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[IC] An Earthen Lament
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- GM mickilennial
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mickilennial The Elder Fae
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0-24 hrs ago
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“Do you understand your task?”
The halls of the highest tower in Vólkerben Castle remained silent as a raven-haired woman stood before the old, decrepit man whom has asked the question.
It wasn’t a strange question. Serafina of Gaddonfly had heard it many times before in her life and she would hear it until she drew her last breath. The old man before her was Arngrim, the leader of the Blackwardens underneath the stone halls of Vólkerben. He had once been a ferocious warrior, though for the entirety of Sera’s time as a member of the order he had always been known to her as Arngrim the Old, one of the old masters of the order and as bitter as he was patient. For every question he asked, Sera had always felt the piercing eyes of his soon-to-be judgement and concern.
But Sera was not worrying about his concern.
The wardens, as they were, had gone through a rough time. Many longstanding veterans had found themselves in early graves leaving the strongholds in a very particular condition, especially as more monsters and more witches seemed to turn up as the northron fools tended to drive more-and-more mages south with their harsh oversight. The south may not have been a haven for sorcery or a nice place to live, but it was free and that liberty was enticing enough that the imaginations of northerners thought they could forge out a life here. Unfortunately, this was not the case. More abominations, devils, and aberrations had chanced their way through the veil, preying on the fears and desperations of the mages. An insane, fearful mage was only one sneeze away from becoming a warlock or witch. The wardens need more soldiers and unlike the ancient stronghold of Grisregarder, Vólkerben was lacking in resource and manpower. Sera knew this when Arngrim had asked his question to her person; or, more accurately, tasked his command.
In short, he wanted Sera to lead, mentor, and prepare a group of to-be apprentices. A concept that Sera wasn’t exactly sure she was prepared for. Especially considering the fact that Arngrim had decided that he would assign her recruits who weren’t exactly fresh from the trials.
“Yes.” She uttered as she crossed her arms, “I do have questions, though.”
“About the three.”
“Yes. They are rather... unfitting to be tasked, aren’t they?”
“Wardens do not judge by appearances alone. We judge by merit and duty.” Arngrim waved his hand, as if reminding her of her own circumstances.
Sera thought back to the descriptions she had been given. An alchemist nearly her own age with a particular ailment of concern. Some kind of northron nobility who had lost his glory. A ex-bandit who sought a new life. A young elf who… had gone through an ordeal.
When Sera had trained under Owen Merryweather, her fellows were those who were children of misfortune like she had been. Saved from starvation and suffering by the opportunity of training under the wardens. There hadn’t been an old man nearly the age of Owen nor had there been an ex-bandit or northron noble. They had all been marshlanders. She shrugged off the thought, perhaps she was being too judgmental based on her own misconceptions of what her apprentices would be when she finally gained the responsibilities to her role. Maybe it was the blizzard that was roaring outside that was afflicting her mind. She wasn't sure.
“I suppose it is time they prove they are capable of being apprentices. I will meet with them and then we will set out into the blizzard to see what they are made of. Where are they?”
“They have been told that their final trial begins tonight. They have been summoned to the feasting hall for their last meal as initiates.” He turned to the elvenglass window, chuckling through his teeth. “And possibly the last meal… before they meet the gods.”
“Indeed.”
“Do you understand your task?”
The halls of the highest tower in Vólkerben Castle remained silent as a raven-haired woman stood before the old, decrepit man whom has asked the question.
It wasn’t a strange question. Serafina of Gaddonfly had heard it many times before in her life and she would hear it until she drew her last breath. The old man before her was Arngrim, the leader of the Blackwardens underneath the stone halls of Vólkerben. He had once been a ferocious warrior, though for the entirety of Sera’s time as a member of the order he had always been known to her as Arngrim the Old, one of the old masters of the order and as bitter as he was patient. For every question he asked, Sera had always felt the piercing eyes of his soon-to-be judgement and concern.
But Sera was not worrying about his concern.
The wardens, as they were, had gone through a rough time. Many longstanding veterans had found themselves in early graves leaving the strongholds in a very particular condition, especially as more monsters and more witches seemed to turn up as the northron fools tended to drive more-and-more mages south with their harsh oversight. The south may not have been a haven for sorcery or a nice place to live, but it was free and that liberty was enticing enough that the imaginations of northerners thought they could forge out a life here. Unfortunately, this was not the case. More abominations, devils, and aberrations had chanced their way through the veil, preying on the fears and desperations of the mages. An insane, fearful mage was only one sneeze away from becoming a warlock or witch. The wardens need more soldiers and unlike the ancient stronghold of Grisregarder, Vólkerben was lacking in resource and manpower. Sera knew this when Arngrim had asked his question to her person; or, more accurately, tasked his command.
In short, he wanted Sera to lead, mentor, and prepare a group of to-be apprentices. A concept that Sera wasn’t exactly sure she was prepared for. Especially considering the fact that Arngrim had decided that he would assign her recruits who weren’t exactly fresh from the trials.
“Yes.” She uttered as she crossed her arms, “I do have questions, though.”
“About the three.”
“Yes. They are rather... unfitting to be tasked, aren’t they?”
“Wardens do not judge by appearances alone. We judge by merit and duty.” Arngrim waved his hand, as if reminding her of her own circumstances.
Sera thought back to the descriptions she had been given. An alchemist nearly her own age with a particular ailment of concern. Some kind of northron nobility who had lost his glory. A ex-bandit who sought a new life. A young elf who… had gone through an ordeal.
When Sera had trained under Owen Merryweather, her fellows were those who were children of misfortune like she had been. Saved from starvation and suffering by the opportunity of training under the wardens. There hadn’t been an old man nearly the age of Owen nor had there been an ex-bandit or northron noble. They had all been marshlanders. She shrugged off the thought, perhaps she was being too judgmental based on her own misconceptions of what her apprentices would be when she finally gained the responsibilities to her role. Maybe it was the blizzard that was roaring outside that was afflicting her mind. She wasn't sure.
“I suppose it is time they prove they are capable of being apprentices. I will meet with them and then we will set out into the blizzard to see what they are made of. Where are they?”
“They have been told that their final trial begins tonight. They have been summoned to the feasting hall for their last meal as initiates.” He turned to the elvenglass window, chuckling through his teeth. “And possibly the last meal… before they meet the gods.”
“Indeed.”
Mcmolly D-List Cryptid
Member
Seen
5 hrs ago
The ceiling was too tall.
Sybil couldn’t help staring up at it. It rose so high that the torchlight didn’t reach the top, and the light piece dangling from a chain, arrayed with a dozen candles, didn’t either. It was just…black, up there, and no one could say with absolute certainty whether there was stone above, or just nothing. She’d seen all manner of southron creatures emerge from darkness like that, some she could kill, some she could outrun, and some she just didn’t stand a chance against. Obviously nothing was going to drop out of the ceiling in a Blackwarden castle, but, still, it begged attention from someone who’d only ever seen the low ceilings of roadside inns, and commandeered farmsteads.
It was also a better sight than the rest of the meal hall.
Sparsely populated as it was, Sybil hadn’t had much issue pinning the other initiates. Anyone who wasn’t bussing plates, peppering food, or who didn’t have spine-bending hunches and brows low enough to make a Neanderthal jealous, seemed like a safe bet. She counted two, maybe three, but she was also shit with math. It hadn’t quite settled with her yet whether she was meant to think of them as companions or competition, nor did she know which she’d have preferred. Competition? Sure. Kick some ass, she could do that. Easy. Ass-kick was her middle name, which was particularly impressive since she didn’t even have a last name.
But companions? Her kneejerk reaction was along the lines of “gross,” especially considering one of the initiates looked like she’d been hurled out of a swamp orphanage, and the other looked like nobility. That skeeved her out a bit. She’d robbed plenty of nobles—most indirectly, through their couriers or trade routes—had she ever lined her pockets with his family’s gold? Was that something to feel bad about?
Fuck the nobles. That’s what her father had always said, but she still thought it anyway. She might have been a piece a of shit, but that meant she could recognize other pieces of shit. Or, she thought reluctantly, she was being presumptuous, and this was precisely the sort of thinking she was trying to get away from. And sure, maybe. But fuck the nobles.
Sybil gnawed clean the last bone on her plate and finally brought her eyes down from the ceiling. On their way into the Vólkerben someone had remarked on it being their first time in a castle—fellow initiate or other passerby, she didn’t remember. In response, Sybil mentioned that she’d been in a castle once, much smaller, poorly guarded, more like a fort, really, when she thought about it. She’d found the minor lord of the property on the shitter, heard the fear drop right out of his guts. Now she was sitting alone. Alone, and still hungry.
She got up and headed for the little cove the cook inhabited, leaving her sword propped up against the table. Among bandits, or at least in her father’s band, the only people who left their things unattended were the ones who weren’t afraid they’d be stolen. Here, well, that wasn’t really a worry, but in her mind it was still a power move. In her mind she was also an even six-foot, and the maids swooned when she passed by. Someone had to think highly of her, might as well be herself.
“Garçon,” she said with as much pomp as she could muster, slapping the iron plate down onto the cook’s table. “Your finest…I dunno, something with a bone in it. The closer it has to a pulse, the better. Really just, just the bloodiest—”
“You got your share,” the cook said grimly.
Sybil blinked, eyes flicking to the rest of the food he was preparing. He noticed, and his demeanor didn’t lighten any at the implication.
“Ain’t meal hours. You get what was prepped for you, this is for later—for the real wardens. You want more? Maybe there’s someone you could steal it from.”
The twist in his words was…unsubtle. She licked her teeth to bite off whatever nasty and ill-minded retort was bubbling up in her throat, and merely huffed out “fine,” before turning to the rest of the feasting hall.
“Okay,” she called out, arms wide. “Who’s feeling charitable today?”
Her eyes swept the room, searching not only her fellow initiates, but even the veterans. If it was worth doing, it was worth overdoing, and she’d be underdoing if she left out the grizzled old bastards just because they outranked her—or could kick her ass.
She walked by the tables, swallowing down the taste of distaste at interacting with people. People she didn’t know or cared to know. Stomach over discomfort. Growing up as she did might have taught her a lot of unsavory things, but it had also instilled in her the value of a good meal.
“Doesn’t have to be charity, if the word offends you,” she said with faux-amicability. “You’re just as welcome to call it ‘self-preservation,’ hm? How’s that? Anyone feel like doing themselves a favor?”
Sybil couldn’t help staring up at it. It rose so high that the torchlight didn’t reach the top, and the light piece dangling from a chain, arrayed with a dozen candles, didn’t either. It was just…black, up there, and no one could say with absolute certainty whether there was stone above, or just nothing. She’d seen all manner of southron creatures emerge from darkness like that, some she could kill, some she could outrun, and some she just didn’t stand a chance against. Obviously nothing was going to drop out of the ceiling in a Blackwarden castle, but, still, it begged attention from someone who’d only ever seen the low ceilings of roadside inns, and commandeered farmsteads.
It was also a better sight than the rest of the meal hall.
Sparsely populated as it was, Sybil hadn’t had much issue pinning the other initiates. Anyone who wasn’t bussing plates, peppering food, or who didn’t have spine-bending hunches and brows low enough to make a Neanderthal jealous, seemed like a safe bet. She counted two, maybe three, but she was also shit with math. It hadn’t quite settled with her yet whether she was meant to think of them as companions or competition, nor did she know which she’d have preferred. Competition? Sure. Kick some ass, she could do that. Easy. Ass-kick was her middle name, which was particularly impressive since she didn’t even have a last name.
But companions? Her kneejerk reaction was along the lines of “gross,” especially considering one of the initiates looked like she’d been hurled out of a swamp orphanage, and the other looked like nobility. That skeeved her out a bit. She’d robbed plenty of nobles—most indirectly, through their couriers or trade routes—had she ever lined her pockets with his family’s gold? Was that something to feel bad about?
Fuck the nobles. That’s what her father had always said, but she still thought it anyway. She might have been a piece a of shit, but that meant she could recognize other pieces of shit. Or, she thought reluctantly, she was being presumptuous, and this was precisely the sort of thinking she was trying to get away from. And sure, maybe. But fuck the nobles.
Sybil gnawed clean the last bone on her plate and finally brought her eyes down from the ceiling. On their way into the Vólkerben someone had remarked on it being their first time in a castle—fellow initiate or other passerby, she didn’t remember. In response, Sybil mentioned that she’d been in a castle once, much smaller, poorly guarded, more like a fort, really, when she thought about it. She’d found the minor lord of the property on the shitter, heard the fear drop right out of his guts. Now she was sitting alone. Alone, and still hungry.
She got up and headed for the little cove the cook inhabited, leaving her sword propped up against the table. Among bandits, or at least in her father’s band, the only people who left their things unattended were the ones who weren’t afraid they’d be stolen. Here, well, that wasn’t really a worry, but in her mind it was still a power move. In her mind she was also an even six-foot, and the maids swooned when she passed by. Someone had to think highly of her, might as well be herself.
“Garçon,” she said with as much pomp as she could muster, slapping the iron plate down onto the cook’s table. “Your finest…I dunno, something with a bone in it. The closer it has to a pulse, the better. Really just, just the bloodiest—”
“You got your share,” the cook said grimly.
Sybil blinked, eyes flicking to the rest of the food he was preparing. He noticed, and his demeanor didn’t lighten any at the implication.
“Ain’t meal hours. You get what was prepped for you, this is for later—for the real wardens. You want more? Maybe there’s someone you could steal it from.”
The twist in his words was…unsubtle. She licked her teeth to bite off whatever nasty and ill-minded retort was bubbling up in her throat, and merely huffed out “fine,” before turning to the rest of the feasting hall.
“Okay,” she called out, arms wide. “Who’s feeling charitable today?”
Her eyes swept the room, searching not only her fellow initiates, but even the veterans. If it was worth doing, it was worth overdoing, and she’d be underdoing if she left out the grizzled old bastards just because they outranked her—or could kick her ass.
She walked by the tables, swallowing down the taste of distaste at interacting with people. People she didn’t know or cared to know. Stomach over discomfort. Growing up as she did might have taught her a lot of unsavory things, but it had also instilled in her the value of a good meal.
“Doesn’t have to be charity, if the word offends you,” she said with faux-amicability. “You’re just as welcome to call it ‘self-preservation,’ hm? How’s that? Anyone feel like doing themselves a favor?”
Supermaxx dumbass
Member
Seen
11 hrs ago
__
Cold stalked the halls of Vólkerben Castle like a specter. It seeped into the skin of all it passed through, causing hair to stand on end and flesh to bristle. Its wordless whispers were carried on the wind, warning of what lied just beyond the boundaries of stacked, lifeless stone: a storm of ice and snow that tore the life from the chest of any living thing brave or stupid enough to enter its embrace.
There was precious little comfort to be found in those halls for Thomas Rosemont. He had never been particularly good at keeping warm. Even back home, where the winters were long yet tolerable, every new layer he'd put on felt like it wasn't enough. It felt like the cold would slip through it with the ease of a dagger poking through sackcloth. The weather down here was different- the seasons were shorter but far more intense. The specter pierced even the heaviest of coats and dug its claws into a man's very being, draining him of his choler and turning his blood to ice. Thomas had given up any hope of feeling warm.
Even the food was cold, he'd come to learn, as he lifted a spoonful of soup to his lips and found it wanting.
It didn't have a distinctive taste of any kind, just hints of poultry and vegetables hidden in discolored broth. His nose turned up at it out of instinct. He still wasn't used to the taste of a normal man's food, even after all this time. He'd grown up on the savory feasts meant for lords and ladies, where there were so many different spices competing for his attention that he could barely keep track of it all. To go from that to dried bread, salted pork and potatoes...
The wooden spoon fell back into his half-finished bowl, the young initiate's attention shifting back to the parchment rolled out on the table and held open with his other hand. Written in fine blackletter script were the notes he'd taken during his time with the blackwardens, detailing every lesson he thought important enough to use ink on. He'd spent most of his time at dinner pouring over ever word, only ever sparing a moment to break a bite off his bread or a sip from his soup.
Try as he might he couldn't still the shaking in his right hand, anxious as Thomas was. Was he even ready for the final trials? Would they swallow him up on the cusp of his ascension, denying him what was surely rightfully his?
He'd spent every waking moment preparing for this: studying, training, and meditating until his mind was as sharp and quick as his sword arm. There was nothing more he could possibly do to ready himself, he reasoned. If he failed at this final hurdle then perhaps-
'-Perhaps success was never meant to be mine in the first place.'
The bellowing of an arrogant little imp drove his gaze above his papers and his mind away from uncomfortable postulations. He recognized the ill-tempered girl as one of the other initiates, though they weren't exactly well-acquainted. She was of a different sort than he- and their sorts weren't prone to intermingling. Still, for all her obnoxious blundering and chest-puffing, he could tell that her hunger was genuine, and not some poor attempt at bullying better men into bending to her will.
Thomas waited until she'd tread closer to his table to grab her attention. He didn't bother speaking, that'd be a waste of breath, only clearing his throat loud enough for the imp to hear. Once he had her eyes he lifted up his bowl, gestured with it, and then set it at the seat across from him.
Just as soon as it was done he went back to his studies, intent on not wasting his time with the frivolities of posturing. That didn't mean he was above a snide remark or two, of course.
"Stop being an arse. You aren't impressing them." He didn't look up from his work as she drew near, motioning with a finger toward a gaggle of real blackwardens sitting at a table all their own. Rosemont had come to learn the hierarchies that ruled this place: it wasn't blood or familial prestige, but glory won with the work of ones own hands. He wasn't worth any more than the imp across from him, painful as it was to admit.
His eyes glazed over on their return to the page. After so much time staring at it, all the words were running together and turning to nonsense in his mind. The stress was still getting to him. Made it hard to focus on what was important.
Keeping his attention tied to his notes to maintain appearances, Thomas spoke to the girl once again to distract himself from the heavy thumbing in his chest. "We've a long night ahead of us. Do you think you're ready?"
Cold stalked the halls of Vólkerben Castle like a specter. It seeped into the skin of all it passed through, causing hair to stand on end and flesh to bristle. Its wordless whispers were carried on the wind, warning of what lied just beyond the boundaries of stacked, lifeless stone: a storm of ice and snow that tore the life from the chest of any living thing brave or stupid enough to enter its embrace.
There was precious little comfort to be found in those halls for Thomas Rosemont. He had never been particularly good at keeping warm. Even back home, where the winters were long yet tolerable, every new layer he'd put on felt like it wasn't enough. It felt like the cold would slip through it with the ease of a dagger poking through sackcloth. The weather down here was different- the seasons were shorter but far more intense. The specter pierced even the heaviest of coats and dug its claws into a man's very being, draining him of his choler and turning his blood to ice. Thomas had given up any hope of feeling warm.
Even the food was cold, he'd come to learn, as he lifted a spoonful of soup to his lips and found it wanting.
It didn't have a distinctive taste of any kind, just hints of poultry and vegetables hidden in discolored broth. His nose turned up at it out of instinct. He still wasn't used to the taste of a normal man's food, even after all this time. He'd grown up on the savory feasts meant for lords and ladies, where there were so many different spices competing for his attention that he could barely keep track of it all. To go from that to dried bread, salted pork and potatoes...
The wooden spoon fell back into his half-finished bowl, the young initiate's attention shifting back to the parchment rolled out on the table and held open with his other hand. Written in fine blackletter script were the notes he'd taken during his time with the blackwardens, detailing every lesson he thought important enough to use ink on. He'd spent most of his time at dinner pouring over ever word, only ever sparing a moment to break a bite off his bread or a sip from his soup.
Try as he might he couldn't still the shaking in his right hand, anxious as Thomas was. Was he even ready for the final trials? Would they swallow him up on the cusp of his ascension, denying him what was surely rightfully his?
He'd spent every waking moment preparing for this: studying, training, and meditating until his mind was as sharp and quick as his sword arm. There was nothing more he could possibly do to ready himself, he reasoned. If he failed at this final hurdle then perhaps-
'-Perhaps success was never meant to be mine in the first place.'
The bellowing of an arrogant little imp drove his gaze above his papers and his mind away from uncomfortable postulations. He recognized the ill-tempered girl as one of the other initiates, though they weren't exactly well-acquainted. She was of a different sort than he- and their sorts weren't prone to intermingling. Still, for all her obnoxious blundering and chest-puffing, he could tell that her hunger was genuine, and not some poor attempt at bullying better men into bending to her will.
Thomas waited until she'd tread closer to his table to grab her attention. He didn't bother speaking, that'd be a waste of breath, only clearing his throat loud enough for the imp to hear. Once he had her eyes he lifted up his bowl, gestured with it, and then set it at the seat across from him.
Just as soon as it was done he went back to his studies, intent on not wasting his time with the frivolities of posturing. That didn't mean he was above a snide remark or two, of course.
"Stop being an arse. You aren't impressing them." He didn't look up from his work as she drew near, motioning with a finger toward a gaggle of real blackwardens sitting at a table all their own. Rosemont had come to learn the hierarchies that ruled this place: it wasn't blood or familial prestige, but glory won with the work of ones own hands. He wasn't worth any more than the imp across from him, painful as it was to admit.
His eyes glazed over on their return to the page. After so much time staring at it, all the words were running together and turning to nonsense in his mind. The stress was still getting to him. Made it hard to focus on what was important.
Keeping his attention tied to his notes to maintain appearances, Thomas spoke to the girl once again to distract himself from the heavy thumbing in his chest. "We've a long night ahead of us. Do you think you're ready?"
Mcmolly D-List Cryptid
Member
Seen
5 hrs ago
Fucking—
Fine.
Sybil looked around the rest of the meal hall one last time, struggling to hide how desperate she was for literally anyone else to make an offer, before she reiterated to herself: Stomach over discomfort. So, with a scoff at the noble boy’s folding, she made the short, haughty stride to his table.
Rather than sit, she placed a boot up on the bench and snatched up the bowl, heedless to the little that spilled over. The spoon she flicked aside, then angled the cusp to her lips and drank. Cold, gritty, tasteless, like swallowing a mouthful of chicken spit. She didn’t care. Food was fuel she could burn before having to burn…well, herself, she supposed.
She’d gulped down half the bowl when the perfumed little shit decided to be smart with her. Sybil lowered it briefly, just long enough to stare him down—not that he had the guts to look her in the eyes. Coward. He had his nose pasted to the parchment on the table, though it didn’t seem to her like he was making much progress. On instinct she tilted her head to get a better look at the words, but that didn’t do much for her considering she wasn’t particularly literate. She’d had to learn how to read and sign her name when she turned her father over, and she recognized the names of a few towns and cities on the roads, but nobody in the old band had been known for their linguistic expertise.
Which was all to say that she wanted to bean him with the bowl, or snatch the paper up and blow her nose in it, but she didn’t. When Daumm wanted something, and someone gave it to him, he—usually—didn’t bully them for it, he went easier on them. Of course, that only ever went for the people in the band. Everyone else got their heap of bullying whether they gave him what he wanted or not. But, as she’d been trying to convince herself, the Blackwardens were essentially her new band.
So instead she finished drinking down the soup. Eventually Thomas did speak up again, and she ignored him until she was finished. When the bowl was practically empty, she dropped it back onto the table, spit out a chunk of vegetable stuck between her teeth, then leveled her eyes at him again, though he still had his head down. The longer she stood there, the more she realized that, even though he was sitting, they were still practically at-eyes with one another. Not a good look.
“Me?” She asked, sitting down with her back to him, elbows propped up on the table. “Sure. I’ve handled plenty of shit whether I was ready for it or not. You, though…I dunno. Unless you’re gonna read the monsters and marauders to death, I’d be worried. But I’m not. Worried. About me.”
Fine.
Sybil looked around the rest of the meal hall one last time, struggling to hide how desperate she was for literally anyone else to make an offer, before she reiterated to herself: Stomach over discomfort. So, with a scoff at the noble boy’s folding, she made the short, haughty stride to his table.
Rather than sit, she placed a boot up on the bench and snatched up the bowl, heedless to the little that spilled over. The spoon she flicked aside, then angled the cusp to her lips and drank. Cold, gritty, tasteless, like swallowing a mouthful of chicken spit. She didn’t care. Food was fuel she could burn before having to burn…well, herself, she supposed.
She’d gulped down half the bowl when the perfumed little shit decided to be smart with her. Sybil lowered it briefly, just long enough to stare him down—not that he had the guts to look her in the eyes. Coward. He had his nose pasted to the parchment on the table, though it didn’t seem to her like he was making much progress. On instinct she tilted her head to get a better look at the words, but that didn’t do much for her considering she wasn’t particularly literate. She’d had to learn how to read and sign her name when she turned her father over, and she recognized the names of a few towns and cities on the roads, but nobody in the old band had been known for their linguistic expertise.
Which was all to say that she wanted to bean him with the bowl, or snatch the paper up and blow her nose in it, but she didn’t. When Daumm wanted something, and someone gave it to him, he—usually—didn’t bully them for it, he went easier on them. Of course, that only ever went for the people in the band. Everyone else got their heap of bullying whether they gave him what he wanted or not. But, as she’d been trying to convince herself, the Blackwardens were essentially her new band.
So instead she finished drinking down the soup. Eventually Thomas did speak up again, and she ignored him until she was finished. When the bowl was practically empty, she dropped it back onto the table, spit out a chunk of vegetable stuck between her teeth, then leveled her eyes at him again, though he still had his head down. The longer she stood there, the more she realized that, even though he was sitting, they were still practically at-eyes with one another. Not a good look.
“Me?” She asked, sitting down with her back to him, elbows propped up on the table. “Sure. I’ve handled plenty of shit whether I was ready for it or not. You, though…I dunno. Unless you’re gonna read the monsters and marauders to death, I’d be worried. But I’m not. Worried. About me.”
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