<span style="font-family: Palatino Linotype;">She had felt his arm shoving her away, and in that, she dipped to the ground, relinquishing her palms from open air to wet sod, virtually crawling in retreat. What tactic he would employ, she did not know, and Q’Chae did not greatly bother to watch. Her focal was fastened to escape, preserving the renewed life that had overtaken her slumber in a wake of sunlight and fetid breath. There may have been shouts and rumbles trumpeted behind her and against the shivers of the ground, her attention elevated to the tree above. Cinnamon toned in the bark with much the same aroma, the shingles covering the plant’s mighty stem oozed golden, sugary sap she could about taste. Higher, about its canopy, were plump, ripened leafs, the juice from their innards percolating, begging to be devoured. When was the last time she knew the world? How long had it been since she inhaled the atmosphere and brushed grass against her flesh? The already slim opportunity of cognition was eclipsed, hastily darkened by a consuming shadow, gulping her like a silken gullet. It was scented of man, of a far off place that was unfathomable to her mind. Where did these smells stemmed? She gripped the fabric and rumpled it against her nose, ignoring an elephantine <span style="font-style: italic">thwump</span> from none too far off and interesting herself solely with his personal cologne. He, just who was he? And from where was it he stemmed?<br/><br/>The unpleasant symphony of flesh being torn by what would be a blade, punctured and serrated, brought her back to the current reality. Q’Chae had started to slink, moseying on all fours, half-enamored by the perfume of the tree and part offput by the stench of blood. She made it no better than a few paces when there was a shake to the terra, partnering a loud collision of supple, living flesh to unforgiving soil. She had seen blood, where it approached from beneath the fabric, and at this, she had shot straight, shoulders back and on her very toes, sidestepping. And then, the shadows were stolen from her, and the scene was shown in reciprocation. She did not pay the human attention foremost, instead her glance trekked to the corpse, where it lay motionless, dappled in astral gold. Dead the monster was, limbs bent with arms beneath its hulking chest and head turned to a cheek, staring south, from whence their chase had commenced. The branches caving the Cyclops were fractured and hanging, leafs fluttered in the breezeless air and puddles of red congregated where hulking feet had printed the dirt. Which then brought her to the current inquiry, a lingering question as he strode off, deserting her without much as a second word. <span style="font-weight: bold">“Blessing?”</span> Her pitch emerged, husked and flowery from lips sat in a downturned curve. Her brows knotted, it was the look of a reptilian lioness, and in some manner, was utterly reproachful. She stared at his back, shoulders and the hind of his legs becloaked in the same garment that had shielded her, and audibly, Q’Chae snorted in displeasure. <br/><br/>Her arms tucked against her chest and her glower could cast fire upon coal, if only he had been kindling. <span style="font-weight: bold">“And whom be you to declare yourself able to kill me?”</span> There was rust in her voice, quills that gained in stature. Her past was cluttered with violence, decorated in bloody wreaths of warsome carnage and badges of killer accomplishments. While in the field, she had turned arrows upon their archers in waves, speared infantrymen by use of their own pikes and axed knights heedlessly. Armor had been morphed into crushing corsets, helmets squeezed so hard that brains leaked from ears and eyes burst in their sockets. Q’Chae had been a powerhouse, a threat that appeared in the heart of a swarm, sided by clouds of festering magic and malignancy. She had thought with strong certainty, that humanity had been vanquished, that the elves had staked victory as their possession. And yet, there was one, not of jaw-dropping height and mass, speaking to her on lengths courting animosity. <span style="font-weight: bold">“To your kind, martyrs of our breed are unconquerable.”</span> She moved forward, just a single pace, and then, in the span of a sluggish blink, she was parked before him. The small act sent her brain for whirls, the greenery of the leafs, vines and ferns jumbled together in a singular, writhing blur. It took her a couple seconds to steady, and then as that, he manned all of her focus. <span style="font-weight: bold">“I am testament.”</span><br/><br/>Q’Chae was of course, not untouchable. Magic had a tendency to strike her and do far less than its intended harm, though to an extent, the effects were still entertained. She was hardy, her dexterity was concentrated, as was known of the Dark Elven race, and the abilities cast upon her by their god provided extra gifts. She had been injured previously however, and until she mastered her strengths, she was a sore weakness in the warzone. When fledged, she was a challenge, a terror wearing only naked flesh, and was to be fled from, not contended with. Her eyes traced the contours and decoration of his armor, the artsy seams and apses matte in tone, truly akin to that of a gradient shadow, clung to him and hardened as a shell. She accosted his face, prodding at unseen features without hesitance and more of something else. In her mind, she was still potent, be it the pointed tail that winded to and fro behind her, to overly sharp claws and the power she could command on instant. She was aware by the manner he overtook the Cyclops, acting in precise brutality that she had not watched, he was not one to be mistaken. She walked backwards, faced toward him yet, light and measured in her motions, a sign of quickness. To his stance, she was little, but what she lacked in size was apparently equalized in agility and grace. Q’Chae feigned levitation with her strides, like her feet never quite made it to the terra. <span style="font-weight: bold">“Bold it is that you are,”</span> she continued, undaunted. <span style="font-weight: bold">“Have you too much faith in your blades and armor?”</span> Slowly, she rubbed her eyes on him, from boot to chin. Did she recognize it in connection to a certain something? Was it magic that she could feel, faintly throbbing from an unknown source? Her brain fluttered, finding itself unable to peer into her thoughts, to recall what had led to her stint with the Cyclops. <span style="font-weight: bold">“<span style="font-style: italic">Human</span>, what is your purpose here?”</span></span>