there's a sting in katarina’s leg—a sharp, fleeting kiss of pain to focus her as she moved, liquid and precise. she pivoted on her uninjured leg, her weight redistributing, the scarlet curtain of her hair spilling across her cheek as she tracked the captains ascent. the pirate was retreating, her coat snapping in the wind like a banner of defiance, the smirk on her lips as sharp as any dagger. these lapses into anointed dormancy was a grotesque sort of phenomena that stressed every thread in his body. how sinew loosened, unpinned from their staunch stations, heaved into the depths of respite like a homeless freight succumbing to the currents of an ascertained power.
katarina’s breath came fast, but it was controlled, her chest rising with a rhythm honed by countless battles. she didn’t chase immediately, watching the pulley system pull sarah skyward. no, a chase was a fool’s errand without the right footing. instead, she moved to the edge of the deck where the battle now raged, chaos swirling like a storm around her. the noxian sailors fought with the kind of fury that only the desperate could muster, their attempts to regain control rippling through the mob. the sinister blade used their distraction to her advantage, leaping onto a barrel and kicking off with a fluidity that turned her into a crimson blur. she landed lightly on the mainmast’s rigging, her boot catching the netting with precision.
from above, gunfire rained down, the sharp cracks of her pistols punctuating the fray below. bullets hissed through the air, one grazing katarina’s arm, tearing fabric and flesh alike. the assassin hissed through her teeth, the pain sparking a dark exhilaration that set her nerves alight. there was no allotted time, no space, seemingly timeless ventures into emerald harbours, docking to receive the abstruse mutterings of an entire world.
the sting in her leg was a persistent throb, the bullet’s graze leaving a trail of crimson that trickled down her thigh, warm against the chill of the night air. she didn’t falter; pain was an old companion, a whisper of mortality she had long since learned to ignore. bullets cracked through the air around her, sharp and relentless, their paths slicing the dark like streaks of molten silver. one ricocheted off the mast inches from her head, the spark illuminating her sharp features for the briefest of moments. another grazed her arm, the fabric of her sleeve tearing to reveal a shallow wound beneath, the raw sting flaring up her nerves.
".. y-your aim is slippin'" she chimes her first chime, her moniker flowing blithe and chaste akin to the gentle brooks and creeks. she didn’t flinch, her focus unwavering. every bullet that missed felt like a taunt, a promise that her opponent’s desperation was growing. her knives glinted at her sides, catching the errant flashes of light from the muzzle above, twin crescents of deadly intent. "runnin' ain't gonna save you from me." she mutters, beginning her climb.