[h3]Deia[/h3]

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[indent]The air in the cell was thick with the absence of wind. The familiar and safe cold breath of the storm-wife had been strangled away; leaving only an uncomfortably warm stillness. Sweat, piss, and despair all clung to the damp stone walls like a sickness, and certainly not like the decay that Deia longed for. The sweet and cloying kind. The kind that brought about the hunger for the ruin of flesh, the kind that lured you in.... No, this was just foul and sterile. Unworthy of burial, even. She stretched a finger forward, her muscle memory guiding out a shape on the floor, a rune - traced through the damp - but everything under her touch was dead. Just rock and stone. Cold and cold and cold. Something in Deia's stomach twisted and she pressed the flat of her palm down, grasping her nails at it, willing it to give; for it to be torn apart like carrion. Her teeth bared at it's unyeilding resistance to her.

Her thin hand lifted to her chest and she dragged it over the fabric of her cloak and across her tender collarbones. Pain bloomed beneath her touch, pulses of it that brought back something of memory to her. A brawl. A fight. Flesh between her teeth. A taste of blood. But then nothing... A snarl curled at the edged of her lips. Who dared to cage her for this? She lifted her head slowly as strands of wild curls spilled over her eyes, held together by little more than a twisted strip of leather that was barely hanging on. Her gaze was sharp and feral in its calculation. Who amongst her was dangerous? Who then was useful, and who was wearing a perfume of courage to mask a stench of weakness?  

Elsewhere down here, someone nursed a newly reattached finger. His pale and drawn face took her attention and she smirked. [b]Perhaps that was me[/b] she thought to herself, letting the glee of it slither through her mind and settle there. And just as suddenly as that glee had come, it was gone and she sighed. Letting her weight sink back against the wall. Then, she laughed. A soft, breathy thing at first. 

“Ahhhhh…” she purred at last, voice stretching through space and silence like a blade unsheathed.

A finger lifted, curling slightly, dragging through the air as she surveyed her fellow prisoners one by one. [b]Argonians, Khajit, and 'Mer. Oh my.[/b]  "Tell me, little birds…" she murmured, tone dripping in curiosity. "Which one of you is clever enough to get us out of here?"

It was the lilt of a well-trained voice that snapped her to its attention. Oiled with diplomacy and an illusion of control. She banished a scoff from sounding by biting her tongue inside of her mouth. [b]Oh but this is rich....[/b] She watched him as a hawk might. Unblinking and amused. His lacquered and honeyed words would not be his salvation - no matter how much he wanted the woman beside him to believe him. [b]She swallowed his facade of certainty whole.[/b] Deia pointed again, this time at the shit-drinker himself. 

"You." Her amusement was sharp.

"What cleverness do you have for us?" she asked, her finger turning then with a flick to the woman now. "Little doveling. Do you believe that your knight here is clever enough to unmake the walls that hold us? Do you think that his tongue can turn the lock?" Flickering torchlight caught the edges of her smirk; and the faintest glint of her teeth.
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