It was several weeks past Christmas, but that didn't stop Triella from giving Robyn gifts. The child might point to a dress or a pet she wanted, or sometimes someone's body part . If Robyn wanted it, she'd get it. The house was filled now with "wigs", extra hands, legs, tongues, eyes and all sorts of ghoulish toys for her to enjoy! A mother's work was scarcely done, and just earlier Robyn had put out an eye while playing with some knives! So here she was, in the dead of night, trying to get a pair of eyes Robyn liked.

The guard patrols had already wandered by, about to change shifts. This would be her best window, nearly ten minutes. She had approached from the alleyway, where there was a side-door to the smithy next door before pulling out her axe. With a final look around to make certain no peepers were watching her, she set about chipping at the wood slowly and softly. The enchanted blade could hack through everything but mithril and adamantine. It was like cutting butter.

With a swift scooping motion, she removed the hinges from the wood, as well as a large portion of where the lock itself was. Hefting it with her slightly unnatural strength, she held the door up a little, and set it down a foot away to give her enough room to slide into the house. Once inside, it took a few seconds before her eyes finally adjusted. Her dark green cloak had been fastened a bit more over her, to hide herself in the dark better. And it wasn't like her brown hair or green eyes reflected light horribly, so she was mostly safe from detection. Looking around, she noticed it was a modest home.

A stove, various pans, metalware, furniture. Nothing unique or valuable. It was only a one-floor house, with a loft. The handful of rooms were small, and she'd actually stumbled upon the inhabitants bedroom on her first try. Leaning in while holding onto the wide frame, she looked to and fro for signs of other life. seeing none but the blissfully sleeping couple, she crept in closer.

It was tangible now. More so than the rank odor that wafted from them. the smell of charcoal, sweat and dirt. Laborers. What she could almost touch, almost taste, was their blood. Her hands started quivering in excitement, her green eyes sparkling a little in the ambient light from a street-lantern. Licking her lips softly in anticipation, she sheathed the axe on her shoulder and pulled out the dagger. Stepping carefully onto to the husband's side of the bed, Triella lowered her hands slowly and cautiously towards his throat.

With a motion she almost missed herself from the lighting, her hand grabbed and yanked open his mouth before ramming the dagger into the upper part of his mouth. With a sharp crack she broke the bottom of the skull with the force and pierced the brain. with a gurgling hiss and a slight spasm, his eyes rolled up into his skull and his nose began running with a mixture of blood and grey matter.

Without paying attention to his death-spasm, she had yanked the corpse from the bed by grabbing his arm and pulling. Crawling in a frenzy to the now mostly-conscious wife, Triella hastily covered her mouth and pinned her to the bed. Leaning in close, the woman couldn't even see hatred or an ugly joy on Triella's face. A blank expression with a soft hint of...pity? she tried pulling her hands free, but Triella dug in her knees deeper and pressed the cold dagger against her throat. It was still slick with her husband's blood and she went still and quiet at the horrifying thought.

The soft and innocent eyes were tearing up under her grip. It was a good thing actually, meant they were working at least. She hummed softly, it was a lullaby she remembered from her own childhood. something her mother used to sing to her when Triella was frightened. The words had faded, but not the tune. It was the slight look of confused terror that Triella was waiting for. It meant she felt some form of hope, that maybe the woman before her was going to let ehr go for some bizarre reason.

With false-cheer she moved the dagger away from her throat and tugged away locks of loose hair. she needed a good view of the eyes to avoid damaging them.

Faolan stirred slightly on his lumpy cot as he heard something scratching at the front door. Probably just a stray cat, he decided as he closed his heavy eyelids once more, ready for sleep to envelope him. Tomorrow was another long day and--

Something wasn't right. Faolan lifted his head off of the book he had fallen asleep reading. He glanced at the candle next to his head and uttered a curse; it had long gone out, but he needed to be more careful falling asleep while reading.

Down below, he heard footsteps light and quick. Cocking his head to the side, he listened closely as the footsteps faded away. He rubbed his eyes and sat up, the blanket his mother made for him several years ago falling off of his shoulders. He crawled to the edge of the loft and looked towards the door.

His heart started to pound when he saw that someone had carved away a large hole. He gulped--how had he missed that? He should have heard it. Without hesitation, Faolan grabbed his dagger from underneath his cot and jumped down the loft ladder several rungs at a time until he landed on the floor with a thump.

Gurgled screams. Faolan paused, his hand on the ladder and his eyes wide. He glanced back at the hole in the door and knew that they had not only been burglarized, but something worse. He slipped into the hallway and saw that the bedroom door was wide open. Gripping the dagger firmly in his sweaty palm, he approached the room and looked inside, standing in the hallway.

Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw, and his body went rigid with fear as his eyes caught sight of the girl on the bed, a knife but millimeters from his mother's throat. For a moment his sleep-drenched brain could not fully comprehend what was happening here. As the moon's wan light filtered in through the narrow window, the knife glinted in the girl's hand. She couldn't have been too much older than Faolan, but what did she want? Surely she knew that his parents did not own anything worth stealing--and if she really wanted anything that badly, they would give it to her.

And his father--Faolan glanced around for his father, knowing fully well that certainly he would be back in a split second to stop whatever was happening. But his eyes landed upon the corpse slumped on the floor, wallowing in its own blood. He gasped and looked back to the girl. No. She couldn't possibly have--

He shook his head. No way. His hand gripped the knife even tighter, but he didn't know if he could use it. But his mother . . . he glanced back at the person pinning her to the bed.

"Let her go," he said, willing his words to be strong. He narrowed his eyes at the girl and hoped that he looked much more intimidating than he felt. Because right now his knees were no more than jelly and were he to move to attack the girl, he would fall to the ground. He swallowed, his throat parched, and he tried not to think about his father laying on the ground. He knew what he had to do--he knew what his father would have done in this situation. But when it came down to it, Faolan didn't know if he could do what he had to do. He readjusted his grip on the knife.

And took a flying leap at the girl.

There was an involuntary spasm as someone's voice called it. the sickening sound of flesh being ripped into and there was a painful groan from Wilma as she arched up under Triella. Desperately trying to scream and be heard through the hand. With another violent wrench, the strength and life in the woman ebbed out like her blood. The warmth against her legs was a macabre one, not romantic. Having thoroughly stained her pants and cloak with someone's lifeblood, she was caught a little off guard from the bombardment of stimulus as she turned to face the child.

Tapping her cheek with the dagger, it left a line of crimson on her pale face. her mouth was a wry grin, like that of a playful child. Her eyes widened in surprise as she finally started to compute, that a large mass was hurtling for her. with a slight twist, she managed to face him at least before he bowled into her and slammed her off the bed and onto the hard floor.

With a slight gasp, she tried suppressing the fiery spasms of pain and hoped the crunching noise she heard wasn't a broken bone. so taken back by the slight turn of events, she lost her grip on the dagger and failed to grab her axe as the holster was caught on the bed, and torn off.

With a loud smack he head impacted with the floor and sent her vision near pitch-black for a moment while she tried to figure what the Raku was going on!

Faolan landed on top of her and pinned her to the ground. For a moment he just looked in her eyes, fear and hatred welling up inside of him. Now. He had to do it now or else he would never manage. He lifted his dagger and pressed it against her throat, willing the metal to rip through her esophogas and spill her blood across the ground like she had done to his parents.

No.

Hand shaking slightly, he inched the dagger away from her throat and stared at her face for a moment and saw the face of a pale little girl. How pathetic.

But what was more pathetic: the fact that this girl had murdered his father for no reason other than to collect a few hand-made trinkets or the fact that Faolan could not avenge his father's death? But she was a girl, though no doubt a monster. And if he slit her throat, he would be no better than her. He glanced up--maybe there was a way he could turn her in to the police. He adjusted his grip on the knife and with his free hand twisted her knife out of her hand. He grabbed for a sheet that had fallen off of his parent's bed and began to tie her up to the bedpost.

Abandoning the task when he thought that she could not move, he went to go check on his mother and--

"Mother?" he asked as he came closer. But he knew that it was no use. He hadn't been able to get to her soon enough. He gulped and tears prickled his eyes, but he managed to hold them back as he walked over to his mother's side. Her wide, life-less eyes stared up at the ceiling, an expression of fear and horror frozen on her face. "Mother," he repeated. With a shaking hand, he reached out and closed her eyelids if only because he knew that she would never want to have died like that. He took a deep breath and glanced at the form of his father lying on the ground not more than two feet from the girl who had killed him.

He walked back around towards the girl, glad that he had (once again) fallen asleep with his boots on for now his parents' blood seeped across the wooden floor like an incoming tide. He looked down at the girl, his eyes full of anger and sadness, but surprisingly enough: pity. Turning away from her, he walked over to the dresser his father had bought his mother as a wedding present and removed a blanket from inside. He quickly placed it across his father's still body.

And now he knew that he had to do something with the girl. He glanced at her and hesitated. "Why?" he finally asked.

OOC: the beginning is mistaken identity/confusion. She's not cut, clayton isn't there, so on and so forth XD

IC:

The blow to the floor must've been harder than she thought, or hit her just right. Her eyes fluttered open slightly in panic and obvious terror, all her senses returning to her. His footsteps echoing in the room, the cold and drying blood on her legs from where Clayton had savagely cut her for refusing his advances. It'd been awhile since he gotten this mad at her. Usually he would just leave her with a nasty bruise for denying him and send her scurrying for some other dark artifact her family had locked away. Something recently must've put her future finance in such a mood. the death of a mistress perhaps?

As the boots echoed in the room and she seen a shape come around from the darkness she tried pulling away. She couldn't cry, whimper or even try to look away. If she did he'd use his magic to make it feel like her soul was on fire. As she tried moving, her arms and legs tugged against something. Bindings of some form.

The dark cold pit in her stomach left her nauseous with fear, if he had bound her it meant that he was going to take his time and deliver his wr-

Then she paused, this wasn't Clayton. Neither was this his study. Where was she? It came to her just as he looked at her, it was a rush. Exhilarating and painful all at once. She'd come to get Robyn-rin some new eyes, and she had said that the woman's eyes were very pretty. Things hadn't gone to well, and here she was. Not dead, yet at least. She was contemplating what to do when he spoke. Just one word, but filled with that tone of shock and waiting despair. what should she do? Adopt him? Kill him? Set him on fire?

Her breathing had become less erratics, and she was feeling better despite covered in clammy sweat. Her tone was flat, but with a slight elevated pitch, as if not understanding what it was he was asking.

"Does it matter why or why not? People die and that's just it. Once there dead things like why don't really matter, things like 'what now?' matter."

Truth be told she didn't have the heart to tell him why. To her, the eyes were justifiable, but she knew he wouldn't understand. He'd probably get fairly angry and potentially wound her...

Faolán stood there, his eyes narrowed at her as he listened to her words. They sounded distant to his ears, and for a moment--a precious moment--he thought that maybe this entire thing was a dream. But the site of his mother laying lifeless on her bed was enough to remind him that nothing this real could possibly be a dream.

She said that the reason was not important, and deep within his mind he knew that she was right--what was done was done and nothing mattered more than the fact that it had happened and from hereon out, life would be different. There was no going back. But it did matter to him why such an innocent-looking girl with her juvenile face and normally sweet appearance (were she not coated in his parents' blood) would attack them in the middle of the night. It did matter why his parents' lives were so mercilessly cut short by a thief in the night. But as time slowly ticked away between the boy and the girl, Faolán became less and less sure of the situation.

A cloud rolled over the moon, and the light in the modest bedroom dissipated. Faolán looked up towards the window for a moment where the gentle breeze blew the light window covering back and forth lazily. What a beautiful night it would have been had it not been for this slight interference. He turned back to the girl and for a moment his heart went out to her as she sat there bound to the bed by a sheet. Why? he wanted to know. The word was at the tip of his tongue once again, but he couldn't get the question out. Why was he asking why? And for what reason did he make such an inquiry? No, no, not for the reason she brought up, but he didn't know for what question "Why?" illicited an answer. "Why did you kill them?" was the most obvious. But also "Why them?" and "Why now?" and "Why me?" But instead of asking for further information, he stood there with his tongue pressed against the back of his teeth, waiting, waiting, waiting.

And he had a girl tied up to his parents' bed, and the dead bodies of his mother and father strewn about the room. His heart beat quickly and sweat beaded around his temple. He licked away the sweat on his upper lip as he stared down at the girl, afraid to move lest he make things worse. But how could they get any worse?

"It does matter," he said quietly at long last. "My parents are dead. I think I ought to have an explanation." He licked his lips again, the salt from his sweat rich in his dry mouth. He wanted out of here; hell, did he ever want out of here. Suddenly what had once been his home was now a tomb which yearned to trap him forever. He smelled death on his parents and from the girl; he felt an unwelcomed coldness in his heart, frightening him greatly. He didn't want to be like her; he didn't want to suddenly snap and start killing. His hand grasped the dagger and once again he adjusted his grip on it, his palms clammy.

"Who are you?" he asked. "Who sent you?"

As the light of the moo vanished, she twitched slightly and shifted, feeling her inner coil roiling in chaos and confusion. The reality before her was shattering and reassembling. this couldn't be Lomedor, she hadn't seen the walls of that city in nearly sixty years. Her regiment was based in...the Msity Forest she thought. with a sharp bite she bit down on her tongue to get a grip, she knew she was in Lomedor. this wasn't the time to debate where or when they were.

Her breathing had deepened and quickened, as if getting excited over something. she could feel her discombobulated thoughts colliding with each other. She wanted to take him home, give Robyn-rin another sibling. She wanted to throttle him and smash his skull into the floor. She just wanted to laugh at his misery and comfort him all the same time. And generally when a little overwhelmed, she can't quite control her tongue from speaking in the black speech or common.

"I killed them for a cause far greater than any of us present. Be honored that your household was chosen...for...this"

Her words, if he could understand daemonic, were slurred and garbled. the product of having a vague idea on how to speak it, without having been taught. It didn't help that at the end she started to take long-deep breaths before curling forwards with a wretch and spitting a clot of blood onto the floor. she almost fell back and hit the side of the bed, flaring up her aching injuries on her back again. she'd closed her eyes and appeared to mumbling something to herself. If he strained enough, he could make out that it was a vague whisper of someone, or something, to "just stop".

Having composed herself, for the most part, she looked up at him with a serene expression most unwelcome on her soft face that was bleeding from the mouth. She paused at his question, he might have heard of her family's name and that'd be another can of worms. then he'd have to die. she didn't want loose mentions of her still-living nature spreading to the ears of the Collective.

"I'm a mother, jsut as she was. and that's why I'm here."

Looking at the dagger, she could almost feel the uncertainty from it. He wasn't a killer, not even a fighter or worker. He seemed more of the scholarly type. Just like Clayton, but...there was a kindness in him. He didn't deserve it, this place or the family he had. Why did she and Clayton have to go through a waking hell despite being of noble birth, where as a commoner enjoyed a life she'd murder, and had, for.

"What do you intend to do with that? Kill me and settle the score? Murder me while I'm stuck here without any chance of defense? You could do it you know, most likely much faster than I could rip off the cloth. Just a jab to my heart, push up from under the left side of my bosom, or a slash to my throat. Take your pick Dear if you're going to wield a weapon, otherwise drop it."

Faolan jumped slightly when she started to rattle off a garbled speech he did not understand in the least. He eyed her cautiously as she seemed to somehow compose herself, though by now she had a bit of blood dripping down her chin from her mouth. Perhaps she had bit her tongue; or maybe it was somehow much worse--maybe this was some sort of disease which caused people to lose control of their senses. He hoped that he wouldn't get it; he couldn't imagine slaughtering an innocent couple when--

A cult. As she spoke the words, he knew that she had to be a part of some sort of cult organization in order to actually kill innocent people. He shook his head slowly. No. No, he would never be happy to be chosen for whatever reason this girl thought she had killed them. Something in his stomach sank quickly as he stood there watching her.

And now she begged him to kill her. To "settle the score." He looked down at her with tears in his eyes and knew that no matter how much anger licked at his soul, he would never be able to murder someone, especially a girl. A tear dripped down his cheek and he brushed it away with the rough fabric of his sleeve.

"No," he said finally, his words choked with tears. He swallowed, composed himself, and continued, "No, I will not be like you. I will not murder a defenseless person." But he couldn't let her go. And the moment he turned his back, she would be out of the sheets and would certainly flee. He hesitated before leaving the small room and heading into the kitchen.

He lit a candle in the room and began to work quickly, gathering a few ingredients before retuning to the bedroom in a matter of seconds. Setting the supplies on the dresser, he tried to avoid looking at the bodies of his parents and instead he mixed together the ingredients in a bowl. Finally he walked over to the girl and put the bowl to her lips.

((Uhh it induces lethargy. So she would fall asleep were she to drink it. Because I can't think of anything else. :no: ))

She was still amused slightly at the slight reaction to her lapse in the black speech. He was either used to it for the most part, or thought it to be gibberish. Guessing from the life he lived, the latter made more sense. Such a soft life he had gotten to live, her first experience with the dark tongue had been over a decade again. She rapidly learned that eaves dropping on her families discussions was dangerous, and stopped the habit.

He was angry, she could feel it. However he was just as torn by grief. One lead into the other and such, but the first thing was to provoke him into doing...something. If he came at her with a knife, she could theoretically head butt him and try cutting her bonds if the blade fell close enough. Pretty big if though.

A part of Triella actually wanted to try and comfort him, but she didn't know how to comfort other people. Hel, she didn't even know how to comfort herself except distract her ails with small tasks, like this. she started to fight against her restraints while he went to the kitchen, but to little avail. Normally she could tear through the sheets, but he'd tied up her legs and arms so that she couldn't get a good position without breaking arms.

Little bastard.

As he came back in holding something she sneered at him, he didn't have the resolve to even avenge his parents death. How she loathed and envied his untainted, until now, spirit. Her words were mocking and sarcastic, a dig to provoke him.

"So now what? Just going to keep me tied up to satisfy yourself? You've never seen a woman naked before, have you? I bet your Father made you touch him, with such softs hands and posture as yourself, in a dress you could probably pass a gir-"

Then her poisoned words were cut off in a gurgle choke as he pressed the bowl to her lips. she tried spitting it out but only made a slight splash. Accidentally trying to draw in breath only caused her to choke and splutter as it poured into her throat. It was bitter and numbing, leaving a sinking feeling in her stomach. It left the skin it touched tingly, numbing her shin and throat from what'd spilled ran down her front.

Sucking in a few deep breaths in between coughing fits she tried to lash out at him, throwing herself against her bindings. With each passing moment the throes became slower and weaker, until it finally stopped and she went limp, her sweat drenched hair hanging in front of her face.

OOC: wanna conspire before advancing? o.o

Faolan tilted the bowl to her lips and watched carefully as the liquid seeped into her unwilling mouth, spilling over her lips and dripping onto her lap. He wiped some of the green mixture that had fallen onto his hands with his shirt and then stood up carefully, his legs shaking. He hoped he made the potion correctly; he had been in such a hurry. She started to rant and rave at him, and he did his best to block it from his ears. It wasn't what he wanted to hear, not here and now. What she said--it wasn't true, but it bothered him to the point that had he been more vengeful her throat would be slit in a matter of seconds. His heart beat frantically as he watched her slump over.

Quietly he set the bowl on the dresser and walked closer to her, his footsteps echoing on the wood floor as he approached. Breathing heavily, he looked down at her for a moment as he assessed the situation. No doubt he had to turn her in to the authorities and then he could return to take care of his parents. He glanced towards his father once more and a lump formed in his throat. He couldn't just leave him on the floor like that. Swallowing his tears, Faolan walked over to his father and tried not to notice the blood that poured out of his mouth and his throat and his head. Though blood soaked his shoes, he pretended that he did not notice as he put his arm underneath his father's shoulders and lifted him up. A short, hysterical snort erupted from him when he recalled taking care of his parents when they had fallen ill last winter and how he had to help his father sit up in order to feed the man his soup for nourishment. But now his father's body had grown cold, life flushed out of him as the blood poured steadily to the floor. Faolan took another breath to calm himself before heaving his father off the ground and staggering with the body to the bed. His father slumped onto the cot and Faolan adjusted the limbs carefully and respectfully. He pulled the sheet that covered his mother over his father's corpse, hiding their faces from view.

Silently, Faolan stepped back and surveyed his work as vomit rose in the back of his throat. His clothing by now was completely saturated in his parents' blood, and there was no way he would ever be able to scrub the stains off of the floor.

What the hell am I thinking about that now? he demanded of himself with a pathetic frown. Of all the things to think about, and he was trying to figure out the value of the property. Immediately he hated himself for the thoughts, but they rushed into his mind like water through a broken damn. He closed his eyes for several long seconds, biting back tears. Taking a deep breath, he slowly opened his eyelids and looked around the room. His gaze lighted upon the unconscious girl, and he knew that he had to move quickly before the potion came to an end. If it came to an end. Guilt stabbed Faolan in the stomach when he realized that he may have added too much in the special ingredients and the girl may never wake up. He swallowed hard and took another deep breath to calm himself. She had ruthlessly murdered his parents, and now he stood around hoping that he didn't accidentally kill her.

"Gods, help me," said a teary-eyed Faolan as he looked up to the ceiling, the wooden beams swimming in his vision.

It had been a potion his mother had made for Faolan to help him sleep when he had aches and pains, and its original intent had been to soothe the body and mind. Of course, she had taught Faolan how to make said potion when he was younger . . . she had even told him how to add just a little too much of the herb in order to make the person unconscious. "You . . . you never used that on me, right mom?" a hesitant Faolan had asked when he was but a kid, unsettled by the thought of being unconscious. "Heavens, no!" she had replied with a laugh, but since that day Faolan had always turned down any further sleeping potions.

Snapping back to the present, Faolan sniffled embarrassed and knelt down by the girl. His hands moved quickly and adeptly as he untied her. Her body slumped over, and he could not help but remember the dead bodies of his parents and--gods, he just wanted to gouge out his mind's eye right now. Pushing all thoughts of that to the side, he lifted up the girl in his arms, holding her like a child. And perhaps, he realized, that was all she was--a child who threw a lethal temper tantrum. While her body was older than Faolan's, he could not help but think that her mind was far younger. Slowly he reached over and swept a lock of hair off of her soft skin, the moonlight shining down and illuminating her face like some sort of night angel come to reap souls for its master Death. He shuddered and readjusted her in his arms slightly so that he would not drop her and headed quickly to the door, leaving behind the corpses of his parents.

He paused just before he got to the door and looked back at the bed. Oh, from here they looked like they were sleeping! How Faolan wished it were so! He closed his eyes once more, holding on to the thought for just one moment more before he knew that he had to move now. He turned and slipped through the door, the girl's head catching the frame of the door. "Sorry," he whispered, though he couldn't figure out why he said that since not only was she his parent's killers but also quite unconscious.

This time, the meeting had been different.

Normally Clayton only met her in the study, or at the very least made certain someone else was around when they weren't there. To keep up the visage he maintained, which wasn't a growing dark arts practitioner. Ironically, if certain family members had seen they'd have endorsed this. As it was however, he was an unknown rising power in the Collective, which is probably what Clayton wanted. Triella being his little pawn, not aware that the "freedom" he offered was jsut slavery to a different master.

Today he'd actually tracked her down when she went on one of her "walks". She called it that, but frequently brought equipment to practice her swordsmanship since her family didn't support this practice. How he managed to track ehr down was a bit surprising since she chose her spot randomly, but seeing as it was Clayton she'd been half-expecting him of all people.

His face seemed blurred, as if her eyesight had gone slightly cloudy. When he spoke, she could hear it and the tone, bu the words sounded like mumbling. Triella ahdn't managed to piece together it was a drug-induced dream, but sadly her waking hours usually were stressed to a point that this seemed real to her.

She approached him, her hands folded in front of her before looking down at his feet and giving a slight bow. He had struck her a fair blow the first time she curtsied to him. claiming that if she didn't choose to behave like a man, she'd greet him as one. Such and odd and dark-natured boy he was. His soft hand extended out to her, and she automatically stepped closer. Feeling his cool touch on her warm cheeks, in those rare and few moments she felt something for him. It was always just a fleeting a moment, barely long enough to know it happened. She recalled it nonetheless, and played it in her memories over and over, re-imagining and magnifying it to the point where she thought this was a regular occurrence. No one else treated her the same, their cruelty laid in ignoring her presence.

The soft caress became a firm grip on her neck and he pulled her close to speak to her ear in a soft voice. How she hated him, wanted to cut him down. Never before Clayton had she wished harm on another person, and even still it scared her that she wanted it. His tone was just as friendly, dripping with malice and anger over her failure to have a certain guard executed for having block Clayton's entrance to some library or other. then, it softened and the sentence she heard was filled with a sincerity she only ever half-heard or believed.

"If you hate me, take your sword and kill me."

He stepped back with an ugly smirk on his face. As if victory was assured. Just once, he'd opened himself to her, daring her to strike. Suddenly the steel she'd been holding for sometime felt cold and unusually heavy. It wasn't a spell, but could she really strike him down? End the arranged marriage and gain that freedom? She willed herself, just to raise the blade if not swing it. Her limbs refused, shaking horribly, as if responding to a deeper feeling than her hatred. Triella tried once more, and with an anguished cry dropped the sword and fell to her knees.

The last sight she seen was Clayton's foot swinging around and colliding painfully with her face.

She'd actually been crying in the forced-dream, the vivid memory stalking her. It was the last, and only, time Clayton had done that. If he'd chose to do it today, there's a very likely chance the lich would need to reform his body somewhere else.

"sorry"

It was faint, like the wind. Still there nonetheless. Still in her half-dream world she tucked her head against his chest and pulled slightly on Faolán's shirt. For how abd he was, no matter how much he abused her, she felt comforted near him. To see the true face of someone she could hate, instead of the identityless elders that dictated her family's existence.

Then the spell ended, the nightmareish fairytale snatched away as realization hit her. With an almost explosive effort she started writhing and stretching out, jsut trying to make him fall.

Faolán struggled to keep the girl in his arms lest she fall to the floor. He headed for the front door when he realized that she flailed around on purpose. Uh oh. He licked away a bead of sweat from his upper lip as it dribbled into the corner of his mouth. He readjusted her weight once again; she was small, but she was all muscle.

And that scared him. His eyes darted around the room. He needed a way to bind her so that she could not possibly escape from his hold. But it would look odd enough to have him dragging her unconscious through the streets; did he need to add extra bindings? He hesitated, but finally moved quickly out of the house and into the streets, shutting the door behind him.

Once again he adjusted her weight, his arms already aching. He cursed himself for being such a weakling, but continued down the street, walking quickly across the cobblestones before she woke up completely. He stopped on a street corner and saw several passers-by staring at him. Flushing, he looked away. What must they think of him, carrying this girl's body through the streets, his own clothing soaked in blood? Biting his lip and trying not to think about it, he followed the streets towards the police station.

Ahead, Faolán saw some sort of commotion in the street. Curses, he would never be able to get by unnoticed. But maybe some people would help him. He paused and watched a couple rubberneckers rush by him. Finally he stopped one and said, "Hello, can you--"

"What the hell?"

"I need to get to the police."

The man shook his head and walked quickly away, forgetting Faolán in the dust. Faolán watched in shock. What was the man thinking? Finally Faolán turned away and headed down a side street, less inhabited but somewhat creepy.

As the drugs started clearing her system, the words still sounded off-key, the lights a bit too bright. things were skewed and swirled a little, and would for sometime, but she could function until her unnatural constitution kicked in. Despite her desperate attempts to break free without thought, he didn't try cracking her head open or suffocating her. He kept going, asking for help from what it sounded like.

None came or was given however.

Now she stopped writhing, and wormed her hands to his shoulders and neck and tightened a grip that was still shaky from the drugs to pull herself 'up'. She tried to tell him in a firm voice, but her tone was croaking and alcked the stern tone she used on Robyn when she misbehaved.

"Put...me...down..."

She tried pulling him forward on his neck and shoulder to throw off his center of gravity and send him and her tumbling.

OOC: Crap, but I'm rushed :grr:

((No worries. ^_^ ))

Faolan siddled around a bunch of crates as the side street narrowed into an alley, and he wondered why he had decided to take such a dark and desolate path. Perhaps going through the crowd would have been better, he decided as he skirted around a puddle of gods only knew what. He bit his lip as he took a large step over another puddle and side-stepped the carcass of a rat whose flesh had long since rotted away, exposing white bone mushy organs. He frowned at it and kept moving, holding tightly to the girl.

Until he felt her hands on his throat. He paused for a second and then pulled himself slightly away from her in order to loosen her grip. He readjusted her in his arms and kept moving, this time faster. Here, he knew that he could not spend any more time in this alley; he had seen what she was capable of doing and being alone with her could mean his very untimely demise. His heart pounded in his ribcage and fear swept through his veins like an Arizonan flash flood. Somewhere deep inside, something told him to turn around and go back, but at the same time he knew that he was closer to the end of the street than to the beginning, and going back would only put him that much farther away from the police station.

Thus, he continued on, struggling to hold onto her as she woke from her sleep.