[img]http://imgur.com/SQm6im5.jpg[/img]

The pain was almost unbearable. The blood leaking from the gouges torn from her face and her ruined nose flowed freely, stifling any attempt Angora could make at responding to the curious old man, who was somehow able to... communicate with her. His words were all languages, and yet no language at the same time, but... but Angora could faintly [i]understand[/i] him.

[i]“We won’t kill you unless we have to. Why did you attack us?”[/i] 

It was the first time since she had taken the Black Blade that it had been possible, and had she not been subjected to severe blunt force trauma, she might have been excited to finally encounter somebody who she could communicate with, perhaps explain herself, explain that she didn't know they were no threat to her, explain that she thought they were about to attack her and that she wanted to strike first so as to prevent that from happening. The opportunity was once in a lifetime, perhaps. However, as it stood, Angora wasn't in much state to respond to the old man, as much as she desperately wanted to explain herself. The pain from the painted woman's kick fogged her thoughts, as well as some strange feeling that she could not shake off, one of confusion and lethargy. Perhaps the painted woman also had an aura about her, one that clouded the thoughts of those around her, as Angora had? Not only that, but she could feel the white-skin underneath her slowly move away from her, finally releasing her iron grip on Angora's red-raw, and now blood-choked throat. Relieved at last to be able to breathe, Angora involuntarily began to cough violently, hacking up several globules of red-stained saliva and spitting them onto the ground, which was already beginning to resemble that of a slaughterhouse. However, Angora had no sooner been able to regain her ability to breathe, and she was even about to muster up a response to the old man, when the white-skin drove what felt like a spike through the side of Angora's head. The world around her swam before her eyes for a split second, Angora could hear the painted woman dimly roaring in what seemed like anger at the white-skin, before she lost all of her senses and collapsed limply back upon the ground, unconscious.

Angora came to in a fog of pain. Her eyes were unfocused, her muscles were twitchy, her breathing ragged. She tried to stand, but her muscles refused to obey her head's commands. She felt a wave of nausea overwhelm her senses, and she tried as hard as she could to fight the onrush of vomit from her distressed stomach, but it was no use: Angora coughed and retched, her pained throat protesting at the acidic liquid, but nothing was forthcoming save for a foul-tasting mouthful of bloodied vomit, which Angora spat upon the floor. Dragging herself to her knees, Angora blinked several times to try and clear her vision, and she focused on her breathing... in and out. In and out. Rinse and repeat, until you feel as if you're not going to suffocate. Angora tried to take stock of her surroundings as best she could; the painted woman from before seemed concerned at Angora's plight, whilst she could still see the old man from before. She tried to remember what he had asked her... something to do with why she attacked them? 

"[i]You... strangers... Angora... thought you... would... attack her...[/i]" was all she could manage before her muscles failed her once again, and she slumped back to the ground, unable to hold herself up. "[i]Angora... her... my name...[/i]" She looked up at the old man, whilst... whilst the painted woman frowned and crouched beside her, murmuring something under her breath. Angora began to feel slightly better, her thoughts clearing. "[i]I'm sorry. I didn't know you... you were friendly... Everyone before has attacked me... They wanted the sword. I was scared. I thought you would be the same.[/i]"