Post by sophia rosenberg on Jan 4, 2013 22:48:54 GMT -5
| [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, padding: 10px; border-top: #111 solid 15px; border-left: #111 solid 15px; background: url(http://i.imgur.com/FNwnQ.png); width: 300px;] [/style][style= float: left; border-left: #111 solid 10px; font-family: tahoma; font-size: 10px; margin-left: 05px; padding-left: 05px; background: #fafafa; color: #555; width: 145px; line-height: 10px;]? WORDS SHILOH/BUU PARANOIA PARANOIA EVERYBODY'S COMING TO GET ME. JUST SAY YOU NEVER MET ME. I'M RUNNING UNDERGROUND WITH THE MOLES. DIGGING HOLES. HEAR THE VOICES IN MY HEAD. I SWEAR TO GOD THEY SOUND LIKE THEY'RE SNORING; BUT IF YOU'RE— [style= float: left; font-family: courier new; font-size: 11px; margin-right: 05px; margin-top: 05px; text-transform: uppercase; color: #fafafa; background: #111; padding: 05px;]SHE sits bound in an embrace of steel, and magical flames dance in a ring around her chair. Sophia had always expected this day to come, but she didn't expect it to arrive so soon. She never thought for a second that she could run forever. Not in an endless game of cat and mouse. Sophia is usually alert enough to avoid pursuers, but she's run the worst luck that she's had in years tonight. She could probably take three with relative difficulty, but four was an absolute stretch. Especially not four of her opponents' calibur. She should have been stronger than this. Why isn't she stronger than this? Sophia knows, but to act upon it would be unthinkable. She likes to think that she learns from her mistakes. She is hardly perfect, but she would rather not destroy herself beyond repair. Sophia still tastes the tang of her own blood on her tongue. They had not been gentle, but she expected nothing less. It should only be her title that ensures that they did not decapitate her on the spot. She wonders how long that it will protect her when she is worst person to bring in for interrogation. There is not a thing that she will tell them. Sophia wonders how long it will be until the ring of fire becomes her funeral pyre. She has readied herself for this over the past thirty years. She has no powers that are useful in this situation. It is her fate to struggle with her fangs, her flesh, and her knives until she wears herself down to nothing. An interrogation is pointless, she thinks. Pointless when there is so little to wring out of her to begin with. But she is no noblewoman. What right does she have to argue with the rituals of the Deuxieme État? [/style] NOTES OR WHATEVER YAY SUGOI FANTASTIC BABY |
MADE BY CYANIDE CANDY ✖
