What up, Shawshank
11-02-2014, 11:58 AM
A fire burned in her lungs, sending her breath out in ragged, smoke-like wisps. Each exhalation briefly fluttered out behind her before chilling and disappearing in the frigid air. Exhaustion made Sindri's limbs heavy, but fear pushed her on. She wished to sleep, to curl up somewhere and rest like the dead, but the thundering footfalls of her pursuers rang loudly in her ears. Rest was not an option. Her escape had been equal parts planning and luck; no one thing could be credited for her success. The freedom had been hard won and if she didn't push through the exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm her, would be quickly lost. Sindri could no afford to lose. There were no three strikes among the Tsanka. This was the second mark on her record and she was sure the next would mean a punishment too horrible to consider. Behind her, the steps drew nearer, so close to catching her that Sindri could almost feel their breath on her heels. Desperate, the fae spun, sending a shower of loose snow into the air. Her hackles rose, eyes narrowing and defenses falling into place as she glared through the fog. She would not go back. Death was a far more appealing option; Sindri wouldn't allow herself to be taken back alive. If it was a fight they wanted, a fight they would get. "Talk" Think "You" |