Herbalists' Cache wind lance

gjalla’s vision darkens at the edges. he means to kill her. she knows this, but now it feels real.

his teeth grip like a vice, grinding into her throat, and she knows—knows—he is aiming for the artery beneath her chin. the sharp tear of flesh blooms into agony, the hot gush of her own blood slicking his teeth, and she feels her air snap under the force of his bite. stars dance in her vision. fuck, fuck, fuck—

her claws scrape, scramble, drive. she feels flesh split beneath her teeth, and she wrenches it, yanking hard enough to split sinew and tear him away from her throat. her mouth is full of blood, his and hers, and still she does not let go.

her strategy changes. fast. the cliff’s edge yawns behind him, and it is her only advantage. if she can’t overpower him, she will force him to unhinge his jaw. to focus on his footing. to save himself.

she drives into him, shoulder-first, forcing his weight further toward the crumbling edge. her throat screams in his hold, the pressure turning her vision white—but her legs do not stop. push. push. make him fucking panic.

another shove. His back leg scrapes open air, his weight tipping dangerously. gjalla feels his breath stutter—finally.

she can’t hardly feel her throat—only the dead, searing throb of veins crushed under his teeth. her vision is blacking. her back legs shake. but she feels his weight teeter, feels his focus shift—and that is her moment.

in one last burst of unhinged, feral desperation, gjalla thrusts her chest forward, heaving his body back one last time

—and she feels his jaw slip. just slightly. just enough.

her teeth snap free of his shoulder, her blood-caked face lurching up with a gasping, wet snarl. her throat rips when she pulls from him, but she does not care.

her chest rams into his, forcing him to brace his legs or fall. his jaw loosens, and she is free. while he steadies himself, she is pivoting, running for the path back down. she would be back.

exit gjalla!