Hoshor Plains And besides in the mean-meantime I'm just dreaming of tearing you apart

Endlessly walking around borders isn't my idea of fun. She responds with a puff, letting her head reel back and her jaws part to simply gape at the open air. No shortage of dramatics spared for this trivial, trivial problem of hers.

She itched to serve a purpose, some kind of purpose. There is nothing fulfilling about lounging around, or scrubbing the prairie for herbs she didn't need over and over in some futile attempt to gaslight herself into believing she was having fun. She wasn't. And fun was so inredibly, incredibly important to her. She wasn't sure why she sought out Dreven, given that he seemed pretty dedicated to being a walking sentinel of loathing taken form, and in his own words, was waiting to simply keel over and die—but something about his sort was ever so intriguing to her. She wasn't sure what he was punishing himself for, but she knew he was certainly punishing himself. Nobody truly wanted to die, not unless they'd done something. Had something done to them.

Or perhaps she was just naive to the way things worked. She never did pride herself on her ability to psychoanalyze.

Maybe she just wanted a bodyguard, some insurance in case she tackled something she alone couldn't handle, or maybe she just wanted to see where his little quest for death would take him. She stared him right in his marred face, unphased by the gnarled physical elements of him. It was tough to find something she would be phased by. Will you hunt something with me? She posed a request suddenly, crown tilted to the side as she awaited his answer. Her nails flexed against the dirt, anticipatory.