Thalassa
After her last week, Thal is desperate for something simple and mindless, something that doesn't require her to confront any complicated emotions or argue about the intricacies of ethics. It's the perfect excuse to finish the last task of her quest - a hunt. Even when she isn't in the throes of bloodlust, a violent, bloody hunt has always proven to be the perfect way to clear her mind, like a mood stabilizer on steroids coated in the sweetest sugar. Maea's judgement of such pleasures just makes her all the more determined to enjoy the afternoon. Spite is a powerful thing after all.
It's easy to tell when they've reached the Feverlands. Some might think it's the bogs and patches of quicksand that hide behind the dark shadows of the reeds - an eeriness suggesting the plants might follow behind when they're no looking. Others might think it's the yellowish fog thickening around them, starting at their feet and slowly creeping up like the lapping of the tide - if a tide smelled like rancid sewer rat boiled, frozen, then left to rot in a vat of acid sizzling in the sweltering sunlight. Because the putrid smell is what gives away the Feverlands, and Thal tries to talk to disguise the subtle scrunch of her nose. "The lamplighter should be hiding in the darkest section. Its singing should be a dead giveaway. Then we can kill it so I can collect the scales."
She runs her hands absently down her sides to ensure all her daggers are in their rightful places, her obsidian ones resting against her hips. It's habit when she knows there's fighting on the horizon, not that she ever goes without them anyways, but just like her usual outfit of black pants and a black long-sleeve, Thal's not one to change something that's never failed her yet.
Looking up at Vesper, she gives him a cocky grin that already hums with the thrill of the hunt. "Feel free to actually pull your weight this time, unless you just came along to watch?" Her eyebrow raises in playful challenge, wondering if he might prove to be more useful than their first meeting.
It's easy to tell when they've reached the Feverlands. Some might think it's the bogs and patches of quicksand that hide behind the dark shadows of the reeds - an eeriness suggesting the plants might follow behind when they're no looking. Others might think it's the yellowish fog thickening around them, starting at their feet and slowly creeping up like the lapping of the tide - if a tide smelled like rancid sewer rat boiled, frozen, then left to rot in a vat of acid sizzling in the sweltering sunlight. Because the putrid smell is what gives away the Feverlands, and Thal tries to talk to disguise the subtle scrunch of her nose. "The lamplighter should be hiding in the darkest section. Its singing should be a dead giveaway. Then we can kill it so I can collect the scales."
She runs her hands absently down her sides to ensure all her daggers are in their rightful places, her obsidian ones resting against her hips. It's habit when she knows there's fighting on the horizon, not that she ever goes without them anyways, but just like her usual outfit of black pants and a black long-sleeve, Thal's not one to change something that's never failed her yet.
Looking up at Vesper, she gives him a cocky grin that already hums with the thrill of the hunt. "Feel free to actually pull your weight this time, unless you just came along to watch?" Her eyebrow raises in playful challenge, wondering if he might prove to be more useful than their first meeting.
Would you like me to be smaller, weaker, softer, taller?
Would you like me to be quiet?
Would you like me to be quiet?
