Bells & Burial

Lebraid did not feel afeared nor imperilled, but rather exhilarated -- it was near paradoxical to decipher -- hauteur distorted whatever feelings dare parlay, mantled by a helheim of neurotic clouds. As if she wasn’t already unpredictable enough being in an outlandish, foreign world. Emotions were, well, bowed, so you’d say. She’d listen, those stony, tintless eyes pulling taut at the pallid canine’s imputation of the earth’s unwonted, carmine texture, unable to disagree. Was this all there to be? Still, she didn’t appreciate their timbre, their being here, however intelligence will simply not bare on its own, “And where is all of this, exactly?” Words befell souse lips like an oxidised sword, muscles cinching with every breath, every fibre of this graveyard’s bedraggled being. It was reference to the aforementioned domain’s, of course, so perhaps this temporal was much like the last; before, she was a monarch, a queen feared by many, yet here, it’s as if the timelines revivified.

Retention remained claggy, albeit.

Raw, ruinous rumbles keeled from the depths of the woman’s throat, mutilated and loathly –– there's no telling what she may do, and that in itself was the most sinistrorsal roulette of all.

Action. | “Speech.” | Skill.
“Wrong me once, I’ll kill you twice.”