End of Undoviel
The Yanar seemed quite content with sharpening its blades forever- or her, when Glineth finally turned to look at her, judging by the face- based on the lack of any indication she would stop soon. Enough was enough. "Could. Could you not?" Glineth asked. She wasn't one to complain, and yet the sharpening was too much.
"Not do what?" the Yanar asked. Glineth recognised her face, but couldn't put a name to it.
"Sharpen those swords," Glineth explained, "the sound is horrible."
"Is it?" she responded. Glineth nodded, and at that, the Yanar spoke again. "Well, my blades are dull. Almost as dull as you."
"Prove it." Glin said.
That was the first of her day's failures. The Yanar jammed a sword between floor-boards, in some fraudulent attempt to prove the blade was dull. Glineth wasn't having that, and in some horrid lapse of judgement, she held her hand out. "Break the skin," she commanded. She found herself surprised when the Yanar approached and did just that, and more. The blade slid through the palm of her hand, slicing through skin and tendon. Glin didn't even scream, just wheezing. Of course, she did scream when the Yanar pulled its sword away, but only after twisting the thing around inside of her hand, mangling it.
Shock set in after that. She stepped back, her one good hand clutching the now-maimed one, trying to stem the flow of blood from countless broken vessels. The Yanar sneered, raising a blade. "Let me get rid of the pain," she said, forcing the functioning one away from the broken, and lopping away the useless appendage. She wheezed, feeling the cold sewer air against her open wound. And again, the Yanar's lip curled back against its barken teeth into some horrible imitation of a smile. "Still more pain?" she asked. And then she put a sword between Glineth's ribs. The tip drove through, poking out of her back.
The Cielothar wheezed. Blood seeped out of the wound, dyeing a green dress into a wet black. She was dying. She could feel it, the clutches of a cold, unforgiving abyss waiting for her. Her killer seemed more than eager to place her within its grasp, and with a low laugh, pierced Glineth's chest again, with her second blade. Her back would have arched, if she had the energy left. Instead, she slumped forwards. Her eyelids were drooping, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth.
"Wake up, Glin," the Yanar said, its voice warping and twisting into the sound of howling winter winds.
And she did, with a jolt, a coat of sweat and her bed beneath her.
@Scriihbe
