[ Despite the furor of her fear and all of her questions, Marcille's eyes finally hone in on the oddity in front of her: a long shadow stretched over her coffin, flanked by white sunlight, cold as metal. (The sun isn't bright and yellow here, as if the fog didn't make this place eerie enough.) She looks up on instinct without a second thought.
The dirt-clad hem of a tattered dress. The long hair. The willowy person underneath. And she's holding something long and dangerous and shiny in her hand.
Marcille's heart almost stops. Her mouth and eyes come wide open and terrified, and she scrabbles for Ambrosia, wherever it is, her hands are suddenly clammy and have minds of their own in her desperation. So she kind of crab-walks, heels slipping against the coffin and the heels of her hands grabbing anything for leverage as she crowds up against the back of the coffin. ]
R-Rosamund...!
[ She says it hoarsely, without her voice. Her throat is too tight to form words. She holds a hand out in front of her in defense, as if it'll do anything to save her. Rosamund was dead. So dead. She was mangled, broken into pieces, a slurry of gore and bone— ]
P-Please, I— [ Her voice suddenly works as tears spring to her eyes. Her ears droop down, almost folding against her head. ] That wasn't me! It wasn't! I promise! Y-You have to believe me!
[She'd like very much to be brutal. It had been brutal, being devoured, more bloodily and slowly than the Dogfish had managed, and no Little Red to pull her out before the killing crunch.
The trial had been brutal, too. So had the execution. So had everything that had gone wrong at home, twisting around worse and worse until the sane went mad and the kind turned cruel. So will everything here, if the promise of sacrifice is seen through. If what happened to Marcille keeps happening to other people.
Rosamund stands above the other girl now, watching those ears droop and panic blow her pupils wide. Her mouth thins. She takes a long, deliberating breath through her nose, the grip on the metal shifting.]
I saw. [She should be clear about this much. Before she decides to swing the bar or set it aside. Her eyes never leave the other girl's, marking her with a hunter's keen sight. The second she moves to the offensive, Rosamund will act.] There's a thing here — a little box, like a magic mirror. I watched the trial yesterday. And I watched you die today.
[A pause. Her jaw clenching. She didn't enjoy it, not one bit. Not once the threads of doubt started weaving too big a tapestry to brush off.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
same and also NOT THE CROWBAR AGAIN
The dirt-clad hem of a tattered dress. The long hair. The willowy person underneath. And she's holding something long and dangerous and shiny in her hand.
Marcille's heart almost stops. Her mouth and eyes come wide open and terrified, and she scrabbles for Ambrosia, wherever it is, her hands are suddenly clammy and have minds of their own in her desperation. So she kind of crab-walks, heels slipping against the coffin and the heels of her hands grabbing anything for leverage as she crowds up against the back of the coffin. ]
R-Rosamund...!
[ She says it hoarsely, without her voice. Her throat is too tight to form words. She holds a hand out in front of her in defense, as if it'll do anything to save her. Rosamund was dead. So dead. She was mangled, broken into pieces, a slurry of gore and bone— ]
P-Please, I— [ Her voice suddenly works as tears spring to her eyes. Her ears droop down, almost folding against her head. ] That wasn't me! It wasn't! I promise! Y-You have to believe me!
crowbar is eternal. accept your fate
The trial had been brutal, too. So had the execution. So had everything that had gone wrong at home, twisting around worse and worse until the sane went mad and the kind turned cruel. So will everything here, if the promise of sacrifice is seen through. If what happened to Marcille keeps happening to other people.
Rosamund stands above the other girl now, watching those ears droop and panic blow her pupils wide. Her mouth thins. She takes a long, deliberating breath through her nose, the grip on the metal shifting.]
I saw. [She should be clear about this much. Before she decides to swing the bar or set it aside. Her eyes never leave the other girl's, marking her with a hunter's keen sight. The second she moves to the offensive, Rosamund will act.] There's a thing here — a little box, like a magic mirror. I watched the trial yesterday. And I watched you die today.
[A pause. Her jaw clenching. She didn't enjoy it, not one bit. Not once the threads of doubt started weaving too big a tapestry to brush off.]
That thing you became. Is it still with you?