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His anger tugged at hers again and again, each time ending in bloodshed. Red blinded her eyes, suffocated her lungs, and the taste of metal chased off any semblance of an appetite for hours after her kill. With every swing of her sword disgust and shame roiled within her like a storm, pummeling at the walls of the curse that caged her mind. It was always a losing battle. Whenever she could feel the influence of the charm nearing the end of its duration, Obann would catch her gaze. He'd slip her a knowing grin and extend his hand, the magic blinking from his fingertips to infiltrate her mind and once again reinforce his hold over her. With every renewal, with every felled body, with every sleepless night next to the lumbering Laughing Hand, she could feel her will withering.
That potent rage that had planted itself within her very soul so long ago had felt like an immeasurable font of power all her own. She could turn her grief and shame and fury into lethal force behind her blade to cut down those that threatened her loved ones. Even when she was perfectly calm, she could feel that deeply ingrained and undefinable sorrow that stung like a betrayal, so easily summoned and seemingly never ending. Now, though, its power waned again and again with each tug of Obann's influence.
They moved often, and even with the limited access to her senses, her stomach reeled with every teleportation. Obann was intent upon summoning yet another horrific being to unleash upon Exandria, and dread settled in her bones as the gleam in his eyes grew sharper. His hand grasped hers, and they were suddenly within a city, the Laughing Hand nowhere to be seen. Through her narrowed vision, she saw Obann's form change into that of a human man in fine blue vestiges. At his beckoning motion, they strolled forward through the city. Commotion was all around - carts rolling over cobblestone, merchants shouting wares, low whispers among passersby. They approached a building of blindingly white marble, and that dread grew heavy as lead though her legs still carried her forward. Obann began talking with two keen-eyed guards at the front, their vestiges matching his. They followed a nimble elven man who stole glances over his shoulder at them as they stalked deeper inside.
The man suddenly turned and exchanged words with Obann. The man's brow furrowed and he took a step back, only to stop short when Obann lifted his hand in an arcane gesture that elicited a resounding tear like a small explosion to her left, and she felt more than saw the looming presence of the Laughing Hand. With a few words, Obann set them on the now terrified occupants within the building. Tears spilled from her cheeks as she turned to the closest mortal being and unsheathed her sword. She swung and tore into flesh, and suddenly a cacophany of sounds echoed in the large chamber - terrified screams, banging of upended furniture, and the lilting laughter from the behemoth.
She moved on to the next victim, the face of the first burned into her mind. She watched in slow motion as blood arced onto his sky blue tunic, staining the fabric. The sword then pierced into his chest and pushed him back into the person behind him. She fell to the ground and turned to attempt to scramble towards the two nimble figures rushing forward. She roared and lashed out in savage arcs, but the monks flipped and danced away in streaks of blue fabric. They worked in tandem to leave well-aimed punches, but they eventually fell as well. Their blood spattered the gleaming marble walls and seeped through their fine clothing. She looked out across the wide room, spotting survivors scrambling over desks and chairs, sending books and papers and scrolls flying in their wake, and all Yasha could see was blue, blue, blue.
Another monk made their presence known with a roundhouse kick to her head, sending her into a dizzying adrenaline-fueled rage. Like the others, they danced around her blade with practiced footwork. But even in her rage-fueled haze, she saw the ghost of every protective stance, every well-timed leap, every duck and roll that had been used in combat before. She knew exactly how to duck to act as the perfect step for a leaping kick, or how to swing wide over a head after a flurry of blows. But their battle was over all too soon, and her cheeks were soaked as she kicked aside the corpse. Her rage dimmed as she jogged to where she heard Obann's call. From the corner of her eyes, she could see bodies crumpled against the wall, their blue robes and bands and jackets now tainted with still-warm blood.
Fjord once told her about tidal waves - how the ocean would recede quickly, and a gigantic wave would come hurtling towards the shore. He said the sheer force was enough to completely level a town. Yasha felt like the town and the tidal wave.
Yasha could recall the twirling of that bo staff like it had always been in her life. She remembered the blue ribbons whirling through the air as deft hands flipped it with startling force. She remembered the streak of warm brown skin and trailing blue fabric - faster than the Stormlord's lightning and twice as flashy. She couldn't help but stare at the way those muscles would twist and pop to execute skillful movements. Yasha remembered cold nights on watch desperately trying to ignore the monk's deliberate shivering and pleading eyes that would always end up with her forfeiting her thick cloak, earning a smug and delighted smile. She remembered all of the fury and love and humor and sadness that husky voice could express, and the curious thrill whenever that voice was directed her way.
She prayed none of the broken bodies on the ground was Beau.