The greatsword felt good in her hands. That was always the problem. The greatsword felt amazing in her hand. The heft of the weapon, the broad reach it gave her in combat. It was liberating. Intoxicating. She would dare say it was freedom. She was not bound to be a stalwart wall behind a shield.
So like a rabid dog being let off the leash, she lunged.
She had long told herself, especially as a member of the Sultansworn, was that she was meant to uphold a standard. As her mother had taught her, Winttrach Ahldbharwyn was the rally point. The wall. Not now. Now she was a whirlwind with a blade caught in the midst of it. And it felt amazing.
In another part of the room, carving through another pack of cutthroats was the person who had given her the sword. The one she had sworn to never be tempted by. The temptress was doing much the same, carving through their collective foe like they were tissue. It felt good. No laws to be bound by. No steps to follow. The people before her were the scum of the earth, criminals who preyed on others, and now she could treat them as such.
The crystal in her pocket burned, pressing her own. The blade slashed with a mind of its own, never ceasing. She felt the pain of dents in her armor, ruptures in it that required attention, but nothing allowed her to stop. There was no pain, there was no promise of demise, there was only the swift movement of blade.
When this crowd had fallen, their bodies being added to the liter that was Ishgard's streets, she readied herself for the next group that would come. But there was no next group. They had defeated all of them. As though the weight of the battle itself had been holding her up, she collapsed. The sword clattered to the ground. Perhaps, she thought, that was where it should stay.
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