[ There was a time when she would have needed to be told that. Don't scream. Even if that time hadn't passed, she is sheathed in a numbness at the moment that means only a sharp breath in through her nose as she takes in the room.
Leander looks like her heart given form: sliced open in a hundred places. A perfect pinprick bead for each curl righted, carved lines from the merciless growth of tenderness she'd thrown up her arms to ward off, the darker red depths of truths that have seen no light but incisive green eyes or air but breath between lips pressed to their edges. Although she can see she'd been given the right of it, that it has slowed to stability, the vital weeping of his body had been made obvious, had soaked into everything, and the hawk in her chest shrieks a greeting-warning to see another winged shadow cast over its home.
Gold and emerald glints serpentine against the pristine white of her glove as Alexandrie crosses her arms against it. ]
Like a Sunburst brand. Or the gallows.
[ Perhaps for both men. In Orlesian, quietly: ] I will not play with only half a hand showing. Not at this table. [ Trade then, so both will know she asked: ] How came this?
[ Leander. Issac. The room. She would hold something in reserve, and she is neither in the mood to try and ascertain whether or not they are nor to dig after it. Alexandrie finds she can't spare a thought for her own reputation under the circumstances, but a secondary rumor of associating with maleficarum at her feet—she looks down, briefly, checking to make sure her hem hasn't dragged through any of the literal blood there—lends credence to the first, and if she remains a vocal ally of Thor's, Benedict's, as she means to, it will leap to them easily enough.
As much information as there is risk to her and those she deems hers. That is her buy-in.
(They would both be free, of course, to keep the coin of their knowledge, pay her in gilt wood and bet she will stay regardless. She will, and Isaac at least knows so, but there are three choices of whom she will play for in this room that holds both mages and blood, and this is a chance to sway her.) ]
no subject
Leander looks like her heart given form: sliced open in a hundred places. A perfect pinprick bead for each curl righted, carved lines from the merciless growth of tenderness she'd thrown up her arms to ward off, the darker red depths of truths that have seen no light but incisive green eyes or air but breath between lips pressed to their edges. Although she can see she'd been given the right of it, that it has slowed to stability, the vital weeping of his body had been made obvious, had soaked into everything, and the hawk in her chest shrieks a greeting-warning to see another winged shadow cast over its home.
Gold and emerald glints serpentine against the pristine white of her glove as Alexandrie crosses her arms against it. ]
Like a Sunburst brand. Or the gallows.
[ Perhaps for both men. In Orlesian, quietly: ] I will not play with only half a hand showing. Not at this table. [ Trade then, so both will know she asked: ] How came this?
[ Leander. Issac. The room. She would hold something in reserve, and she is neither in the mood to try and ascertain whether or not they are nor to dig after it. Alexandrie finds she can't spare a thought for her own reputation under the circumstances, but a secondary rumor of associating with maleficarum at her feet—she looks down, briefly, checking to make sure her hem hasn't dragged through any of the literal blood there—lends credence to the first, and if she remains a vocal ally of Thor's, Benedict's, as she means to, it will leap to them easily enough.
As much information as there is risk to her and those she deems hers. That is her buy-in.
(They would both be free, of course, to keep the coin of their knowledge, pay her in gilt wood and bet she will stay regardless. She will, and Isaac at least knows so, but there are three choices of whom she will play for in this room that holds both mages and blood, and this is a chance to sway her.) ]