<ooc> do i reboot the lab rat? it's been three years and i'm in a completely different place physically and mentally than i was three years ago. my girl's been on my mind.

You are not meant for this world, sweet child of snow. You never have been. You never will be. Best that it never knew you were ever here to begin with.

Sweet sanctimonious the words had been coming from the mouth of her nursemaid as a child. Their intent had never been malicious, meant only to soothe as she wove starlit strands of hair into loose braids. She could not provide answers to an heir that would never see the throne, nor the light of day. She could not assuage the frustrations of a child who simply could not understand the gravity of her own existence, that it spat in the faces of those who had died for the very same reasons she was safely tucked away, unseen, unheard.

A cruel irony, many would say, that an elven princess born with great and terrible ❛magic❜ in her veins would be gifted unto the royal family who had long-since abolished magic.

But here were only so many decades that she could be imprisoned for.

She had no business being so far from home, from her own kingdom. She made it her business to roam nonetheless——sightless, as the flickering of irreparable pupils dictated. All she had to an untitled name was a stolen stable horse and pilfered palace trinkets. The Silent Plains were as quiet and desolate as their namesake. The princess did not care for company save for that of her horse. She’d stepped down from the beast’s saddle to let it drink from a small pond.

Though was blind, she saw the world in other ways. Saw minds. Their intangible thoughts, feelings, memories made tangible by her own hideous brain. Traces of them were what had led the wayfaring elf so far on her own. But she was suddenly very, very aware of a presence. Her stomach sank. Conflict was not on the agenda today.

❝Stay very well back where I can hear you.❞

(❛You know, I wouldn’t be mad if he squeezed my ass. Not one bit. Maybe he can put my hands places they shouldn’t be. Teach me a few things. That’d be fun. I’m a fast learner, after all.❜)

(❛There’s something so endearing about sucking his cock and hearing him forget how to formulate words. I’d tell him what a good wolf he is if my mouth wasn’t already busy. I wish he knew how picture perfect he is when he’s squirming.❜)

(❛I wonder if he knows how funny my heart thumps whenever I touch his face. And if he knows that I’d like to sit on his face, so to speak. I bet he can grip my thighs so hard that he leaves pretty hand-shaped bruises.❜)

(❛Dieu, he is so cute. And probably sculpted like a god. But I bet he makes the sweetest noises when you touch him just right. I wonder if he’d moan and tell me I’m a good girl if I did so. That would be a fun evening.❜)

❝Oh, you know. The usual sort. Perhaps a lycanthrope. Perhaps a corvian.❞

One would have thought that, decade after decade of life and death circulating her existence like a misshapen currency, Ser Fleurette might have humbled. But she had not. She masked what softness and gentility remained of her old self behind deadpan remarks and a quiet, solemn disposition. Anything that might shield her broken pride and ever-prevalent desire to prove that, no matter her lack of sight, she could do what others could.

She had so very much to prove, not least to Sir James. It churned her stomach with humiliation to be found so bloodied and broken yet again, and chiding, self-deprecating thoughts riddled her mind like a sickness. Fingertips touched gingerly at the hideous cuts and bruises embellished by her pale features, the busted lip and streaming broken nose. She grimaced. It all hurt terribly.

❝My own stupid fault. I should have been listening to my surroundings,❞ groused the albino. ❝Is my face still pretty? Tell me my face is still pretty. I don’t imagine it is very kissable right now, though.❞

The beaming smile the lab rat gave was disgustingly snide, and certainly unbecoming of her dainty features. No doubt it conveyed her contempt for the yakuza’s operations——but not for this wolf. For though he had been the one to steal the nightingale off the streets, he was but a courier, delivering a weapon. She was tired. She was angry. Broken. It was simply a shame that he was the only available target for her biting scorn. 

❝Non. I walked into several street lights,❞ replied Fleurette, her tone dripping with sarcasm, ❝what do you think, asshole?! Those brutes you work for don’t like it when their precious ❛weapon❜ barks back!❞

A beat of silence. Then two. Her animosity was misplaced, and the realisation of that was soon digested. The lab rat sat back down, shoulders slumping, and her head lowered in quiet shame. She had the most hideous, beautiful brain, with untapped potential—but her will was weak, her proverbial mind was young. Okami had experienced first-hand just how little she understood of existence beyond whitewashed walls and brightly-lit corridors. The blind woman fumbled for his hand, bringing the appendage to her bloodied mouth. She blessed his knuckles with little kiss, soft and apologetic.

He deserved better than to have to work with her. He deserved a world that she simply could not give.

❝I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be cruel,❞ murmured Fleurette, holding his hand to a cheek plastered with sore bruises. ❝My face hurts. But not as much as my pride does. I’m sorry. Please don’t be angry with me.❞

It was difficult to discern what was more bruised: her face or her pride. The former presented a palette of purplish-black bruises that were particularly unsightly on alabaster skin, alongside a busted lip and bloodied nose. There was a decided lack of expression to her features, cold like ice or stone——but it was no more than a fragile front to mask how humiliated the Blade felt. 

Ser Fleurette did not ask for help. She was the Blade who defied all odds, defied a world she could not see. She wondered if Quelavah might see past her cold exterior.

❝Some wretch who thinks blindsiding a knight who cannot see is fair game,❞ mumbled the albino. She dabbed gingerly at her busted lip with a handkerchief that had been tucked neatly away in her chest plate. Ser Fleurette motioned ashamedly away from her companion. 

❝I have no one to blame but myself, mon ami. I should have been listening closer. Should have been better.❞ A pause for wounded thought, pale eyes flickering back and forth—the cracks in her facade were beginning to show rapidly. ❝Does my face look that bad?❞