Bells & Burial

Lebraid wasn’t a wolf you should poke, prod, or even play roulette with, because the denouement’s were unpredictable at best, and inexorable at worst. Who, pray tell, did they think they were talking to? Not a dunce, that’s for sure; rather, they were the halfwit for hawking demands, a ruinous, icy snarl richotting like a hellion from the underworld.

Torn, gutsy, it bore no benevolence.

The shrill dissonance resounded off every crease and crook, stagnant spires brewing overhead, daring to swallow them whole if it so had the chance -- and then, an insinuation -- bled by moronic judgement, or so she thought, it ruled her to be the cause of all this, well, militant purgatory. No, that simply will not do. They fucking dare? Eldritch, aggravated rumbles brandished past those sooty lips, spit contriving atone each tooth like a befouled, rabid varmint, boneyard jacket tousling thickly to imply a means of malignancy, disdain. It slathered her very chin, beading dirt and knotting follicles. Lebraid did not take lightly to those that spoke paltry lies; in the past, those who did wrong were abashed, mutilated, ceased to exist, be it bloodborn or not. A feral, dauntless growl thrummed to attest their nonsensical accusations —— terrified, was it? My, they couldn’t be more wrong. “If that’s what you think,” Words began, droning in a rather eerie, metallic-type tone, “Then you’re sorely mistaken.” She’d almost solicit, perchance entice them, to say one more imbecilic imputation. Albeit, despite the wreathing temptations that continued to lumber far below, stifled by an imprisonment of self-restraining irons, they harnessed a few rifts, and this may easily fabricate more.

All the while, breaths paved heavy as she tried to pervade the doll’s very soul with those moonless, deadpan orbs. Try me, bitch.

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