Lake Rodney Whispering

A rule Hedda had always taken in regard, when she had practiced the art of poisoning, was to always test a little of the poison herself. Enough to cause symptoms, not enough to kill. For a person, who had never had a very straight moral compass, this was a rule that justified her doings in her eyes. If she could survive, so would her victims, were they strong enough to do so.

Over time she had developed an odd sense to feel, how the poison worked it's way through her body. She could hear it moving, flowing, taking over tissues, binding to the cells it was keen to destroy. Hedda felt it take over her now too. Half an hour had passed, since she had consumed it, nausea was wrapping her mind in thick clouds of mist, yet she was not entirely unaware of, what was going on around her, yet. 

There was someone watching her death as some sort of a show. Or, perhaps, they did not know that her end was near, yet. She did not have it in her to lift her head in order to see, who was standing nearby, and a second later she realized that, once she was out, the beast would not hesitate to devour her emaciated, rotten carcass. Should she be honorable in her last moments of life? Seconds ticked by, while her foggy mind processed the thought, searching for the right words to put it in. 

Another coughing spell followed, bright red blood dripping from her nostrils and corners of her mouth. After that she exhaled and said quietly: "My blood is poison."