The robe slipped down his back. His scars startled me, three ripples stretching from shoulder to waist. Sliced, lashed, or perhaps scratched by some three-fingered beast.
Respect didn’t sway my mission. My lips pursed and blew.
Falling, his hand raised to the sting in his neck.
I bowed silently into the shadows.
A tricky word play. “Falling, his hand raised…” you gave me an anticipation of one thing and then made the quiet stalker into an assassin. I am not sure whether I am happy at her dedication to her craft. Someone who survives such scars would hopefully be resistant to whatever venom she has dosed him with. I’m rooting for the fallen in this one.
With 52 words, I had to get tricky. = ) Thank you for reading so deeply, K!
oooh I love this dark and visual a master crafter of 52 words, thanks for playing 🙂
Thank you, Sacha! It turns out that your prompt was the seed for an additional 7,500 words growing a world around the solution to this little mystery. So grateful for the inspiration!