Grappling had never been her favourite thing. It was too close for comfort, too smelly, too exhausting, for her tastes. She'd leave that to people like Balthus, the "Hunkalicious" King of Grappling (his words, not hers. Her childhood friend had used it after a drunken night at the Abyss' tavern and of course her brain would think about that right as she's bear hugging an acolyte in a dark alley), or Raphael who saw it less as a fight and more of a feat of strength. The one thing she can say with certainty when she watches them fight is that there’s some level of joy that fuels their motions.
Hilda can’t say that she’s finding any joy in taking an elbow repeatedly to her gut and having blood trickle into her mouth and down her chin. She takes no pleasure in this, but she can at least draw on the raw anger stirring inside of her to fuel her instead. She can't see anything past the facefull of robes, but she tries anyway, circling her arms around the acolyte and bringing the butt of her dagger roughly into his sternum, his gut – anything she can reach. Maybe somewhere, Baltie would be proud and Raphael would cheer her on.
The acolyte’s concentration is broken when there’s a resounding crack of stone hitting porcelain. The mask might not have cracked in the way Blake hoped, but it’s enough to cause a distraction and Hilda seizes the opportunity, driving her knee right between the man’s legs. It was a dirty move – one that they were never supposed to use during training practice – but it was always an unspoken go-to because it usually delivered the results you were hoping for. The acolyte crumples and she uses her next opportunity to slam the butt of the dagger against his head for good measure as he falls unconscious to the cobblestone.
Vision clear, Hilda is granted a full view of how outnumbered they are and to Blake in pain, trying to somehow draw the ire of their attackers away from her. In her mind she hears herself telling her professor that she doesn’t see the point in heroics or someone risking their life for someone else. Not when there’s so much life left to live. And here she was, confronted with someone who was trying to do that very thing. A coward would have taken the opportunity to turn tail and run (she might have once upon a time) but her feet are firmly planted in place, her gaze wild and furious. She can’t tell if she’s mad at the acolytes or Blake. Maybe both.
She charges, ready to stab one of the acolytes but her body seizes, arm frozen mid-swing as the masks turn to her, regarding her as nothing more than an irritating bug. “Blake, no.” Her voice shakes in the same way her muscles are straining against the hold on her. Her knees buckle hard against the stone shooting pain up her legs. "Leave him alone!"
cw: violence, descriptions of injuries, mentions of blood
Hilda can’t say that she’s finding any joy in taking an elbow repeatedly to her gut and having blood trickle into her mouth and down her chin. She takes no pleasure in this, but she can at least draw on the raw anger stirring inside of her to fuel her instead. She can't see anything past the facefull of robes, but she tries anyway, circling her arms around the acolyte and bringing the butt of her dagger roughly into his sternum, his gut – anything she can reach. Maybe somewhere, Baltie would be proud and Raphael would cheer her on.
The acolyte’s concentration is broken when there’s a resounding crack of stone hitting porcelain. The mask might not have cracked in the way Blake hoped, but it’s enough to cause a distraction and Hilda seizes the opportunity, driving her knee right between the man’s legs. It was a dirty move – one that they were never supposed to use during training practice – but it was always an unspoken go-to because it usually delivered the results you were hoping for. The acolyte crumples and she uses her next opportunity to slam the butt of the dagger against his head for good measure as he falls unconscious to the cobblestone.
Vision clear, Hilda is granted a full view of how outnumbered they are and to Blake in pain, trying to somehow draw the ire of their attackers away from her. In her mind she hears herself telling her professor that she doesn’t see the point in heroics or someone risking their life for someone else. Not when there’s so much life left to live. And here she was, confronted with someone who was trying to do that very thing. A coward would have taken the opportunity to turn tail and run (she might have once upon a time) but her feet are firmly planted in place, her gaze wild and furious. She can’t tell if she’s mad at the acolytes or Blake. Maybe both.
She charges, ready to stab one of the acolytes but her body seizes, arm frozen mid-swing as the masks turn to her, regarding her as nothing more than an irritating bug. “Blake, no.” Her voice shakes in the same way her muscles are straining against the hold on her. Her knees buckle hard against the stone shooting pain up her legs. "Leave him alone!"