Luneshale Pass pantano

I’m not ready to kill Tierra off here but I’m not sure how, realistically, to avoid that with so many joining ^^;

I can roll with whatever though so long as it isn’t character death for her

She wasn’t aware that more had joined or what a clusterfuck they were really in now.  The only thing that Sangre was aware of right now was the teeth bearing down on her, and even those weren’t concerning her the way they should have been.  She should have stopped struggling a while ago.  Instead she continued to tear at the man wildly, regardless of how it tore at her too.  Drugs were a crazy thing.

They kept her up through the pain and through the veritable shredding he gave her neck.  At this point she was pure feral anger and little other thought.

Air though. Drugs or not, air was a necessity. Shoved against the ground, she wasn’t really getting it. This was the thing that slowed her down and, when she wasn’t able to shift him, brought her struggling to a stop.

He didn’t make it through her spine but he got close enough that, visually, the difference was probably meaningless. She was no longer a threat in this situation. She wasn’t dead but looked it. She wouldn’t be a threat to anyone for a while once the green had worn off.

Only for the briefest of moments does the injured one entertain her, but he is quick to recognize her game. Motherfucker. She hadn’t accounted on him being smart. Thankfully he didn’t go for Khusobek, but instead another new face who was on… their side? Hell yeah! 

And then Medusa saw the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen—more reinforcements. Was that… oh, shit! Toula and Rashepses! The former she’d never thought she’d ever see in this sort of environment, but it rallied her spirit. 

Still, should she go after her kid…? Nah, Qiao had him—he’d be fine. Surely she wouldn’t boil a kid of Akashingo, right? Or Muat-Riya. 

It’d look better, too, if she stayed. She watched red lady collapse, and the other guy get dragged by his neck out toward the Pharaoh. Now with some extra bodies to help her out against Soto… 

Which, she felt kind of bad about. He hadn’t piled onto Khusobek. But the fact remained: this guy was a child predator, and now, she had kids that she claimed… sort of. Still undecided on her own commitment to that. Now that the boy was away, and presumably out of danger, she felt a little more chill about things. 

Medusa herself did not join the battle, but lurked in the backdrop. If Soto tried to run off, she’d give chase and stop him—for now, she conserved her energy and watched, turning her head in time to see Toula do another thing she’d never imagined she’d see her doing. 

It made her a little nervous. She’d always put people in boxes—that Toula was capable of something of this nature didn’t fit in there, at all. What did that mean?

For the first time in his life, Niño felt sheer terror.
Nausea deep in the stomach.
Rips and rips, and there’s no letting go.
Sangre with red running down her throat like a waterfall.
Her struggles stilling.

Soto, caught by a flash of tan.
Blood pouring. 

Now he’s one of them.
Shock, as he’s moved across the desert.
Dead eyes stare out at the sand irrigated with blood.
His blood.
But not really seeing it.

Whips his head and yellow teeth collide with heavy black shoulders.
Gets harder to reach.
Harder to fight.
His river flows faster.

Then he’s forced to see– her.
Their Queen bitch.
Rounded face.
Royal eyes that had never known war.
Holding hatred all the same.

His throat makes laughter at that.
Bitter irony.
Sputtering warmth from gouges.
A rare rush of words.

“Tu– rica, ponderosa, capitalista.
Eres el mismo.
Todos ustedes son cartel.
Eres culpable de asesinato, violación, tortura, esclavitud, opresión.
Tu– con tu superioridad.
No pretendemos ser nada de lo que somos.
Prefiero morir con ellos que vivir contigo.”

“¿Crees que esto es todo?
Ni siquiera ha comenzado
Corta una cabeza y crecemos tres más.
¡Chinga te!”

He used his last breath to spit blood onto that perfect pretty pelt.
Then craned his neck to see–
He wanted to see Sangre.
As if his love could save him.
In the end, it wasn’t enough.

He never did see her.
He was struck by teeth instead.
Felt nerves in his throat pull apart.
Felt the last of consciousness drain with his blood.
Felt the rolling of cold eyes.

there is only adrenaline, the roar of blood in his ears, the powerful thrum of his heartbeat in his chest.

a flash of teeth —

the pain is secondary, a mere brush of a thought left go as blood burns his eyes as it drips over his face, the scent of it — presumably his own but it was also every where — clogging his nose.

shock drives him to a feral frenzy, teeth seeking to find purchase to his attacker. to anyone who was not the pharaoh's forces.

the assessment of his wounds and their severity would come later. later, after the battle was won.

wars, like hunts and intense games of cars, are won in seconds.

in seconds, reinforcements arrive.

in seconds, the captain and his charge are overwhelmed.

and in seconds, the termite mound erupts as if the alarm has been flagged and run right up the chain of command.

soto doesn't have seconds. he wants to live and he's seen the tide has turned.

his eyes lock with nino for a breath's split hair -- and then nino is ripped to pieces like wrapping paper on christmas morning. fur and blood fly everywhere in a garland of cheery red; it would be pretty, if that color didn't signify death. if soto hadn't witnessed so much violence already, he might have lost all morale. his comrade's good as dead if he's not dead already, and soto doesn't have much time to act.

two wolves drive into him, their teeth scoring handily along his flank. but soto is a trout in a stream of snaring fangs. he bucks and slips out from under one, his momentum fueled by pure desperation. ribbons of red speckle his pelt, and it's only adrenaline that keeps him upright now.

soto shoves an angled shoulder as hard as he could into the driving fangs of meseba, hoping to crowd him into mesen-ka's space and give him enough space to move out.

sangre! he bellows, seizing her by her tattered neck. the captain, even in his ruefully bloody stupor, still clings to her. soto aims a hard kick at the captain's head to loosen his teeth. it's one last reprisal soto can muster, and he does it against his body's aching protests.

it's up to her now if she survives.

soto's out of seconds. the clock has run down and now he turns to the open desert in long strides fueled by his most basal instinct: survive at all costs.