Slow Fall

Voah groaned as she sat up, matching the the loose planks of wood and debris beneath her. Her arms still cradled the Skara egg pack. The fall could have been much worse. One of the things she had trained with Gonyaul and studied briefly, many years prior with Yan’Dian was the art of slow falling. Obviously a misnomer, slow falling was not slow at all, just a series of techniques that would minimize the possibility and extent of damage to the body during a fall.

Scrapes and bruises would be tolerable, but it wasn’t the pain that had Voah worried at the moment, it was the shouts of Gonyaul somewhere outside and the rising tingle of magik that tugged at the blonde hairs all over her skin. It was the audible cue of footsteps drawing near and the sight of two shadowy figures, one whose hands radiated with icy fury.

There was little time to spare as the ex-Arbiter set the pack aside and loosed herself from the others as she rose to her feet. A beam of biting light cut across her left shoulder just as she gripped the Holy Sword, sending a scattering icy burn through her that dissipated almost as quickly as it came.

The witch had come to exact her revenge.