jove winces, feeling a jarring sensation run up her leg. She's able to parry this time, and parry again, but there's no leeway for a return strike here and her eyes do a lightning-quick movement to the cat's other hand, trying to keep tabs on it as well. Another bound backward, then another for good measure.
Each bound she takes he covers in a stride. The cat cuts again, again, hard and fast - each clash of their sabres making a long clang noise which is eaten up by the thick flurry of snow, and vibrations working up into Jove's hand and arm. His free hand is a little out away from him, claws visible, waiting for that opening.
It comes soon enough. Jove has lapsed into an uncharacteristic silence, jaw set in a humorless smile that edges closer to a frown with every blow. Parry. Parry. Bound. Parry. Bound. Parry. There? An opening, or a place where she thinks one exists; the doe lunges for a stab just above his left hip, dropping her guard in the process.
Caspian sidesteps and brings his sword around it an arc. It meets hers and forces it down while his other hand shoots out, snatching to get her by the wrist, then giving a sudden, hard twist and squeeze right where the hand starts. "Drop it," he snaps at her. Not that he needs to say it, anyway.
The grip squeezes Jove's hand open, grinding bones together and forcing fingers apart. A muscle at the base of her eye twitches; a strangled little squeak escapes her. The saber drops and falls on its side. She stares at it. Stares at him. Her nose isn't even twitching now.
Caspian keeps that grip. He doesn't squeeze more but he twists further, pulling Jove in toward him as he does so. His head ducks, covers the foot or more distance between their heights, and his muzzle gets close to hers. "Not how you imagined dying, is it?" the cat asks, licking across his teeth. While he speaks he sheathes his own sword - no need for it now. A second later he straightens and aims a hard punch right at her face.
Jove is pulled, stumbles forward in a sick parody of a partnered dance; the momentum, at least, she tries to take advantage of for a headbutt, but to what purpose? "Nh," she huffs, the color draining from her face. Her free arm comes up to block, at least glance the blow away, something that will leave a nasty bruise at the very least.
The tabby actually chuckles. It almost forms a laugh but instead configures itself into a growl, and he draws back this arm to punch her again. Whether this hits her face or just her arm again, he uses the grip he still has on her while stepping back and turning - hauling the doe around with him, getting some momentum with the pivot and twist and throwing her toward the nearest tree trunk. She's released only long enough to make contact with that vertical surface before he steps after and reaches to snatch a grip in her hair.
That arm stays there, but the little squeak Jove makes.. a hard blow to the same place, twice in a row. One more and he'll break the skin, or something else. There's not much you can do when you're being thrown halfway across the ditch into the fringes of Mossflower; there's an 'unh' of released air and the crack of something the doe hopes is the bark, not her ribs. She doesn't have much hair to grab - a few inches at most - but she grits her teeth and braces herself against the trunk, lashing out with her feet below the belt.
She hits his shins, and that doesn't do much damage. Caspian grunts and twists the grip in her hair, stepping forward. His hand plants against the middle of Jove's back, keeping her shoved into the tree, and he draws back her head, then slams it forward again. The hand on her back drags downward, claws slashing at the material of her uniform tunic, seeking the flesh underneath.
Jove's stubby ears are laid back tight against her skull and she's pale beneath her fur. There's a crunch from her nose, but the thick cloth of the tunic holds up.. at least for a little while. "Shouldn' play with y'food," she muffles, reaching around with her good paw to grab his wrist. Twist. Something. Anything.
"That's just the fun of it," the tom growls near her ear - and bites it. Grinds his teeth down into the cartilage, scrapes his claws down her back a second time. He's after blood, oh yes he is. Her hand meets the sleeve of his jacket - the one that joins the hand that's fisted in her hair. This encourages him to pull her back, away from the tree, and throw Jove down on her back. A wicked grin curls along his mouth as the big cat aims to plant a foot on her neck. And press dooown.
Don't scream. Don't scream. Jove just grunts, feeling something warm start to run down her temple; if Caspian wants blood, he's got it - flecks of it, channels of it as the grooves down her back start to fill. Another grunt, but she has enough presence of mind to roll away from the foot, leaving dark lines that sink into the snow. Grab it. Flip. C'mon.
Suddenly, there's a subtle gleam of metal in the night as, out of the trees, a knife hurdles blade over handle through the snowy air towards the back of Caspian's shoulder.
He's not easy to move; at most Caspian is jostled. A sneer splits across his muzzle at what turns out to be a fairly feeble attempt. This, however, is wiped away as there's suddenly a knife protruding out of him - buried into the soft spot where the joint of his arm and shoulder connects. The tabby exhales a hiss and cringes, caught off guard, and he turns - reaching back to tug this out, and looking away from Jove, into the trees that it came from. Too close to Redwall, and no hint of who this attacker is. Or how many. So Caspian gives a glance at Jove and starts to withdraw, backing up, not giving the knife-thrower a chance to get him in the back again. He keeps the knife in a tight grip, and it drips flecks of his own blood onto the snow.
From a completely different angle comes another knife, flying through the air. If a successful throw, the knife would stick itself right beneath the tom's ribs.
The sound of metal hitting flesh - minus the red sear of pain she'd expect - prompts Jove to look up at.. a distracted Caspian. Well, any port in a storm. His ankle is released and she scoots backward, most undignified, until she can get to her feet, half doubled-over, blood running down her face into her collar, one paw to her ribs. Her eyes dart about for her saber, a route of escape. Both.
Before the sound fully registers Caspian reacts to the faint hiss of the blade through the air. He swivels, bringing up the knife he holds - twisting in a motion to get out of the way and just barely deflecting it with the newly acquired weapon. This is enough for the tabby. Knife number two ends up on the ground and he takes off running, very much obeying the 'flight' instinct when faced with a knife-throwing enemy he can't see, of unknown number. It doesn't take more than a few seconds for his long strides to put distance between him and his victim.
After Caspian's out of sight, there are a few seconds that pass that are simply loneliness and snow falling down from a black sky for Jove. But after those seconds, Major Darklett Fletchpaw finally emerges from the woods, making his way in a quick walk to the fighter doe's side. "Jove." On his way he scoops up the fallen throwing knife, wiping it off on his uniform and placing it in his belt. "How bad?"
Jove manages a sickly hopeful grin and a "Heh," but her focus is her saber. Wincing, but not limping - nothing wrong with her legs - she moves stiffly over to where her weapon lays in the snow. The doe bends to retrieve it with the wrist that /doesn't/ feel like it's being crushed by flaming rocks from the inside. "Hhh." She turns, eyes wide, bringing the saber up as she readjusts her grip.. and relaxes by a fraction. "Majah." It's less a grin than a grimace, but she makes the effort. "Ah c'n walk."
"Let's go." Darklett's eyes are peeled, ears perking up alertly to look for a return visit from our friend the cat. "Quickly." The major then starts towards the Abbey, slow at first to see if Jove needs any help at all.
"Sah," Jove breathes out, wincing as she straightens up. Definitely the ribs, but forget that for now; the stout haremaid sets her jaw in a determined line and moves forward, the first step that slow, dragging motion of someone forcing themselves forward. By the third footfall she's set herself in a grim rhythm and has enough presence of mind to keep an eye on the sides of the road, tongue dabbing cautiously at the blood staining her muzzle.
"Just say if you need help." Darklett doesn't go too far in front of her; really only a few paces. Redwall's a bit of a walk away, but at this rate they'll be there soon enough.
"Sah," Jove repeats. Her shoulder twitches in the cool air she feels on her rather ventilated back, but she makes no other sound except a steady trudge-trudge until they reach the gates.
