THANK YOU CANTTINA!

She was a whore. She was as useless and disgusting as he said she was. Her father, however cruel and destructive, had been right about her. She was his daughter after all. She had come to accept these things about herself, and yet she felt empty inside. She was without a purpose and she was cold. No longer did she feel love. She did not miss Angeal or Ludicael, the things she had left behind. Liste felt nothing. She was nothing.



What point was there in living now? She stared over the edge, willing herself off of it, but seemed rooted to the spot. A hidden part of her kept her there, praying for her love to come back to her, to save her from herself. The new Liste struggled to push the thought away, unwilling to accept that anything from her past was left. Was she truly ready to die?

talk, think

It was rare that the sovereign would stray from his lands, but he often held a brittle sense of interest within the lands that surrounded. Rumours told that the Amenti queen had tossed herself from the ledge not so long ago, and Isardis held a frail, nauseating sense of delight in investigating the location of his own accord. A heavy mist hung to the cliffs edges, the ghost no more than a pale suggestion of scenery disfigurement as he would loiter against the threats of death. How did one toss themselves from reality? Although, he held a mild sense of understanding for Canttina?s efforts, she was afterall, burdened with the face of somebody else, and undoubtedly disturbed at mind. However, as if it was some form of regular event, the looming figure of a woman would hover dangerously close to her fatal plummet, and cautiously, however amused, Isardis would halt to watch. ?Are you going to jump, little ebony?? he chuckled weakly, skull moving from side to side in false pity, ?What a waste of a pretty face.? He couldn?t see her face, only the hips that swayed with a craving for demise, but it wasn?t essential.

THANK YOU CANTTINA!

As she fought her internal battle between literal life and death, a stranger would approach. He went unnoticed, the female being too engrossed in her suicide attempt to acknowledge anything but. It was his voice that would break her concentration and cause her to glance up from the drop without turning to look at him.



His choice of words actually caused Liste to utter a melancholy chuckle. How ironic that he would choose to acknowledge the beauty of her face before seeing it. Her face was the only beautiful thing she had left, her father had seen to that. The devil had reminded her again and again that it was the only part of her worth keeping free of scars and bruises. The ebony female took a small step backward and turned to face the new arrival, her golden eyes drained and dull.



I'm not sure anyone in my position on the ledge would intend to do anything but jump. What brings you to a place of such doom, stranger?

talk, think