"Oh, this visit is for pleasure," she insists, one hand pressing against the doorframe while the other slips into the pocket of the borrowed hoodie. She's feeling for something that she knows won't do much to Mercymorn, or whatever's inhabiting her, but it can at least get her message across. If she needs to make use of it, she will; she's getting the feeling that there won't be any avoiding it.
Not that she usually practices that level of discretion.
"Come now, whatever your name is. Don't make this difficult for either of us. Just let me inside and I'll have a lovely little conversation with John, and then I'll be out of your hair." It's a hell of a request to be making when she's putting her weight against the doorframe like this, leaning forward and trying to make big puppy-dog eyes in utterly transparent and false obsequity.
"You've known me for nearly ten thousand years," she says, "Haven't you?" There is a godawful, shitty feeling of dread in her heart at the idea that this may not be true. That something else that she's taken as a constant, that she's been clinging to for a myriad as a critical part of her identity, has been stolen from her. "You can trust me."
no subject
Not that she usually practices that level of discretion.
"Come now, whatever your name is. Don't make this difficult for either of us. Just let me inside and I'll have a lovely little conversation with John, and then I'll be out of your hair." It's a hell of a request to be making when she's putting her weight against the doorframe like this, leaning forward and trying to make big puppy-dog eyes in utterly transparent and false obsequity.
"You've known me for nearly ten thousand years," she says, "Haven't you?" There is a godawful, shitty feeling of dread in her heart at the idea that this may not be true. That something else that she's taken as a constant, that she's been clinging to for a myriad as a critical part of her identity, has been stolen from her. "You can trust me."