[ She shouldn't be here. Every alarm bell is sending warnings to both her heart and her head, but Clara is drawn in, eyes focused, and moving forward. A voice at the back of her mind (that sounds very much like The Doctor) tells her to turn around right now, but she doesn't.
Instead, she hears the request, can almost feel the desperation behind it in her bones, and she agrees. There's a momentary delay where she realizes she isn't sure what that means. Then, there's something else in her head; not the Doctor's voice anymore, but something else that coalesce around her better thoughts.
No one is safe. There are people she's loved but couldn't protect. Her mother, killed in an explosion, her best friend, mother of her godkids, killed by a drunk man. The Doctor—the version of him she knows and has fought for time and again—gone because she couldn't really help him. She tried, but it wasn't enough.
There's a whisper; she has a sword for a reason.
The paladin has to work for it, she has a strong heart, but in the end her better sense takes a back seat. Before it's too late, one pull of her sword across a particular throat could change things for the betterment of everyone. She can see it, she can almost hear the sound of skin tearing. Pulling out her weapon, the look on her face is almost one of disconnect, her eyes vacant. But the grip on the sword is true.
Once the decision is made, she happens to see something out of the corner of her eye, and she turns sharply, calling out in a voice lower than her normal register. ]
𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐥𝐟 • 𝐠𝐮𝐭❜𝐬 𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐝
Instead, she hears the request, can almost feel the desperation behind it in her bones, and she agrees. There's a momentary delay where she realizes she isn't sure what that means. Then, there's something else in her head; not the Doctor's voice anymore, but something else that coalesce around her better thoughts.
No one is safe. There are people she's loved but couldn't protect. Her mother, killed in an explosion, her best friend, mother of her godkids, killed by a drunk man. The Doctor—the version of him she knows and has fought for time and again—gone because she couldn't really help him. She tried, but it wasn't enough.
There's a whisper; she has a sword for a reason.
The paladin has to work for it, she has a strong heart, but in the end her better sense takes a back seat. Before it's too late, one pull of her sword across a particular throat could change things for the betterment of everyone. She can see it, she can almost hear the sound of skin tearing. Pulling out her weapon, the look on her face is almost one of disconnect, her eyes vacant. But the grip on the sword is true.
Once the decision is made, she happens to see something out of the corner of her eye, and she turns sharply, calling out in a voice lower than her normal register. ]
Who's there?