A Light In The Darkness - Christa

[Gildarts]

Pow. Pow. Pow!

Blasts echo and ricochet off of the nearby brambles and bark of the low to the ground trees. Shards of bark fly, and the beast suddenly whimpers as a stray bullet skims its flesh. Christa quickly swapped out the empty clip and clicked in a fresh one. The speed of the encounter had slowed down, her heartbeat was moving faster than her breath, and her eyes stayed near the spot she had heard her bullet draw blood.

The tricky part of the Pale Moors, was that not every beast was harmed instantly by regular bullets, that’s why, Mornel had given Christa a set of silver, for use on the supernatural beings that dwelled here more often than human. Use them sparingly. He’d said, since they were probably low in the armory at Darkshire. Damn it. She could have just summoned some, why’d he have to be such a fool! She readied the next clip in her hands -the silver one- and waited to swap it out with the last remaining bullets in her clip.

A heartfelt whimper could be heard from the shade of the bushes now, she’d hit a dog-like creature, maybe a wolf, or maybe a werewolf. Wolves were especially dangerous in the moors, since they hunted in packs, but you’d be more likely to see them in the Frozen Fields. Christa neared it, and decided to switch out clips, exchanging her regular bullets for silver, if it was a werewolf, she wouldn’t want to be caught off guard and compromise her own mission. Her next actions made the bushes rustle around her as she went in, her pistol pointed, and was immersed by the scratchy brambles.

The thorns of the undergrowth coiled around her flesh, and Christa saw a smaller wolf cub entangled in it, vines of the very much alive shrub were coiling around its neck. Thorns crawled into her flesh after pinpricking the fabric. Christa’s cold eyes fell on the wolf-cub. Its mother was nowhere in sight, the puppy was wandering or lost. Still, it would be a slow death for the pup, the Prime felt the weight of her gun in her hand. She could make it easy. She wouldn’t have to hear its yelps of pain. Christa gulped, suddenly the wolf-cub looked at her, it resembled a husky, white undercoat, simple gray pattern, but the eyes, they were ice-blue just like hers. They also contained more than pain, more than a rampant beast, and more than anything she had seen before in a wild animal’s eyes.

The wolf-cub conveyed awareness. It knew of its suffering, it knew of Christa’s ability to save it, she could’ve even sworn she saw the canine’s eyes flicker to her gun. Christa growled as the little blades cut deeper into her flesh, as though just a taste of her blood wouldn’t be enough. The rogue made up her choice, and replaced her pistol in its holster as she pulled out a smoke-grenade from her belt. The pin was pulled with a light ‘ding’ and she rolled it over to the heart of the shrub.

When the smoke began to billow out, the thorns began to hiss and pull away from her, without the oxygen and moisture in the air, those branches that could not move fast enough began to shrivel up and melt in decay, luckily for the husky-like wolf, the sharp twine finally stopped curling inward and the Prime hustled over.

She knelt down immediately, and beheld its crimson-lined flesh. Some wounds were deep, others, very light. There were two large gashes, one around the beast’s shoulder, the other, skimming its leg. Christa realized she was sitting in a warm pool of its blood, “Sheesh, it’s a wonder you’re still alive, you’re a trooper, aren’t you?”

The wolf did not move, it only wailed its pain to her, it seemed there was a bone in its neck either sprained or badly broken, “Well don’t you worry, little guy, I’m gonna carry you outta here. And this pain, it’ll be nothing to you in a few days.”

Christa’s burning, smoke-filled eyes swept the brambles, her grenade wouldn’t last for longer than ten minutes, and she had already used three. Her hands went over to the wolf, and immediately a shimmering light grew over the wolf’s neck. The least she could do was mend the swollen bone before she had to transport the kit, Christa’s focus would not leave the baby pup, and she watched as the swirling, shimmering white, began to heal the neck of the beast. The pup’s eyes remained on her as she did it. Her eyes had fixed on her hands, meanwhile her expression had folded into one of firm worry.

The Omnillium was still difficult to hold, and though it was malleable in construct, in form, during this process which Christa hadn’t attempted before, it seemed more difficult than anything she’d ever attempted before. Worse than shooting at an enemy two-hundred yards away, no scope? You bet. Worse than losing her sister’s life to a gunshot she missed? Damn straight. Worse than leading a group of good men to their deaths, and then you’re the only survivor? Oh, yes, even harder to swallow than that.

Finally, the neck was mended, and Christa picked up the puppy, which was only really over two months old, and weighed around thirty pounds in total. Her legs carried her far away from the twine, further than she had been standing previously, since the second that smoke cleared, the weeds expanded. Her lungs felt as though they were bleeding from the effort, as she drank in only smoke. A few whips of the vines followed her position, having regained their strength and sensed that the smoke was dissipating.

With a force stronger than that of ten men, Christa found herself falling forward. The vine was grappling with her ankle, and would not heel. She extended out her elbows, so that her weight would not crush the dog that was in her arms, and hoped to cushion its fall over her own. Chris’s chin chafed against the ground, while her mouth ate dirt. Still, the pup had not winced once, she gently slid her arms out from underneath him, and just in time, for the twine had now dug its teeth in, and was pulling her back to its heart.

All around her, the brambles became more dense, Christa cursed, but when she happened to look up, the dog was just fine, apparently God, Omni, or otherwise, this fucking twine, had accepted her sacrifice. Her arms flailed and combatted the dense tangle around her, blood was drawn as lines like razors cut open her skin. Christa’s arms couldn’t get enough strength to manage to reach to her belt, and instead, the woman started chomping with her teeth, hoping to bite a few branches on her way out of this lifetime. There must’ve been some kind of numbing poison in the thorns, because now her arms had stopped moving entirely, and her kicking feet were more closely lifting a few inches off the ground.

This was just another example about how things can go bad in the Moors, she reminded herself and her eyes fell on a dagger close by to her, left by the last person who had fought the swarm of clawing vegetation. It was not her own, but Christa willed her arms, now completely tangled in the vines, to go after it. But to no avail. Her feet had stopped kicking and all they could manage to do was dig in at the heels and slow the drag of her body into the rest of the thicket. I’m not going to die here, you stupid freaking plant.

And with that, Christa moved her hips to the knife, with force enough to cause the blade to slice through her skin. She felt the sharp burn of its metal as her flesh smoldered painfully. But she had succeeded in her plan. The belt she had been wearing was sliced in half, freed from her hips. With the gentle lift of her heels, Christa slid forward, and felt the thrill of death in her entire body. If it took her too swiftly, she’d have moved beyond the range of the belt.

Her heels stomped down heavily into the ground, stopping her face a few inches from her belt, and another added inch away from the object of her desire. The last smoke grenade, contained in a silver canister.