Bite Me

Skin itching, quivering, wresting and jolting, frets of mutability tore against blood and guts, abhorring their bids to allure, but more so their daring steps forward. She, of all hellions, was madly unpredictable, and they had yet to understand this. Would they avail in coercing such treacheries to arise and, well, devour? Midwinter orbs watched them intimately, digesting the name -- Kestrel, fitting to the attire -- she wasn’t one to converse in palaver’s too often, albeit at all if she so had the choice. A low, guttural exhale befell agape jowls, uncertain as to whether they could be trusted; jacket jostling like holocausts in the mountains, expressions bore a sunless, sombre tone, lacquered in adamantine ice. “Lebraid,” It grated out, crown somewhat curving to appear, well, otherworldly as she gaped into their eyes with harrowing malevolence, “What is this place?” Perhaps a question, though more of a necessity –– either way, suppression would not be taken with a grain of salt.

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