Dragoncrest Cliffs we are still trained killers

the saint is skittish, feeling the desire to shy away from the touch; overwhelmed. her time knowing compassion was short — too short for her to really remember — but she is too weak to protest. physically or otherwise.

the man is sent away to find food and her stomach both rumbles with want and roils uncomfortably with protest.

de sea.

she is reminded again of the rejection of the sirens, of the rejection of the nameless, of the voices she had once known intimately.

eet — vas — hiccup. not long. broken words between broken sniffles that threaten to become quiet sobs again.