[ Elda, at the end of the trial if you ignore that I wasn't here and thus couldn't post it had threatened to rip off Kira's hands and force feed them to him. She had tried to leap off Guzma's back only to make her injured foot worse. Thus, her night actually starts off in the infirmary so that smarter minds than her and treat the injury.
Once that's done, hobbling somewhat, the woman does go the library, but she takes one look around and opts not the linger. She leaves quickly to head to the supply closet and to her own room. She also stopped in Chiyuki's room, as if hoping to find something but not even knowing what to look for.
One week ago, annoyed at how much sympathy there was for Alani Elda had decided to put up a eulogy story for Kyrie, almost in mockery of Varric's stories. This week, Elda has written a story yet again, this time to put atop the profile of Yoshikage Kira.
She's aware of the hypocrisy. She doesn't care. ]
The man blinked, the room feeling oddly hot. The air was thick, far too smelly for his liking. As he looked around him, everything was dyed with red, and the temperature grew somewhat warmer. Adjusting his suit, the man stepped further through the smog, outwards towards whatever awaited him further through the dirty environment. It was still too flashy for his liking. He would need to dust it later.
Or so he thought, until he stumbled upon something bright and beautiful. Two hands, two gorgeous, well manicured hands. Seeing this as salvation, the man brought them to his lips, so that he might kiss them, he might savor them. But as he brought out his tongue, the hands didn't taste of flesh. They tasted of sulfur, of the dark rocks deep beneath the earth. And then the hands moved - the hands rejected him. They wrapped around his neck. They strangled him, forced their fingers doubt his throat even as they snuffed out his life.
But he didn't die. The fingers grew longer, bigger, they melted, and his lungs were soon filled with ash. His stomach overflowed, his yes bulged out. And then his body lit on fire. His soul was going to burn, just as his flesh would, but still, he would not die. This, as it seems...
This was hell.
[ Content with that story but nowhere near content in her mood, Elda Marker plans to retire to her own bedroom early, uncharacteristic of the surprisingly social vampire. ]
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if you ignore that I wasn't here and thus couldn't post ithad threatened to rip off Kira's hands and force feed them to him. She had tried to leap off Guzma's back only to make her injured foot worse. Thus, her night actually starts off in the infirmary so that smarter minds than her and treat the injury.Once that's done, hobbling somewhat, the woman does go the library, but she takes one look around and opts not the linger. She leaves quickly to head to the supply closet and to her own room. She also stopped in Chiyuki's room, as if hoping to find something but not even knowing what to look for.
One week ago, annoyed at how much sympathy there was for Alani Elda had decided to put up a eulogy story for Kyrie, almost in mockery of Varric's stories. This week, Elda has written a story yet again, this time to put atop the profile of Yoshikage Kira.
She's aware of the hypocrisy. She doesn't care. ]
The man blinked, the room feeling oddly hot. The air was thick, far too smelly for his liking. As he looked around him, everything was dyed with red, and the temperature grew somewhat warmer. Adjusting his suit, the man stepped further through the smog, outwards towards whatever awaited him further through the dirty environment. It was still too flashy for his liking. He would need to dust it later.
Or so he thought, until he stumbled upon something bright and beautiful. Two hands, two gorgeous, well manicured hands. Seeing this as salvation, the man brought them to his lips, so that he might kiss them, he might savor them. But as he brought out his tongue, the hands didn't taste of flesh. They tasted of sulfur, of the dark rocks deep beneath the earth. And then the hands moved - the hands rejected him. They wrapped around his neck. They strangled him, forced their fingers doubt his throat even as they snuffed out his life.
But he didn't die. The fingers grew longer, bigger, they melted, and his lungs were soon filled with ash. His stomach overflowed, his yes bulged out. And then his body lit on fire. His soul was going to burn, just as his flesh would, but still, he would not die. This, as it seems...
This was hell.
[ Content with that story but nowhere near content in her mood, Elda Marker plans to retire to her own bedroom early, uncharacteristic of the surprisingly social vampire. ]