A Blizzard, A Shit Storm.
She reached out to bat the pitch fork away from her body, but she was a little to quick on the draw. Instead of catching his weapon just below the prongs with the outside of her wrist, she caught the middle prong square in the middle of her palm.
the diamond tipped tine pierced her flesh, stretching and tearing tendon and bone wide, before protruding through the other side at a sickening low angle and bending her wrist back at a dangerous angle as Damara’s own momentum began to work against her. A cry of anguish clawed at her throat and threatened to bubble out of the corners of her mouth but she managed to soldier on at least a few paces more.
She pushed the trident away, causing the instrument to rip further through her hand- at the very least her, a couple fingers were not coming of this- and went for one last slap to the face, before losing her footing, and dropping to her knee, cradling her mangled hand.
It was something of a blessing that the Devastator had spared her from any further theatrics. No profanity or pun-laced jeers. No hysterics on how he had to faff about in this asphalt wasteland. He was as silent as a grave. At most, an ear twitched at her harsh cry. A sneer.
This was starting to look more like business as usual.
The slap connected wordlessly and, despite accepting it resolutely, it stung like a bitch nonetheless. Fine. It was a good enough punchline to end this little encounter on. He started to walk away after giving her a hearty kick, careless to exactly where it would be received.
The Devastator prepared to skulk around in front of the entrance just as before, ignorant of anyone else coming or going like a gaudy alien roadblock. A tinny bell jingled.
He gripped his pitchfork with pink-tinged knuckles. Looks like he didn’t have to wait another second.
