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manners maketh not the woman

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It's an understatement to say that Roxy's often been called that.

She's always been at the top of her class - always been 'poised' and 'sharp'. She's able to move quickly, to think quickly, to react immediately - actions, always sharp.

Any word that might indicate anger: sharp.

Sarcasm: caustic, sharp.

She'd growl at boys and curl her hand like a cat's paw and after they realized her nails could rip their faces off they never came near her again. Her smile was one she'd been taught, it hadn't the softness of anything genuine, but sharp edges.

Her glare cut through grown men, her stilettos would do the trick if she had to smile.

Roxy's always been called sharp, but she's endeavored never to think it.

Now, she fails.

The woman lunging towards her: sharp.

Her movements, seamless and calculated, clothing slim-fitting, and she isn't holding any weapons, because she is one. Her prosthetic legs are knives, and Roxy can't even imagine how many people have met their demise by them - including her predecessor as Lancelot.

Roxy manages to clash against Gazelle just so, and shove her to the wall. Their weight is equivalent enough that she can't move the legs once Roxy's stepped atop them.

"What a gentlewoman spy you are, waiting to be on top of me before drawing your knife."

Roxy slips her manicured fingers around the woman's neck, below the knife; she expects Gazelle's quick intake of breath, but not the subsequent lascivious glimmer in her eyes.