At the docks, the coastal scents gave Beatrix a salty kiss on the nose. She had long loved the Atlantic, in all its cerulean beauty, though she was more accustomed to its eastern side. Even after over six centuries of life, one could get caught up in moments of nature’s grace and grandeur – maybe even more so than those of a human lifespan do. The purity of the moment was tainted, however.

Centuries of sneaking around, acting, lying, killing… it could change a person. Correction, it [i]did[/i] change a person. Béatrix has eyes like a hawk, always watching, sensitive to the slightest change in surroundings, body prepped for fight or flight – but with Trixy it was normally fight. Fighting is all she knows, and she’s damn good at it. Maybe that’s good thing, like a warrior’s survival instincts, but with Trixy it was more likely paranoia.

Alistair’s whisper pierced the silence, so he felt it too. The way the winds shifted, the static in the air, the feeling of tiny spiders crawling up one’s back. It was like that moment when the clouds have stitched together all the raindrops, and they are hanging from the precipice just milliseconds before the storm. For a time, there was peaceful stillness. 

[i]And then the lightning struck.[/i]

Rogues surrounded the Blackmoore clan like a flood. Holy shit, how many of them were there? Enough to surround and separate them, apparently. These weren’t just any rogues, this was a group… this was organized. “Fuck.” Was the last word Béatrix spoke before crouching down. Battle made her a different person, fighting with werewolves for so long had made her instincts feral and animalistic. Her icy blue eyes shifted to a dark crimson as she bared her elongated fangs and reached back for her glocks. The decision was made, as it always was…

Fight.

Trixy focused on those immediately surrounding her, of which there were four. They were quick, closing in on her and blocking off her sight of the others. She raised both her arms and poised them for a clean head shot on the two nearest rogues. Her bullets were special issue, able to take out vampire, human and werewolf alike. They were a mixture of titanium, silver, fireproofed wood, and they blessed with holy water - for good measure. The shots made their marks, as they always did from Trixy’s hand. The two rogues sunk down like deflated balloons; she’d fully decapitate them later and let their dust scatter to the shore. Béatrix let out a short burst of maniacal laughter at the excitement of the kill.

Blood was now splattered across her face due to the proximity of the rogues when she shot them. [i]Much better…[/i] she thought, with a delighted shimmer in her eyes. Trixy turned her attention to the third nearest rogue and twirled one of her guns on her finger before taking aim once more. The shot went off, but not before the fourth rogue reached Trixy with inhuman speed. He was faster than most vamps, which was what really caught her off guard… the next thing she felt was a sharp pain, and then blackness.

The kick met the back of her head with all the force of a freight train, causing her vision to falter. First the color faded to grey, and then the grey fizzled into darkness. She wasn’t gone for long, though. Trixy’s head cracked the pavement like a bowling ball, jolting her back into alertness. She felt the moisture forming on her forehead as blood pooled to the surface. She opened her eyes to that she managed to kill the third rogue, as his paralyzed eyes stared back into hers just inches away, but the fourth that did this to her seemed to have run off…