Hell Hath No Fury | Agent 13 & The Enchantress
Furies are demonic women that act as judge, jury, and executioner to anyone they consider a evil doer. They are vigilantes who pursue a shoplifter as vigorously as they would a murderer. They also take great pleasure in the kill. When the Furies focus thoughts on an evildoer, they force them to hear the cries of all their former victims. They kill by breathing poisonous smoke, though in some cases the cries of an evildoers victims are enough to kill them. [x]
The recent threat of the Furies had littered the telepathic grapevine much like the pieces of rubbish that were scattered throughout the streets; frequent and accepted until someone opted to do something about it. Although the sorceress had honed the ability to dance the line between good and evil like a tease - choosing a side as she pleased depending on which best suited her needs - she was smart enough to recognise that her actions would not be perceived as neutral by the demonic women (or most people, for that matter).
Heeled shoes tapped staccato against the pavement, walking the path between buildings and a patch of greenery, thoughts fluttering gently on the fringes of her telepathy before it was as though the errand musings and contorted into something more sinister. In a matter of seconds, the blonde had to question if her sanity had slipped through her fingers like the sands of time as screams filled her mind. Burying themselves in golden tresses, bony digits tugged at the long strands while teeth clenched together to suppress the scream of pain that threatened to tear through her throat, brow creasing in an effort to subdue the pain that filled her being with each thrum of her pulse.
A minute movement of the second hand clock saw the spell caster swept off her feet by the form that collided with her, the modern dog-faced woman snarling inches away from her face while clawed hands tore the fabric of her dress. Groomed nails closed around her adversaries throat after two tries to focus, restricting their ability to inhale or (more importantly) exhale. Creases marred the expanse of her forehead, green glow having commandeered verdant orbs as the blonde flung the other woman from her. Breaths came in short, sharp huffs as the sorceress endeavoured to remain focused despite the searing pain in her skull.
The tears that gathered on her lash line were born of frustration - thousands of years of supposed 'victims' cries playing like a record stuck on a loop in her mind - falling over the apples of her cheeks. A whispered utterance curled as warm vapour from her lips, the spell allowing long fingers to sink into black asphalt to pull it upward, affording the Fury to lose her footing as though she were little more than a spec of dirt that the Asgardian had elected to remove from the black carpet that then cracked beneath the sorceress' fingers. The fair haired female upturning a parked car in annoyance as she turned around.
A number of trees were uprooted and thrown at the demonic presences, unsure if the ringing in her head was the reason she was seeing double or if she could still trust her eyes. The trunks ostensibly weighing noting until they collided with the side of a nearby building; bricks cracking in a display of red dust as though it were a small scale firework, rubble falling to the ground. The sudden lack of her competitor arose suspicion within her, fighting to recognise the feeling for what it was over the unrelenting noise that gnawed at her brain like a corrosive ocean wave.The side of the building was crumbling, the street had been torn up and flung about like a distressed housewife attempting to redecorate. A number of the trees had been strewn about with their roots reaching skyward, leaves being left to wither and die without the nutrients the soil had to offer.
Amid the devastation, the Enchantress sunk to her knees as the torn shreds of her clothing were moved gently by the stirring air. Every few moments she would tremble as though she were trying to rid her mind of the banshee-like cries like a dog would shake fleas from its coat. Her fingers contracted against the flesh of her arms, the skin turning white around the edges of the indentions as the blood fled from the increasing pressure. The rumble of the engines of encroaching was the only indication of their entrance, eyes screwed shut - concealing the green glow beneath closed lids - while her hands borrowed the same colour in a luminescent warning, the sorceress becoming determined not to succumb to the cries of pain in her head, knowing that the creatures must still be near.
