Full Version: poor man's poison
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the lake is the first thing she's seen in hours. or has it been days? the steppe has been an endless sea of unbroken white; ice, snow. the occasional hallucination. or... she thinks they were hallucinations, shadowy shapes that are achingly familiar, caught in the corner of her gaze. but when she turned, gone. bloom, she thinks, would not follow her. bloom would not leave what they've lost with the little divine - and she's not likely to forgive wither for what she's done. and so she had only gnashed her fangs against the inside of her cheek, using the pain and the taste of iron on her tongue, to chase the ghosts from her hazy mind.

exhausted, but unwilling to stop, unwilling to risk that bloom was following her, bringing the little divine upon her. that they would find the shamed assassin and kill her. not because wither thinks she doesn't deserve it, but because she doesn't want bloom to have to kill her. to see her killed. her dear bloom has already lost.... so much.

because of you.

and, gods be damned, isn't that the wicked truth?

she might have given up, were she that kind of woman. but she was doggedly determined, horrifically intent on survival, and her instincts drive her to the lake. and despite the frigid weather, her ragged paws deliver her immediately into the biting cold of the water. blood whisks away from the torn pads and she shoves her whole face down into the pool, gulping water with the desperation of a woman in a wasteland. she's forgotten all her training and half a moment later, she brings the gulletful of water back up, heaving it back into the lake.

a grimace seizes her lips as she high-steps away from the bile floating on the surface and throws herself at the bank of the lake. she doesn't know if she wants to sleep, to drink, or to eat worse - so she simply takes a moment to stop moving.