[ A... finger. Iorveth's reaction to the offer is genuine: he raises a brow, clearly projecting that he expected something far worse, which might be a bit too telling about his approach to this transaction. Still, he has to keep this conversation going, so: ]
What would you do with a fin―
[ The query terminates, interrupted by a shrill scream: the open-beaked crow perched next to the wardrobe starts to screech in warning once the lock definitively clicks open, as if some part of it has been inextricably connected to the latch mechanism.
Iorveth starts, and the hag whirls. A maelstrom of bad intent― her face contorts, a half-grin half-grimace that pulls all her loose, stretched skin.
"Naughty, naughty little birds! Ungrateful brats, nasty little thieves!"
Well, fuck. The hag's human disguise starts to melt away, sloughing off like river sludge; purple-grey skin, curled horns, a twisted visage. Her hair runs wild and tangled down her back, a waterfall of matted black strands occasionally coiled into intricate braids threaded with what looks like sinew, making her smell, perpetually, like death and rot.
Again: fuck. Iorveth tries to unsheathe his dagger, but the hang grabs his collar with one clawed, birdlike hand, and throws him against the nearest wall. ]
no subject
What would you do with a fin―
[ The query terminates, interrupted by a shrill scream: the open-beaked crow perched next to the wardrobe starts to screech in warning once the lock definitively clicks open, as if some part of it has been inextricably connected to the latch mechanism.
Iorveth starts, and the hag whirls. A maelstrom of bad intent― her face contorts, a half-grin half-grimace that pulls all her loose, stretched skin.
"Naughty, naughty little birds! Ungrateful brats, nasty little thieves!"
Well, fuck. The hag's human disguise starts to melt away, sloughing off like river sludge; purple-grey skin, curled horns, a twisted visage. Her hair runs wild and tangled down her back, a waterfall of matted black strands occasionally coiled into intricate braids threaded with what looks like sinew, making her smell, perpetually, like death and rot.
Again: fuck. Iorveth tries to unsheathe his dagger, but the hang grabs his collar with one clawed, birdlike hand, and throws him against the nearest wall. ]