Self-Improvement [Exam]

Silence was truly deafening.

The sleek sound of her simple blade kissing the sheath was all that dared puncture the film of soundlessness as Lothric's feet spread, pushing up dirt as they did so. An inaudible whisper. The ground beneath her shifted with her subtle movements, counteracted her idle shaking. Her bloody orb focused, deathly so, on the group before her.

Five.

The Samurai's fingers traced along the handle of her blade, feeling the grooves between wood and braided rope, before all at once clamping down on it in a death grip. The subtle clink of the sheath hiking up in the back, and her blade being drawn.

Four.

She'd been practicing here for a while. Sakuramori reminded her of her home across the seas and, as much as she had clearly fought to escape it, the sight brought her comfort. An odd comfort, but comfort nonetheless. She really should visit, one of these days. Not that she had anyone to visit, but... Merely, the land itself. Yes, it was the land that she missed. The air. Her accent had been worked out to a point that none noticed, but that did not change who she at one point had been. To call herself a Samurai...
Once more, her steel pressed to wood, and slid down its length. A soft clink. The sound of tearing.

Three.

To find these people, defiling this place... Well, it was quite simply unforgivable. A murderer she was, but a murderer she was happy to be if it meant that five less sets of boots laid waste to the wildlife here. If she would be branded a killer for this, then she would take it. Perhaps not in stride, but she would take it.
She stood, raising her free hand and spreading it out to one side. Her sword arm soon followed, blood still dripping from the tip. A challenge. Daring the two before her to strike first. They did. Up into a clash. Down into a neck.

Two.

She felt an odd sensation when she wrote. Had she been an artist child, before her village had burned? Calligraphy had a hold on her. She thought it looked beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. Was this even her path? Was she meant to be on it?
She wheeled around a strike at her back. Another tear on the jacket. The leaves shook, dyed red.

One.

Holding her follow-through with suffocating confidence, Lothric swung her blade right in a snap-motion and rose to her feet, holding it, stained, with the tip just off the ground. An intimidation display. To see the final one's response. Not like she cared; perhaps it was a bout of sudden onset curiosity. Or, some morbid pleasure at fear. Whatever the reason, she seldom reacted. Her sword slipped into its sheath. The following clink, the sound of death.

The dull thud-and-roll was ignored, Lothric's expression impassive. A safety measure by her mind, perhaps, to keep her sane. She was a killer, after all. A thin line to walk without falling, but walk it she would.
She stood, and swung her blade. Painted the grass. Twirled it twice, and slid it, slowly, into its sheath.
Her eye turned up.
Once, she knew how to heal. That had been lost when she died the first time. It made her wonder if she even was herself anymore, or merely a construct with the same name. It was not, after all, like the girl even remembered anything before then. Nor that she remembered anything soon after... Nor from ten years ago, nor...
She shook her head, banishing the train of thought. No, she knew not how to heal. T'was why when she scanned the silver-coloured wolf, its leg in a trap and its blood pooling from two arrows, her blade was already drawn. Held out to the side. Lifted up. Both hands clasped it and held it high above her head.
Lothric had never been good with words. She didn't have the conviction to stare someone down and say she did it. To stand behind her actions. She merely had the resolve to perform them, and move on. She couldn't whisper an apology to the animal, merely stare it in the eyes. Show that she could not speak, but that she could see.
How ironic that was.