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Perched on an upturned tree, foot hanging down, Annalinde watched the Greeks as they tried to integrate themselves with the Romans or at least find their feet and the Romans in truly Roman fashion pushed them away. Some were cold and harsh, some were cruel and others simply ignored them. They were outcasts, like Annie, and she sympathised with them even if she did not really understand their pain or their loss. She pulled her thin hood tighter around her head and tapped her thumb along to the music pounding through her headphones. She watched as one of her half-sisters slammed a Greek up against one of the throwing targets and she pushed herself off the tree, landing lightly as the sun caught the edge of Iseult’s blade. The frustration and anger bubbled up out of Iseult, palpable even before she got into the Ludus Magnus in earnest.

She pulled her own blade, the curved dagger weighted for throwing and forged to her specifications felt right in her palm. Wrong but right. Before she could close the gap Iseult had released the terrified Greek, who inevitably scuttled away trying to keep his head down, before Annalinde could even get halfway there but she lengthened her stride all the same. The moment she was within reach Annie raised the blade and threw it, watching the steel slice through the air and crash into her half-sisters blade knocking it aside, coming to a halt about twenty-three feet from Iseult with her hands planted firmly in her pockets, defiant and fierce like a true daughter of War.

“When did uncontrolled rage become a part one of my sisters?” Her voice was cool and calm as she studied her half-sister. Still as the moment before battle “Especially when the Greeks are simply victims of the Fates, out of control with nothing but each other and their fear to cling to. They are adrift having lost everything they held dear in a place that feels cruel and hostile, they cannot even use their gifts,” and she paused to pull her hood down “So if you’re spoiling for a fight let it be with me Iseult, that or control your rage,” she did not want to fight and she was confident that Iseult would best her but oppressive behaviour was a cause for war, not a virtue of it. At least, she hoped that her mother would agree when they met or more accurately if they ever met. She would stand proudly whether or not Iseult chose to extract a pound of flesh “Because preying upon the weak and fearful is reprehensible and despite the freedom of his tongue he is weak and fearful.”

Annalinde knew that rage, the way it could devour her in a heartbeat. The thrill of letting it out.

[attr="class","THREAD1TAG"]Iseult Bexley