[Attagirl. How pathetic, that she is in so much pain to be bolstered by something as banal as that. Normally, she would rebuff it, call it condescending at best, take offense as she so often did... but since learning certain things, coming to certain... understandings... She had accepted things from Amos Burton she would not tolerate from everyone.
Set had insulted her, all but called her a fool for it. But she didn't want to hear a fucking thing about that from Set, who consorted gladly with the demon that had ripped her eye out, with that gaki Silco, with the proud slaver Voryn Dagoth, with every foul being this world saw fit to bring into existence with a shard in it. (Sometimes... Sometimes she wonders if the only reason she hasn't killed Amos Burton is because Set demanded she do it, daring to compare her "friendship" with him to that the war god shared with scum.)]
Ah.
[He leaves her to search for something to splint it with and she grips the rock in his absence, balancing on three good legs and momentarily letting the mask drop. More than the actual amount of pain (she had always been raised to take pain) it was the instinctive, creeping fear. Fear of being put down, no matter what world she was in, fear of being made lame, no matter if there was healing spells, fear of shock setting in and making her too weak to kill herself, fear of... fear of dying, now that she had someone who would mourn her.
But then he's back, the mask is back, and he... A gentleman would use his own shirt, but Amos is not a gentleman, and Hayame had rarely been treated like a lady. Still, she bites into her lip and... hesitates, like a maiden, even though, months and months after she'd first attempted it at the masquerade, she has managed to make herself not a maiden anymore. (Stolen it, that precious extra ten thousand ryo from her sale price.) But it's just an instant, there's an Oracle at stake... and then she pushes past it, jerking her robe open with one hand and shrugging out of it. She debates for another brief instant, before,]
... Close your eyes or turn your head. I swear on my honor I will not attack you.
[Once he does... she unties the bindings that she uses to viciously minimize her breasts. Easier to use cloth already sewn into strips than try and rip it from her robe. And perhaps there'd still be enough left to do a slightly less tight binding, if her modesty was lucky. The binding cloth, she pushes into his hand, and once she's draped her robe awkwardly over her freed breasts beneath a splayed hand, she clears her throat.]
no subject
Set had insulted her, all but called her a fool for it. But she didn't want to hear a fucking thing about that from Set, who consorted gladly with the demon that had ripped her eye out, with that gaki Silco, with the proud slaver Voryn Dagoth, with every foul being this world saw fit to bring into existence with a shard in it. (Sometimes... Sometimes she wonders if the only reason she hasn't killed Amos Burton is because Set demanded she do it, daring to compare her "friendship" with him to that the war god shared with scum.)]
Ah.
[He leaves her to search for something to splint it with and she grips the rock in his absence, balancing on three good legs and momentarily letting the mask drop. More than the actual amount of pain (she had always been raised to take pain) it was the instinctive, creeping fear. Fear of being put down, no matter what world she was in, fear of being made lame, no matter if there was healing spells, fear of shock setting in and making her too weak to kill herself, fear of... fear of dying, now that she had someone who would mourn her.
But then he's back, the mask is back, and he... A gentleman would use his own shirt, but Amos is not a gentleman, and Hayame had rarely been treated like a lady. Still, she bites into her lip and... hesitates, like a maiden, even though, months and months after she'd first attempted it at the masquerade, she has managed to make herself not a maiden anymore. (Stolen it, that precious extra ten thousand ryo from her sale price.) But it's just an instant, there's an Oracle at stake... and then she pushes past it, jerking her robe open with one hand and shrugging out of it. She debates for another brief instant, before,]
... Close your eyes or turn your head. I swear on my honor I will not attack you.
[Once he does... she unties the bindings that she uses to viciously minimize her breasts. Easier to use cloth already sewn into strips than try and rip it from her robe. And perhaps there'd still be enough left to do a slightly less tight binding, if her modesty was lucky. The binding cloth, she pushes into his hand, and once she's draped her robe awkwardly over her freed breasts beneath a splayed hand, she clears her throat.]
- You may move now.