Ciri shoots Dean a look at the word 'kiddo,' one that says everything she thinks about him calling her that without needing a single syllable, but her icy stare doesn't linger; her attention snaps back immediately to the threat.
She's seen all sorts of shit in this endless maze while wandering around with Dean, but he'd always seen it too. Now, she's suddenly unsure -- and that uncertainty multiplies, worms its way through her mind and grips her with a barbed and clinging paranoia that makes all the muscles in her neck and shoulders tense up. Her palms itch for the feel of a sword hilt snug against them, and she falls by habit into a braced stance, standing her ground to fight.
"Shit like this?" she asks Jo, jerking her head toward the stranger. The thing. The monstrous manifestation with the shape of a man and skin the color of a corpse, the jaw opening, flesh and sinew visible through rotted cheeks.
Despite her failed attempts before, Ciri focuses on pulling any sort of weapon from the erratic fabric of this warped Horizon. A sword. A knife. A fucking stick, even.
"Stay back, Jo."
Jo, specifically. Ciri can't help but be aware of her, the desire to defend her friend while she is shaken, possibly injured, the overwhelming desire that underlies all that anger and aggression spilling over in her blood.
What appears in her hand is inspired in part by Dean's own blade, a last-ditch attempt at summoning something that isn't what she's been trying for the last few hours or however long it's been. Ciri's grip tightens around the piece of bone -- long, carved and sharpened to a fine point on one end. This time, the weapon doesn't dissolve or malfunction. It feels solid in her grip. Right.
no subject
She's seen all sorts of shit in this endless maze while wandering around with Dean, but he'd always seen it too. Now, she's suddenly unsure -- and that uncertainty multiplies, worms its way through her mind and grips her with a barbed and clinging paranoia that makes all the muscles in her neck and shoulders tense up. Her palms itch for the feel of a sword hilt snug against them, and she falls by habit into a braced stance, standing her ground to fight.
"Shit like this?" she asks Jo, jerking her head toward the stranger. The thing. The monstrous manifestation with the shape of a man and skin the color of a corpse, the jaw opening, flesh and sinew visible through rotted cheeks.
Despite her failed attempts before, Ciri focuses on pulling any sort of weapon from the erratic fabric of this warped Horizon. A sword. A knife. A fucking stick, even.
"Stay back, Jo."
Jo, specifically. Ciri can't help but be aware of her, the desire to defend her friend while she is shaken, possibly injured, the overwhelming desire that underlies all that anger and aggression spilling over in her blood.
What appears in her hand is inspired in part by Dean's own blade, a last-ditch attempt at summoning something that isn't what she's been trying for the last few hours or however long it's been. Ciri's grip tightens around the piece of bone -- long, carved and sharpened to a fine point on one end. This time, the weapon doesn't dissolve or malfunction. It feels solid in her grip. Right.
"I'll take care of it."