Ouro's chest rose and fell as a substantial amount of blood escaped her jugular, staining the ground beneath her red. She moved her neck to stare at it, a painful twitch of her muscles, damaged skin, and flesh attempted to hold her back.
As if those pesky details could stop her; they hadn't stopped her when Crowe was upon her neck, how can they stop her now? Glancing over the wound, her skin was purple, with some bits of flesh mauled and pierced, unsurprisingly given the violent thrashing of her enemy.
The violent bite wound pulsated as if it was alive, a reflex of how brutal that girl's attack was and how willing she was to get a shot at Ouro's life. A great example of willpower and violence channeled to an objective.
Enough to make Ouro's heart beat with admiration and a familiar yearning. The yearning she had when a worthy soul was beside her, a soul capable of entering Valhalla. A malicious and ill sense of happiness and joy in her rotten heart.
