I was brought up as a southern belle
I grew into the queen of hell
I grew into the queen of hell
If they'd had any plans to leave the house before Nate's return, they lay dead and buried beneath the sand now. The lightning girl spends more hours awake than asleep these days - if you deign to call the black nothingness by that term. It has been many years since she has been called to proverbial arms. Since rapier wit and serpentine manipulation have been more than an outlet for boredom. With her beloved's safety and reputation on the line, it is as vital that she craft her plans now as it was when she had war rooms and councils at her command.
Here you will find her, nursing a cup of tea that has gone mild and unappealing as her thoughts and ink pen race each other into the long hours. Sunjata sleeps fitfully in their bed. The warmth of her presence can do little to ease his night terrors, so she spends her time by the fire instead, ear tuned for any changes in his sleeping pattern in case he needs to be roused from another nightmare. Not even a nightmare - a memory. Which makes it all the harder to bear, all her consoling words made hollow by the truth of what happened.
When the knock comes, static comes to shroud her shoulders immediately, anger on a hairpin trigger. A voice comes filtering through from the dark, feminine and hesitant, and beckons Hotaru from her chair. 'Me' is not someone she knows, but she opens the door before the urgent knocking can awaken Sunjata. The woman on the other side of the door is younger, olive skin and the cherry of a cigarette lighting up pale green irises. All this Hotaru takes in with a sweep of her gaze, the height and muscle difference between them undaunting, though she lets her electricity crackle soft and foreboding where her hand tightly grips the door. "I'm his wife, Hotaru," she says, tone low and heterochromic eyes piercing. The fact that she'd missed her own wedding due to sickness not something this girl is privy to. "I suspect I know why you're here. I'll give you one chance to tell me if you mean him further harm." She places each word with intention; now the girl will know that she's aware of the rumors, and Hotaru has intentionally let slip the subtle reference to Sunjata having been attacked, all the better to perceive her sincerity with her reaction. And if she is found wanting, then the lightning eagerly licking at her palm will be more than sufficient to reducing those rumors by one more loose mouth.
Here you will find her, nursing a cup of tea that has gone mild and unappealing as her thoughts and ink pen race each other into the long hours. Sunjata sleeps fitfully in their bed. The warmth of her presence can do little to ease his night terrors, so she spends her time by the fire instead, ear tuned for any changes in his sleeping pattern in case he needs to be roused from another nightmare. Not even a nightmare - a memory. Which makes it all the harder to bear, all her consoling words made hollow by the truth of what happened.
When the knock comes, static comes to shroud her shoulders immediately, anger on a hairpin trigger. A voice comes filtering through from the dark, feminine and hesitant, and beckons Hotaru from her chair. 'Me' is not someone she knows, but she opens the door before the urgent knocking can awaken Sunjata. The woman on the other side of the door is younger, olive skin and the cherry of a cigarette lighting up pale green irises. All this Hotaru takes in with a sweep of her gaze, the height and muscle difference between them undaunting, though she lets her electricity crackle soft and foreboding where her hand tightly grips the door. "I'm his wife, Hotaru," she says, tone low and heterochromic eyes piercing. The fact that she'd missed her own wedding due to sickness not something this girl is privy to. "I suspect I know why you're here. I'll give you one chance to tell me if you mean him further harm." She places each word with intention; now the girl will know that she's aware of the rumors, and Hotaru has intentionally let slip the subtle reference to Sunjata having been attacked, all the better to perceive her sincerity with her reaction. And if she is found wanting, then the lightning eagerly licking at her palm will be more than sufficient to reducing those rumors by one more loose mouth.
You were just a little stowaway
That stabbed her way to save herself
That stabbed her way to save herself
