( little bird. armand's preferred nickname for her, too. a communal joke, the paranoia inside of her wants to insist, between sharp-toothed vipers that think of her as small and breakable. she stares at the words on the screen for an inordinate amount of time, ice sludging her veins, chilling her blood — or what's left of it inside of her body, anyway.
hard to tell, past the wooziness in her head, the angry — doggedly alive — pulse of anger in her throat. she has to vent herself through a variety of responses (feeling peckish this morning? she writes firsts, deletes; i know one of your own killed parisa second), half-wishing she had real letters on a page to crumple, before she can think past it. before she can grit her teeth and force herself to play along. if paul and alia can't make the strategic moves on this chessboard, she will. )
I would say a warm bath and a fresh change of clothes would be nice, but not yet. I want everyone to see what's been done to me. I want them to be reminded they failed. I want them to know I won't rest until they're rooted out like the vermin they are.
( above all else, she wants them to be reminded of one glaring fact: i survived, and i'll be your ruination next. )
[ That kind of desire for revenge isn't a stranger to Astarion — it's a fraction of what he feels about Cazador. But I want them to be reminded they failed; it strikes him as young, as something hot and wretched born out of the immediate aftermath of a trauma, perhaps only because he's spent so long focusing all of his ill intention upon a single point.
So he doesn't respond right away (he's not unaware that the manner of Parisa's death has put a rather large target on his back), instead leaving, some time within the next day, a white linen shirt outside of her door, her name carefully stitched, in strawberry-colored thread, into an inner seam. A change of clothes, as stated; he doesn't presume that he ought to be the one to draw her a bath. ]
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hard to tell, past the wooziness in her head, the angry — doggedly alive — pulse of anger in her throat. she has to vent herself through a variety of responses (feeling peckish this morning? she writes firsts, deletes; i know one of your own killed parisa second), half-wishing she had real letters on a page to crumple, before she can think past it. before she can grit her teeth and force herself to play along. if paul and alia can't make the strategic moves on this chessboard, she will. )
I would say a warm bath and a fresh change of clothes would be nice, but not yet.
I want everyone to see what's been done to me. I want them to be reminded they failed.
I want them to know I won't rest until they're rooted out like the vermin they are.
( above all else, she wants them to be reminded of one glaring fact: i survived, and i'll be your ruination next. )
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So he doesn't respond right away (he's not unaware that the manner of Parisa's death has put a rather large target on his back), instead leaving, some time within the next day, a white linen shirt outside of her door, her name carefully stitched, in strawberry-colored thread, into an inner seam. A change of clothes, as stated; he doesn't presume that he ought to be the one to draw her a bath. ]