( Mika is quick. Quicker than any human; quicker than the harbingers that roam the earth since the world's end - but quicker than something so akin to lightning? Would God really grant His whipping boys capacity to trump nature?
So it seems not. Mika is instead blessed by the privilege of his enhanced sight: seeing the twitch, the shift, the whip in the air - the scent of strange iron, familiar as it comes around him; a moment to twist his head in reflex; some darkened edge of Khun's expression, in the corner of his eye.
That he pulled his head back might be what stops him short of a full beheading.
It doesn't hurt very much. His senses are generally dulled. He feels instead how the knife slices through each layer of skin, the meat and the slick insides, with acute awareness of each sensation. Blood sprays; a lot of it; even more than a jugular should. It's all gelid, as cold as his heatless body, chilled by the night air.
A split second lasts quite long when you can see every detail.
But at this point his speed catches up, and as he feels the knife sink dangerously near the nerves - something that would make him lose consciousness, dangerous right now even if it didn't kill him, if things worked like they do at home - he brings up his leg to kick into Khun's stomach— hard, hard enough to knock him further back than he was before, ideally into a wall or a tree to make him waste a few seconds on recovery.
His lips split to cast as he reaches for his rapier. He doesn't care what set Khun off or why; only that he intended to kill him, and that he would kill him first, if he had to; restrain him, if he could.
Wind whips through his wound, gasping up through his throat - fuck. No vocal chords - no spells. His head feels unstable on his neck - his wound is too deep. It's not healing - it stings familiar, with a tinge of a permanent wound.
And this bitch is fast. He might not have the luxury of restraint.
His eyes narrow with savage necessity. Fine, then. He'll send you to Baam. )
[ Moving on instinct like this, Aguero had no time to even properly formulate a plan on how to kill Mikaela. He knows how to kill a human of course, and he knows how to kill the common species in the Tower, but a vampire? Vampires are less than folklore where he's from. But he had made the call that what works against most living things would work here, very few things can survive being beheaded. Not that it would be that easy, but usually his speed can trump most other things.
Except the speed and perception of vampires, apparently. The kick connects and he hisses as he's thrown back, into the bench opposite them. It should hurt and it definitely will hurt later, but for now he's numb to it, riding on adrenaline and the lessons that were taught to him since he was old enough to walk. He certainly wouldn't have registered the blood spray that follows both their actions, if not for how cold it is. Unpleasant, but he has bigger issues at the moment. He shakes the blood off his knife, still pristine in form but not color, dyed scarlet.
No matter where, no matter who, no matter when, his biggest weakness has always been his tendency to overthink. Seconds seem like minutes here, but he has a feeling that whoever loses this next action, loses entirely. ]
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So it seems not. Mika is instead blessed by the privilege of his enhanced sight: seeing the twitch, the shift, the whip in the air - the scent of strange iron, familiar as it comes around him; a moment to twist his head in reflex; some darkened edge of Khun's expression, in the corner of his eye.
That he pulled his head back might be what stops him short of a full beheading.
It doesn't hurt very much. His senses are generally dulled. He feels instead how the knife slices through each layer of skin, the meat and the slick insides, with acute awareness of each sensation. Blood sprays; a lot of it; even more than a jugular should. It's all gelid, as cold as his heatless body, chilled by the night air.
A split second lasts quite long when you can see every detail.
But at this point his speed catches up, and as he feels the knife sink dangerously near the nerves - something that would make him lose consciousness, dangerous right now even if it didn't kill him, if things worked like they do at home - he brings up his leg to kick into Khun's stomach— hard, hard enough to knock him further back than he was before, ideally into a wall or a tree to make him waste a few seconds on recovery.
His lips split to cast as he reaches for his rapier. He doesn't care what set Khun off or why; only that he intended to kill him, and that he would kill him first, if he had to; restrain him, if he could.
Wind whips through his wound, gasping up through his throat - fuck. No vocal chords - no spells. His head feels unstable on his neck - his wound is too deep. It's not healing - it stings familiar, with a tinge of a permanent wound.
And this bitch is fast. He might not have the luxury of restraint.
His eyes narrow with savage necessity. Fine, then. He'll send you to Baam. )
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Except the speed and perception of vampires, apparently. The kick connects and he hisses as he's thrown back, into the bench opposite them. It should hurt and it definitely will hurt later, but for now he's numb to it, riding on adrenaline and the lessons that were taught to him since he was old enough to walk. He certainly wouldn't have registered the blood spray that follows both their actions, if not for how cold it is. Unpleasant, but he has bigger issues at the moment. He shakes the blood off his knife, still pristine in form but not color, dyed scarlet.
No matter where, no matter who, no matter when, his biggest weakness has always been his tendency to overthink. Seconds seem like minutes here, but he has a feeling that whoever loses this next action, loses entirely. ]
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