- Posting Speed
- 1-3 posts per day
- One post per day
- Multiple posts per week
- Writing Levels
- Give-No-Fucks
- Beginner
- Elementary
- Intermediate
- Adept
- Advanced
- Prestige
- Douche
- Adaptable
- Preferred Character Gender
- Male
- Female
- Genres
- Sci-fi, Magical
Habitually reinforced eyes picked up the trigger pulling, but before she could try to block the bullets with her Keys, she felt an arm like a truck ram into her side, and she found herself flying through the alley - being pulled out of the way, she realized. Adrenaline drained from her mind as it slowed down to be replaced by pain - howling, screaming, rending-flesh-from-bone pain - as her vision ran red.
Somebody said something, but she couldn’t tell over the mist of pain. Angela! This wasn’t how she worked. A breath, then a pulse of Prana into the depths of her brain to pump out some endorphins. She’d need at least some mild analgesic to keep herself moving. As her thoughts cleared, she looked around. She was on the street-side, stunningly barren despite the busy hour. First things first: triage. Chest pain, leg pain, and shoulder pain. A glance at her leg was the clearest to understand - the skin was torn off; bullet wound, probably hit a minor artery. Missed her Achilles, thank the Lord.
Shoulder? Felt disloacated. Eternal Lord, but she was familiar with the sensation. Shelley Boot Camp - also known as the Vatican tossing Executor hopefuls in the Mediterranean with nothing but a water-suit and a crucifix around their neck - was an excellent introduction to practicals in shoulder dislocation. That was easy enough to solve, then. Reaching up with arms weaker than she would like to admit, she pulled her cloak up to bite down on. Wouldn’t want to shatter her teeth. She then reached up to the dislocated shoulder, and - with a boost of strength from reinforcing the arm - wrenched her humerus back into its socket.
Her world erupted in pain again; no amount of endorphins could deal with relocating a shoulder. But the pain faded quickly, and her vision soon cleared. Now, why did that happen? Probably, when she reinforced her arm to prepare to block the bullets, she didn’t do so completely before getting pulled away, and so it simply became a weight that the arm socket wasn’t meant to withstand. And the chest pain? She felt around, wincing, and determined it was probably a broken rib bone. She’d heal.
But - and the gravity of the situation came back like a rushing wave - not with a madman nearby. After scrambling to her feet, she sprinted back over to the alleyway and looked inside. A flash of battle seared itself onto her retinas; the prosethic-boy collapsed, and the DHO boy with a knife against the clear Magus with a gun. A thought like fall’s last leaf brushed against her mind, and she knew her task. Arms moving at speeds no normal human could match, she reached behind her back and untied the cloth she kept tied around her waist at all times.
She had been given an honor for her service by the Vatican; something to acknowledge her taking up the burden her family had taken up since her distant ancestor had taken up arms beside the Maid of Orléans in the battle that gave her that title. The Holy Shroud of Jeanne. It wasn’t often that the Eighth Sacrement gave out what they were supposed to protect, but the Shroud was something special. It was a trade; suffering for power to help others.
She tucked the key the Father had given her, which had a tag with the address she sorely hoped they would notice, into a pocket on her front, then ripped one of the pockets of her coat, letting the key-hilts tumble free towards the unforgiving stone below. In the same movement, she wrapped the Shroud around her shoulders, and felt flames licking around her feet.
That was the suffering of the Shroud of Jeanne, and the mighty honor it gave - to feel what the Maid felt in her last moments. Indeed, while she could picture the skin of her legs charring off under the flames she felt - flames that she knew, intellectually, weren’t there - she also felt the steadfast faith and courage and love of Jeanne.
Instead of using mediaries like the Keys to interact with the Church’s Thaumaturgical Foundation, she blasted through to it with sheer force of will, power, and faith. Blades of all Rites - the Rites of Flame, of Ice, of Air, and of many more that Angela couldn’t quite even fully understand herself - materialized as the hilts froze in midair. And of course, many normal ones for the man’s shadow. With a thought, many darted through the air to form a mesh before the two boys, a shield to give them a few seconds if things went awry. God willing, they wouldn’t.
Some distant part of her recognized all this as happening in a fraction of a second.
The rest of the blades hurdled like hail at the man, some aiming for him while others aiming to keep him from coming closer. She wasn’t going to try to kill him; though he’d shot her, she hadn’t seen any kills by him, and he at least deserved to be interrogated first. Not to mention, she’d be in no state to keep him captured after this. Instead, she gave him a path of least resistance - an escape up and away from the alleyway. As the blades flew, she closed her eyes. She didn’t see whether he got hit and pinned or not. Her task had been done as much as she could, and she let the flames engulf her head.
Her world went black, and she let the darkness overwhelm her. She trusted God to make sure the two boys would get themselves and her to safety.
Somebody said something, but she couldn’t tell over the mist of pain. Angela! This wasn’t how she worked. A breath, then a pulse of Prana into the depths of her brain to pump out some endorphins. She’d need at least some mild analgesic to keep herself moving. As her thoughts cleared, she looked around. She was on the street-side, stunningly barren despite the busy hour. First things first: triage. Chest pain, leg pain, and shoulder pain. A glance at her leg was the clearest to understand - the skin was torn off; bullet wound, probably hit a minor artery. Missed her Achilles, thank the Lord.
Shoulder? Felt disloacated. Eternal Lord, but she was familiar with the sensation. Shelley Boot Camp - also known as the Vatican tossing Executor hopefuls in the Mediterranean with nothing but a water-suit and a crucifix around their neck - was an excellent introduction to practicals in shoulder dislocation. That was easy enough to solve, then. Reaching up with arms weaker than she would like to admit, she pulled her cloak up to bite down on. Wouldn’t want to shatter her teeth. She then reached up to the dislocated shoulder, and - with a boost of strength from reinforcing the arm - wrenched her humerus back into its socket.
Her world erupted in pain again; no amount of endorphins could deal with relocating a shoulder. But the pain faded quickly, and her vision soon cleared. Now, why did that happen? Probably, when she reinforced her arm to prepare to block the bullets, she didn’t do so completely before getting pulled away, and so it simply became a weight that the arm socket wasn’t meant to withstand. And the chest pain? She felt around, wincing, and determined it was probably a broken rib bone. She’d heal.
But - and the gravity of the situation came back like a rushing wave - not with a madman nearby. After scrambling to her feet, she sprinted back over to the alleyway and looked inside. A flash of battle seared itself onto her retinas; the prosethic-boy collapsed, and the DHO boy with a knife against the clear Magus with a gun. A thought like fall’s last leaf brushed against her mind, and she knew her task. Arms moving at speeds no normal human could match, she reached behind her back and untied the cloth she kept tied around her waist at all times.
She had been given an honor for her service by the Vatican; something to acknowledge her taking up the burden her family had taken up since her distant ancestor had taken up arms beside the Maid of Orléans in the battle that gave her that title. The Holy Shroud of Jeanne. It wasn’t often that the Eighth Sacrement gave out what they were supposed to protect, but the Shroud was something special. It was a trade; suffering for power to help others.
She tucked the key the Father had given her, which had a tag with the address she sorely hoped they would notice, into a pocket on her front, then ripped one of the pockets of her coat, letting the key-hilts tumble free towards the unforgiving stone below. In the same movement, she wrapped the Shroud around her shoulders, and felt flames licking around her feet.
That was the suffering of the Shroud of Jeanne, and the mighty honor it gave - to feel what the Maid felt in her last moments. Indeed, while she could picture the skin of her legs charring off under the flames she felt - flames that she knew, intellectually, weren’t there - she also felt the steadfast faith and courage and love of Jeanne.
Instead of using mediaries like the Keys to interact with the Church’s Thaumaturgical Foundation, she blasted through to it with sheer force of will, power, and faith. Blades of all Rites - the Rites of Flame, of Ice, of Air, and of many more that Angela couldn’t quite even fully understand herself - materialized as the hilts froze in midair. And of course, many normal ones for the man’s shadow. With a thought, many darted through the air to form a mesh before the two boys, a shield to give them a few seconds if things went awry. God willing, they wouldn’t.
Some distant part of her recognized all this as happening in a fraction of a second.
The rest of the blades hurdled like hail at the man, some aiming for him while others aiming to keep him from coming closer. She wasn’t going to try to kill him; though he’d shot her, she hadn’t seen any kills by him, and he at least deserved to be interrogated first. Not to mention, she’d be in no state to keep him captured after this. Instead, she gave him a path of least resistance - an escape up and away from the alleyway. As the blades flew, she closed her eyes. She didn’t see whether he got hit and pinned or not. Her task had been done as much as she could, and she let the flames engulf her head.
Her world went black, and she let the darkness overwhelm her. She trusted God to make sure the two boys would get themselves and her to safety.