[It is fast. Too fast. Grabbing and diverting them, rerouting them, pressing them away. Stumble, stagger, taken off guard, but recover, straightening as much as they are able in their bent-backed, half-crouched, lifted-chin posture. Peering out from the holes in the face they wear pressed over stolen features, that smooth white disk with the faint curves to the black painted lips that form the barest impression of a smile.
Most run. Most run. Most do not push back, stand and fight.
This is an anomaly.
They circle, warily, before cocking their head to one side, birdlike, and leaping once again, this time aiming for its legs.]
[action]
Most run. Most run. Most do not push back, stand and fight.
This is an anomaly.
They circle, warily, before cocking their head to one side, birdlike, and leaping once again, this time aiming for its legs.]