[The bayonet clamors by her feet. God knows how much she hates the sight of it now, but it won't stop her from reaching down, knife unsheathed before she noiselessly drags the edge across her hand in one quick motion.
A sloppy job means the blood spills everywhere: on her skirt and down her arm, some splattering against the floor. It's the price she pays for being ... unaccustomed to causing herself pain. Regardless, her crest stands at attention and fulfills its host's unspoken commands, directing her limbs rather than her mind.
It leaves her consciousness to float in the background while her body rises, walks forward. When a stray bullet breaks through a wall, grazes her shoulder, the girl doesn't flinch. She won't stop, either, not until an ornate circle with inscriptions has been drawn onto the ground directly in front of the door.
Only then does she retreat behind the table with Ogata, legs primly folded underneath her, eyes slightly sunken and glassy.
When she speaks, it's not to him, or in Japanese. The words will sound German in origin, muttered so quietly that they're drowned out once the door bursts open, another spray of bullets denting into the table.
It's also when the confusion starts. Panicked shouting fills the room when something akin to purple electricity crackles from the circle and around Sakura herself, engulfing anyone who wanders too close. The men's only solace is that their deaths will be bloodless; her magecraft sucks their mana dry, leaving four of them half-melted husks on the floor.
The girl's voice is strained and thin upon speaking again.]
no subject
A sloppy job means the blood spills everywhere: on her skirt and down her arm, some splattering against the floor. It's the price she pays for being ... unaccustomed to causing herself pain. Regardless, her crest stands at attention and fulfills its host's unspoken commands, directing her limbs rather than her mind.
It leaves her consciousness to float in the background while her body rises, walks forward. When a stray bullet breaks through a wall, grazes her shoulder, the girl doesn't flinch. She won't stop, either, not until an ornate circle with inscriptions has been drawn onto the ground directly in front of the door.
Only then does she retreat behind the table with Ogata, legs primly folded underneath her, eyes slightly sunken and glassy.
When she speaks, it's not to him, or in Japanese. The words will sound German in origin, muttered so quietly that they're drowned out once the door bursts open, another spray of bullets denting into the table.
It's also when the confusion starts. Panicked shouting fills the room when something akin to purple electricity crackles from the circle and around Sakura herself, engulfing anyone who wanders too close. The men's only solace is that their deaths will be bloodless; her magecraft sucks their mana dry, leaving four of them half-melted husks on the floor.
The girl's voice is strained and thin upon speaking again.]
... We should go before more of them come.