[Making Nice, Not Friends] @slateofargent
Griselda wanted to go to Mistral. The platform springs under her feet and she’s flung across the sky.
It’s not the same as entering the academy with the most advanced military force.
Notes of surprise and panic sound around her and Griselda has to swallow her own gasp as the wind buffers her face. The fur on her collar plasters itself to her neck and prickles her chin.
But it’s still the closest to the education and discipline Atlas would’ve afforded her.
She can feel a twinge in her shoulder from being forced to hold her halberd behind her, the wind smacking against the broad face of the axe before shifting the blade to cleanly slice through instead.
Graduating from Mistral would show she held grace and strength worthy of the family’s blood she carried.
Griselda’s used to her stomach dropping as she falls to the ground but leaping with wind dust is wholly different to the force of being slingshotted. She swears her heart stayed behind for the seconds it took to catch her breath.
To be more than an out of wedlock mistake.
Snowy hair billows behind her, her eyes searching around for a place to land. A crash sounds to her left but her mind barely registers the yelp before spotting an outstretched branch ahead. A spark of green dust creates a gust long enough to propel her the last few feet, but the wood bends and it creaks under her weight and she springs to the forest floor just before it snaps. That’s one potential humiliation avoided.
But having only Beacon accept her…
Her halberd shrinks into its compact axe form and is stowed away into its holster on her belt. Griselda can already hear gunshots in the distance and she keeps a steady hand on her weapon, giving a brief cautious if uninterested look around at her surroundings before heading deeper into the forest.
It feels too much like being left to bleed out on the dirt.