He overbalances, but he's still grabbed by the wrist - 

He tries to throw her off balance as well with his bodyweight, but it's a weak attempt.

Oh, him still being grabbed by the wrist is very intentional. It's much easier to repeatedly punch him in the face when she's got a grip on him and he can only wriggle so far.

He's tough. But even he's not invulnerable, and Alethia's strength is more than his dead body can handle. 

The fourth blow caves in his skull, and he goes still. 

A cry of victory goes up from near the inn as the zombies collapse at the defenders' feet, their strings cut with no master. 

Oh god. He's dead.

She just killed a man.

It. It needed to happen, she couldn't- she couldn't have done anything else.

He's still dead.

She needs to get a hold of herself. She has a character to play, here. A person who wouldn't react to killing someone like this.

She gathers herself up, brings her mask back over her face. As she does, she fortifies herself against her horror internally. She pushes and straightens her metaphorical shoulders along with her real ones until she's standing above her horror, looking down. It's still there, but she can move around it, now. Think around it.

And then she's feeling- unsettled, fragile, but fully and entirely herself.

She can fall apart later when she knows there isn't another vampire in the woods or something.

The emotions roiling under the surface probably can't be seen by someone with only as much visual acuity as a human. Especially given that firelight is the only thing lighting her face.

Four of the peasant militia, with a few barked orders, quickly retrieve the town's fire engine and do their best to douse the outlying house. 

A cautious semicircle of five men approaches Alethia and the fallen vampire, their hatchets still in their hands but not raised in anger. 

"Vedashnya," says the apparent leader, and bows to Alethia. He turns slowly, scanning the remainder of the forest.

Nothing moves beyond the circle of lamplight.

And then, moments later, Nikola comes out from the tavern - trailed by a woman in a fine dress dyed a deep violet.

"Well fought," she says. 

"Yes," says the pale woman by her side in a crisp, english accent. "Well fought." She looks over at Nikola. "Selesvanya Ishaza kretus vesdin. Lichenheim vozdrok. Kazdal drozok."

Alethia's best guess is that she's giving orders to withdraw, rest, and let her handle the defense of the village. 

She whistles once, sharply, and in response a half-dozen wolf howls rise from the sorrounding hills. 

She looks back at Alethia. "You are honorable, stranger. You fight for the lives of people you hardly know, though you hate to kill. I am Crin Illemvich. I think we can be friends."

Oh.

The horror rises up in her again. She swallows a lump in her throat.

Huh, she thought that was just a cliche.

"You saw," almost slips out of her mouth. But it's- inane. And already confirmed.

If she was here why didn't she- she probably just showed up.

She doesn't have time to just stand around not saying things, so-

"I hope you are right. Nikola called you fair. And was not afraid, for she thought you would avenge her. That says much."

In the back of her head, while she talks, she thinks. That feels like- the same kind of thing as was just said to her, tentatively reaching out with her own olive branch and bringing up positive signs that Crin Illemvich is like her.

But- she doubts, and she is not as sure. The evidence she has is not as strong. She's less sure than she's presenting herself, that Crin Illemvich is- genuinely decent. That's probably the way this story goes, but- she isn't sure. She's more on her guard than that sentence would make one think. She's not sure how much she endorses that and how much she's just still mentally in the headspace required for a fight to the death.

She takes a quick glance at that foreign bundle of instincts filling her head, hers-but-not-quite. Do they agree with her more home-grown instincts that nothing about how Crin Illemvich is acting here is off putting, beyond the whole "be a vampire" bit? That the situation does feel- genuine?

Her instincts say that Crin is wary, but mildly positive towards her on the basis of her defense... And treating her as an equal, which is perhaps more than most vampires would do. She seems genuine, as far as she goes.

Crin nods. "We will have to get each other's measure. Still. I believe Nikola has not misled you overmuch." 

She looks around into the darkness, once, then nods to Alethia. "I have my people to look to. And you should not be unseen after killing a brethren with your bare hands. I will fall back to the tavern with Nikola. I encourage you to join us."

Alethia nods. "That sounds wise."

They can be wary together. Shared activities are key to building a friendship, after all. It bodes well that they're engaging in them already.

Crin turns smartly on her heel and returns to the tavern, Nikola trailing behind her.

Alethia follows along. She's feeling shocked, still. Strangely empty, but still full of adrenaline.

It's hard to stop thinking about what she just did.

She's glad that she can just keep her face still, and eyes dry, and mostly not be readable. Especially if you don't expect there to be signs of something wrong on her face.

She hopes it still holds up in the light of the tavern.

In the tavern, a purple-skinned woman with tentacles dangling from beneath her ears stands over the man with an axe wound and channels a pool of light into his shoulder which makes the flesh shiver and knit together again. 

She doesn't look up as Crin enters, too focused on her patient. 

Crin looks over at her. "Ishaza," she calls softly. "Another one for you. This one killed the opposing Lord before I had a chance to strike. She is battlesick, I think."

Ishaza lowers her hands, and leaves behind fresh raw skin on the injured villager. 

"Are there any more wounds?"