Wessex seems to merely watch her, for a while, but the cat watches back, in all the ways Beloved is merely in panic and denial. Wheezing, further unhinged than her usual wild-eyed self, her giggles are gurgles, ones that are cut short only by the warrior mare’s sharp, commanding voice. The dam does not last long, of course, but the blasted remnants of those inner fortitudes snag and grasp the debris that was her erratic breath and vicious gaze.
Instead, she simply stares upon the cat, the words of the Haruspex meeting her ears, but seemingly passing through, or just drifting about in that space between most call a brain, but which is something darker, and much more complex for one such as the White Witch. Her silver eye flutters, her black eye grows abyssal, and with an exhalation of shuddering breath upon the frigid air that leaves a dragoness’ plume, her crown lowers in defeat.
She can hear its heart thudding in time with her own; feel its… feelings like worms writhing within the confines of her already riddled mind.
“Oh, shut up, we are not stupid,” snaps the pale one, a barking, growling command that is not comforted by the babble of her giggles, instead imbued with the disgust and abhorrence for this world that fills her the longer she stares at her entrapment, now quietly purring where it sits and watches through black rimmed eyes, “one cannot kill such a thing without the cost, and we are not stupid. Even Beloved has a soul, just as you.”
Narrowing her eyes contemptuously at the kitten, she again ponders the price.
She burrows for the shards that remain…
And growls, audibly, stepping towards the pale fluff ball with all the menace she can manage, earning only the upwards arc of the creature’s spine and the lift of its idiot tail as it bumps its chin upon her lowered face. Gritting her teeth against the urge to bite, her face is the picture of wickedness, restrained, and it is, perhaps, laughable, especially so as the monstrous, tiny cat clambers its way roughly up her foreleg, and towards the slope of her pale shoulders.
Here, Orphan’s small mind thinks contentedly to itself as she gracefully sits, her paws tangled in the stringy white locks of her disgusted mount, here is my throne.
go on, believe
that life's some kind of masterwork
|
.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
