Greatwater Lake the undertaker's thirst for revenge is unquenchable

Kitsch had done something right and the pearl tried hard to swallow her beaming pride. The girl liked to do the right things, liked to be praised. West did not offer any praise per se, but that was alright because Kitsch was quite busy praising herself. But of course she picked the right plants — she was Kitsch, a renaissance woman, capable of doing any task… ever. Kitsch did have an ego too big for her body, but the girl was entirely unaware of it and actually believed herself to be quite modest. There were just… so few times that she was subject to other’s judgements [rather than their unquestioning adoration] that there was no reason for her not to believe it. Having been fed a lie all her life, she was now blind to anything else.

    She was a crucible, brewing and folding tempestuous emotions within her chest — but her walls were opaque and thick, so that none of her inner turbulence evinced itself upon her exterior. Even in this bout of egotism, Kitsch’s lovely face was writ with…. impassivity. She watched as West inhaled a share of the spoils and Kitsch’s aquamarine gaze watched with a hint of detachment.  Kitsch did care for the woman’s pain management [it was obvious through the burnt girl’s tizzy of an entrance] but she would do her best to hide that beside a blasé facade — lest she become attached, and eventually hurt. again.

“I’m Kitsch,” she said finally, introducing herself simply, easily. “So, are you good now?” she questioned in typical Kitsch matter, though her question hinted at a concern for West’s wounds. Sure, her pain would be taken care of… but would the injured woman be able to make her way home? “I mean, those looks pretty bad.” Kitsch didn’t really know if the wounds were grievous in any sort of way, but to Kitsch, any blood meant something bad.