Blackfeather Woods the story of a ship

skipping abraxas with permission!

The older man seemed interested, which in turn kept her attention, and Kitsch cut her watchet gaze to give the corpse [now quite a familiar thing] a sidelong glance. It did not repel her, but she did not want it. "Oh," the kitten sighed demurely. "No...." her gaze swept back the man, running her gaze from his graying muzzle to the tip of his onyx tail. He reminded her of Rollo. 

Another brute apparated from the shadows, a wolf who further commanded her attention with his booming words and disregard towards Miraak. In front of these two dark souls, large of frame and imposing in their impression, her hummingbird heartbeat fluttered out of control and her tongue began to salivate curiously — and at that moment the kitten realized just how much she missed the warmth and sublimity of the poppy that West held so dear. It had been her detriment, of course, as her clouded mind had resulted in her many woes; but Kitsch was quick to dismiss the poppy's blame and take that burder upon her own shoulders. She had the chance to turn him away and did not; so did she not ask the man for her ruinment and deserved everything that he gave her? The drug was faultless; in fact, it was the only thing that had saved her from an all-consuming sadness following the attack. The two men before her looked like wolves who may appreciate the opiate as she did and might keep it in their stores. 

Kitsch would be lying if she said this wasn't another reason that kept her twiggy legs in place, amongst the flies and detritus that littered the earth. The possiblilty of fully stocked medicinal caches excited her and it was the thing she craved most; even more so than the want of food in her paper-thin belly.

"It does not disturb me," she defied him incredulously, suggesting that any other princess might be shied away by the potential for harm... all the warning signs were there, after all. But even the pearl was surprised by her relative comfort around such a morbid scene — even her initial surprise had begun to abate and was replaced with many, many, many burning questions. 

It did not occur to her that she still had not revealed her reason for appearing at the macabre outskirts of the bleeding, foreboding land; that she would soon starve if left to her own devices and instincts [or lack thereof]. That she was lonely and craved the validation that only society could provide her with. To the others she must be a youthful, ink-dipped plaything that had stumbled upon their home with no rhyme or reason — but Kitsch neither the ability nor the will to see herself in such a way. She was nobility; albeit besmirched and ruined, but royalty nonetheless. As such, Kitsch gave a distinct nod of her head and furrowed her ashen brows, ears tuned towards the men and awaiting their next move. 

The anticipation was almost as addicting as the poppy.