Hoshor Plains You Should See me In a Crown

very few (read:none) had ever deigned to call her pretty, least of all little. the stranger's theatrical language is irritating, to say the least, and her auds flick atop her crown in clear discontent. her gaze flicks up and down the woman as she nears, finding there to be nothing immediately markedly unusual about her; rather, she is unassuming save for the healing wounds that have her move gingerly.

"hela," she deadpanned, expression not shifting in the least. "what is it you want?" her smile, her dramatics, even the simple act of choosing to notice the once-warlord rather than more on, must have some reason. she would rather cut to it than hesitate here long; hunger was companion she was ever-eager to sate.