(And the two that always seem to be there for her)
"As I presently have things to do, it would be preferable if you continued your antics elsewhere," Rilien intoned, shutting the door of his shop on Ashton and Sparrow, but not before secreting a slip of paper from his sleeve into the archer's hand, a subtle handoff between rogues that looked like nothing more than an incidental movement. The parchment itself contained a short list of ingredients, of a caried but mostly mundane nature, the likes of which could possibly take one all over Kirkwall and the immediate surrounding area. Along with the list was a note, provided for context.
I need to be able to work, and she needs to be distracted. It would be convenient to me if these items were acquired at some stage in the near future. That was it; as usual, he was only oblique in his meaning, but direct if one knew how to interpret him. By this stage, Ashton surely would. Whether he took the opportunity offered or not didn't really matter to the Tranquil-- he just needed people out of his hair while he mixed some of the more complicated ingedients for the future concotion that, if all went well, would save his friend from that demon.
Ashton found himself intimately close to the door. Surprisingly, this time he was sober. "That's strange. Usually the one who's slamming the door in my face is the bartender over at the Hanged Man," He said tilting his quizzically. He then turned and looked at Sparrow, "I didn't know Tranquils could slam the door in someone's face. Huh, we must be better than I thought." Well at least he didn't leave them with nothing to do. Ashton skillfully drew the note from his sleeve and cast a quick glance over it. "Oh goody, looks like we're playing delivery while Rilsie plays with his toys. How exciting," He said. If it could be said that dry wit could drip...
But knowing the pair of them, they'd find exciting before long, damn the consequences. Ashton loved days like this, full of nothing to do but cause as much trouble as he possible could without getting run out of Kirkwall by an angry mob. The normal gauge would be getting sent to the dungeon, but that seemed a likely possibilty. Not like it happened before. Hell, he didn't know that it was possible to be drunk and orderly. "I do hope he's paying for the damages," He joked. It wasn't like his trousers were weighed down with gold after all. That would be his dresser at home. Have to weigh it down after all, else it might wander off on it's own. "And say some... Delivery fees?" He winked with a mischievous grin. Delivery fees, as in the amount they spend in the Hanged Man, as that's inevitably where this venture will take them eventually.
"So should we play as nice little fetch dogs and scrounge up what we can from this list? Maybe... Stir up a bit of trouble along the way?" Ashton suggested, grinning ear to ear. Today was going to be a fun day, he could already tell.
Sparrow was in motion, already sidestepping away from the doorway, as if anticipating Rilien's uncharacteristic (or inevitable, really) door slam. His moods had been awfully unpredictable because of her presence, or Rapture's rather. She understood the need for distance, for time spent alone. How could one explain having their emotions being ripped away time and time again; like a repeated torture that was listlessly lethargic and sluggish in its effects. She could never understand, but she did know what it was like not to have complete control over her own body, and how it felt every time she was returned to it. They'd both lost control of something important, and for now, there was nothing they could do to amend either problem.
“And he even threatened me,” She expressed, straightening her shoulders as if etiquette, manners, and practised posturing had suddenly become her own comportment, “If you don't fetch these things, then you'll not be seeing the Blooming Rose for some time.” Her impersonation faltered when she sidled backwards, catching her balance with a quick pinwheel of her arms.
She wanted to say slamming doors isn't all he's been doing lately, but she kept silent. There were so many questions as of late concerning the Tranquil – whether or not a cure was possible, at all, and why was the Fade affecting him so?
“What is it this time? Toads feet? Barnacles? Squid tentacles,” Sparrow questioned, wriggling her fingers in front of her mouth like those squiggly, sucking things they'd been sent out to search for one afternoon. They'd found them around the Wounded Coast. Small, stunted things that swam in maddeningly swift circles. He'd appeared as nonplussed by their sopping wet appearance as when he'd first sent them out. She dropped her fingers, clicked her tongue knowingly. They'd all managed to scrounge up quite a bit of coin from that skewed-adventure in the Deep Roads, where they'd been betrayed and left for dead by Varric's half-wit of a brother. Anyone who'd seen their abilities, and what they were capable of, before intentionally driving a dagger through each of their backs was clearly missing half their brain. Surprisingly, Sparrow had managed not to blow all of her coin as soon as she'd reached the surface, though Rapture's untimely visits might have had something to do with that. What need did demons have for wealth? She only desired a working vessel.
She linked her hands behind her head, elbows skyward. “Damage and delivery fees; hopefully with all limbs intact, or he'll be paying for those, too,” Sparrow quipped in response, eyebrows arched and dark eyes alight. It'd been so long since they'd ventured out on their own, so long since she'd done anything but hide away in Darktown. She'd been avoiding her companions in the hopes of keeping them out of the line of fire. Loneliness, she'd recently found, was just as powerful a foe as the beastly haunt glowering in her Fadespace. She regarded her companion with a smile, tilting her head – he was always as happy as a clam, eager to tramp up and down the streets of Kirkwall looking for trouble. Trouble wasn't how it started out, anyway, so it wasn't like they were actively searching for it. This time, maybe it was intentional. “Really. Who could refuse that?”
Thump-thump thump-thump
Was he dead? Oh Maker, he sure as hell felt dead. He'd never felt deader in his life. But the mere fact that he felt dead told him that he was not, in fact, dead. Of course he wasn't, that'd be too merciful for soiled soul, it'd be too kind. A long, pained groan escaped his mouth and out into the wild, wherever in the hell he was. He honestly couldn't be assed to care to open his eyes to take in his surroundings. They wouldn't. They were sealed shut, as if trying to drown outside world. Like a defense mechanism. Pretend it doesn't exist and it'll just go away. A shame that real life didn't work like that.
Thump-thump thump-thump
Oh Maker, there it was again. That bloody thumping. What the hell was that? Every beat of that damned drum brought him pain. If he ever found out what or who it was, he'd kill it. It sounded so close, almost like it was inside his head... Because it probably was inside his head. He had a raging headache. If he had his guess about it, a hangover. But not the ordinary sort of hangover. The hangover of the Gods, the king of hangovers, one that a mere mortal like him couldn't even deal with. It hurt, it hurt so bad. Everything hurt. He let loose another death wail, mixed in with a gargle, but that only made things worse as it left him in a wracking cough. After he was finished coughing up a lung, he bravely ventured to peel back an eyelid.
The light! It burned! His eyelid slammed shut in an effort to keep the foul light away from his cornea. The world was assaulting him, and there was nothing he could do about it. He was cold, he hurt, his head was on fire, he felt like he was thrashed by a couple of unruly Qunari, and he was pretty sure that he had to piss something fierce. What in the hell did he do last night? The last thing he remembered was... Sparrow.
"Heeey... Hey. Sparrow. Hey. Are you.. Hey. Are you alive. Sparrow? You there?" He asked. He didn't even know. What in the hell did they get in to last night?
Thump, ba-da-bump, thump, ba-da-bump
The incessant thumping of her heart continued playing xylophone-beats through her skull, only pausing momentarily, as if she'd clapped hands with another ringleader, successfully trading off all of her discomforts, pains, and baritone throbbings. Why had she even bothered pulling this stupid woman away from her debilitated bag-of-bones? Perhaps, it'd been unintentional. Like slipping into water from a slippery surface. She'd watched with mild displeasure as her careless vessel had so casually strayed away from her initial quest, which was to retrieve something for Rilien. Accompanying her was her equally foolish companion, and so she'd watched like a petulant mother, arms resolutely crossed. She'd pay for this later, she'd thought. The window-theatre from which she watched had become a blurry, woozy mess of hazy figures, dizzying objects and buildings she'd hardly been able to identify. Which direction had they even gone? Where were they now? For some reason, Rapture was unsure. She'd been as blind as Sparrow, though she'd somehow felt that they weren't in any familiar location.
And here she was, barely cracking her eyes open for fear that the looming lights would tear straight through her pupils, burning them to ash. It certainly felt like it was a possibility. An unwelcome, humiliated groan escaped her throat before she'd been able to drown it out in a long string of beratements. Humans were stupid. Elves were equally doltish. Is this what was considered a good time in this realm? Willingly drinking themselves silly, awaking in some unknown place and feeling as if ten elephants had waltzed across their body? Foolish, foolish creatures. She understood desire well enough, but desire in sobriety was far more satisfying. Alcohol, in her opinion, was a poor man's measure of entertaining oneself. Her eyes slowly peeped open, barely slits, encroached by the beaming sunlight. Were they indoors? Outdoors? On the suns blazing surface? For someone who'd dedicated her life on bestowing pain and agony on others, she'd never felt this terrible. In her own body, hangovers were quite impossible. Poisons had no effect. Any mortal means of noxious demise did not exist in their realm. Their genealogy prevented them from feeling these things, much like how Tranquil worked, but without the inability to feel emotions. Negativity outweighed any blockades.
She was on her back, hands folded across her chest and she was holding something. Rapture forced her eyes open, ignoring the brilliant flashes of lights assailing her corneas. She glanced down to the frilly object gripped in her hands. A dress? Hundreds of indignant questions arose, but she stifled them down, absently rubbing her thumb along the lacey designs trailing along the collar. Sparrow's clothes were in order, though haphazardly buttoned, hanging sideways and awfully disarranged. It made no sense. She licked her chapped lips, then coughed like a fish out of water. Her throat felt as if she'd spent the night guzzling goblets of sand. Eyeing the ceiling balefully, Rapture allowed her head to slump to the side, regarding her vessel's companion - the archer, the equally stupid one. Unanswered questions arose in her thoughts, but the pounding chased them all away, scattering them like skittering insects, or birds in the midst of flight. Cobwebs, disgruntled considerations and raw abhorrence took their place.
"Fools. One simple request from the bard and you both thoroughly fail. I question the wisdom of my choice," Came her response, dry as any desert. Her voice, as always, had changed. It was languidly frustrated, two-shades feminine. The effort of her words caused another round of wracking coughs, muffled into her knuckles. In a fit of rage, and one that could not be so easily satiated for fear of expiring the copse she inhabited, Rapture tossed the frilly dress over Ashton's gawping face. "Dolt. Where are we?"
"I guess that's a no... Shit," He swore. Great, now he had a demon riding along with him. That's a hell of a start to any morning, if it even was morning anymore. He'd knew about the demon, he was there when it stuck it's wretched hands into Sparrow's head. Rilien had told him about the growing boldness of the damned thing, thought it'd been rare when Ashton had seen it firsthand. He still remembered the waking nightmare it had put them under during the expedition. Needless to say, he was not a fan of the thing. He'd have to deal with it for now. Make sure it didn't cause too much trouble until Sparrow could fight her way back. He'd put it in a headlock if he had to, though the chances of doing that immediately were... Slim. It felt like his own head was in a vice.
It felt like Qunari were drumming a war song on his head, relentless and fierce. He pushed himself further against the ground, as if trying to dig his way out the misery. There was no escaping it, it was inside him. He'd been drunk before. He'd had his fair share of hangovers. This one was for the books... Hell, he wasn't even sure he was sober yet. Everything tasted like cotton. Thinking about cotton, something soft and feather graced the back of his head head, and he took the opportunity to open his eyes. Though hidden from the most of the light, what little slipped through the fabric still stung. It was a white fabric, and as Ashton lifted it slowly off of his head, he came to realize that it was actually a dress. Wait. A dress? "The hell did you get this?" he asked, forgotting for a moment that it wasn't Sparrow. He groaned loudly, bringing to minds the death throes of a horse three times his size. Whatever he ate last night was threatening to make a reappearance. It took all of his strength to force it back down his throat.
He was not a mighty man. He hefted himself up off the floor-- of which he finally realized he was laying face down on, and scrabbled toward the corner of whatever room they were in. Luckily, there was a bucket waiting for him them, into which he unleashed the contents of his stomach. It was a vile, nasty practice, but he felt better afterward. Still not good, but you can't void an empty stomach again. That's not to say it didn't stop the dry heaves. From his vantage point above the bucket, he finally got a good look of where they were at-- and a familiar sight it was.
"Daaaamiiit, not again," Ashton cursed, fighting back another dry heave. The dirty bricks, the chains from the walls and ceilings, the tiny window, and the entire wall of bars-- he was back in jail. "We're in the bloody jail. The hell I do this time?" He said, exasperated. He was locked in a jail cell with a demon possessing his friend. Who did he piss off last night to curse him like that. "Rilien's gonna strangle me," He murmured under his breath. He hoped he managed to get some of the tranquil's things. No telling where the list was now. It certainly wasn't in his pocket...
Because they weren't the same pockets. "What." He stated flatly. Instead of his usual attire of homemade leathers and furry furs, he was instead wearing the finery befitting a noble. Midnight blue svelt shirt, embroidored with gold inlay, and the collar was made of rabbit fur, finer than anything he'd ever worked with. Burgandy linen pants that still had the crease in them, and jet black boots to complete the ensamble. These weren't his clothes-- but he had to admit, he looked damn fine. Perhaps it was a good thing he was drunk. He'd piss himself if he knew the price now. And he couldn't have that, especially not in his new clothes.
"Listen, I think we uh... I think we fucked up. Real bad," He admitted. This was worse than usual. "Do you remember anything. This better not be your fault," He accused. He didn't know what he'd do if it was. Chances were, he'd find out if it was possible to rip a demon out down Sparrow's throat.
"Don't sound so disappointed," She chided, rolling her surreptitious eyes. There was nothing else she could do - she was stuck in this small, brick-built chamber, trapped along with some sodding wet pup who insisted on whining about his current condition. T'was his fault, after all. The consequences were hardly severe, only uncomfortable. Even as her stomach gave a contradictory growl, threatening to spill whatever Sparrow had eaten last night, Rapture merely swiped the back of her hand across her mouth, refusing the humiliation of retching in the corner like some ignoble creature. The action in itself, however well she might have felt afterwards, was far below her. She would not stoop, she would not wretch. Instead, Rapture turned on her side, facing a small porcelain basin. It was either a washpot or a chamberpot. Her mouth twisted upwards, mirroring her upraised eyebrows. There was something within that leer of hers, unfamiliar and foreign even though she should have been used to it by now, as if that reflection knew something she did not. As if Sparrow looked out of it from her Fadespace prison, clearly amused. Knowing that she might know something she did not set her teeth on edge, grinding harshly.
Those eyes of hers have a reddish tint that lies adjacent to the dark flecks surrounding her pinprick pupils, muddying the mucky waters. Sharp and menacing, sadistic. Dangerous, even in her vulnerable state. She could not stand over Ashton and throttle him even if she'd wanted to, and parts of her did, desperately. More than anything, it'd poke holes in Sparrow's heart. She'd sink further, and further, but those violent actions were beyond her. Her limbs would not obey her. They remained limp, devoid of strength. One hand remained draped over her eyes, fingers splayed across her cheek. The other traced lazy patterns across the cobblestones. She'd found a way to embrace the erratic drumming in her skull, forcing it into a voodoo-mantra; a seance of sorts. She almost smiled, willing herself to open a small tear, a tiny window-hole where she could watch Sparrow. Throughout the days she'd spent in the Fade, she'd begun building onto the dreaming prison, adding willowy trees and the ruins of Tevinter, mountains of books, and her father's old blades, her mother's leather satchel, and mirrored images of her assailants who'd waver in the shadows. They'd emerge from the darkest corners, creep through her windows, and extend their clawed hands. Then, Rapture blinked, and the images were gone.
It was a small comfort. Nausea assailed her, dragging her down into a wobbly sea that left her reeling. Had she been a weaker creature, then she would have joined Ashton in the corner, throwing up Sparrow's last meal, but she was not and would not allow him the satisfaction. Her refusal was resolute. She shrugged her shoulders, scrapping up any sliver of memory that would explain why Sparrow had brought some woman's frilly dress along with her. She came up with nothing and responded with silence. Surely, someone was missing their clothes, or at least had one dress missing from their closet. Had they decided to break into someone's home? Or had they visited the Blooming Rose? The possibilities were endless, and all she knew was that, for once, she'd had no part in their foolishness. Narrowed eyes analyzed her surroundings, dragging across the empty room. It was devoid of any comforts; no sheets, no pillows, no scrummy bed made out straw. Absolutely nothing. She scoffed harshly, pushing herself up onto her elbows. "Prison? Really." She mused softly, breathing the words through her teeth. This was an interesting turn of events, and one she hadn't been expecting or plotting in advance - but, if it worked in her favour and they hadn't actually procured any of Rilien's listed items, then she was happy as a clam.
"My fault?" She repeated sourly, scooting herself backwards so that she could lean against the brick wall. The effort sent another tremor scrambling through her stomach, roiling her innards. "T'was not I who went to the Hanged Man. T'was not I who drank myself stupid. Had it been I who'd been inhabiting this lousy vessel, then we would not find ourselves in this cell. You, and Sparrow, are to blame." Her accusations had some grain of truth, but she wouldn't have admitted to any folly such as this. Had she had any saliva in her mouth, then she would have spit it on the ground in disgust. Ashton's insistence that she had something to do with their misadventure was entirely offensive. Rapture laughed bitterly, mouth twisting into an unimpressed scowl. "I'm sure the bard will be pleased with your efforts, archer." She, too, wore a different outfit, altogether. Whatever clothes she'd been initially wearing had been tossed away somewhere else. Hers was an assortment of feminine clothes mixed with a sailor's portage; a corset over an embroidered vest, high-top boots with silken pantaloons, a gaudy bandana, and several golden bangles reserved for women who could afford them.
"We've stolen clothes. Why is this?"
Or they could have stolen clothes. Now that they demon mentioned it, he couldn't put it out of the realm of possibility. He was tight with his money, so much so that his wallet squeaked when he opened it, and he wondered if it carried over into plastered Ash... Plastered Ash was such a jackass. He certainly had the skills to steal clothes, and it wouldn't be the first thing he had stole in this city. He was keeping his outfit though. They fit him perfectly, and he looked great in them. "You're asking me? I don't even know why I do some of the things I do when I'm sober, much less drunk," He said, dry heaving into the bucket one more time. He tried not to think what the bucket was used for... He glanced at Sparrow's body, and noticed that she looked just as bad as he felt. He couldn't help but chuckle.
"Play your games, try to pretend that you're better than us, I know you feel just as bad as I do. Suck mortality, demon," he chuckled, followed by a series of loud dry heaves. Not that these in particular were necessary, he just wanted the demon to suffer. It picked the wrong time to wear Sparrow's skin. He hoped the sounds would be enough to put her over the edge-- if that didn't, the last was sure to do it. He didn't think his course of action through to the end, as something did manage to find it's way up his throat and into the bucket. And here he thought he couldn't get anymore empty. Still, this wasn't his first time. The same could not be said for the demon. He fell back, and felt the rough stones of the jail floor dig into his back. Maker, he hoped he didn't have to fester in here for long.
The demon's musings were shortlived, fleeting things. She didn't care whether or not they'd, in a drunken stupor, slaughtered an entire family of svelt-wearing nobles to acquire the clothes, nor was she bothered that Sparrow had managed to smuggle someone's dress, as well. The scenario was unlikely, in any case. Neither Sparrow, nor Ashton, seemed to be able to channel the apathetic nonchalance she wore so well. Inelegant fingertips fumbled with the vests fastenings, plucking absently at the lustrous buttons. She was not Pride. She cared little for appearances, unless they managed to aid her in acquiring what she desired, what she wished for. Her true form was a testament to that veritable truth; scaled body, clawed hands, knobby disfigurements. Even so, Rapture had managed, in the past, to attract careless mortals. This vessel was an unfortunate mess; weak handed, and hardly immune to circumstances like this. If she denied wanting to step into the mortal world permanently, then she would have been lying. It was every demon's wish, desire, wanton need. When Ashton continued wretching in the bucket, Rapture pressed a hand to her stomach, trying to settle her queasiness.
"Disgusting wretch," She hissed between firmly pressed lips, burping wetly, "Foul human. I hope you drown." Her vindication faltered briefly, eyebrows screwed up in concentration. She would not, she would not -- and then, Rapture skittered quickly across the chamber, emptying the contents of her stomach into the chamberpot. Thankfully, it had been cleaned. It seemed as though even Kirkwall had its standards of cleanliness when it came to prisons. Her back arched like a struck feline, ribcage seemingly bunching. The horrific act could not be described, nor understood. Her insides were turning against her, disobeying her with childish refute. She kept one arm slung around the chamberpot in a tense deathgrip, white-knuckled and trembling from the effort of keeping her face from smacking off the lid. Why the hell did they drink? Was this the entire point of it all? Finally, as if her stomach had relented its merciless assault on her throat, Rapture wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, breathing harshly through her nose. Her throat was rubbed raw, and she imagined something acidic sizzling somewhere behind her tonsils - this awareness, this discomfort was not something she'd wanted to experience.
She'd decided, then and there, that Sparrow had done this on purpose. And when one intentionally wronged her, then they'd suffer the consequences. Her eyeslashes dripped with fresh tears, speckling the now-dirtied basin. There was a slow unwinding of her intestines, and Rapture managed to fall backwards onto the floor, holding herself up with one elbow, remaining half-slumped. The pounding in her throat is explicitly apparent. She wet her lips, and squeezed her eyes shut. However much she willed away the sickness, Rapture felt its sharp talons dig into her shoulder, scrunching tiny fingers in her stomach. "Pathetic. Lord Riviera." Ashton chuckled. "Lord. I like that,"
"He is certainly not alone in his baseness," a different voice answered, the sheer flatness of it rendering it unique, unmistakable for anyone else. Rilien stepped out of a shadow and stood in front of the cell, arms folded into the sleeves of his emerald-colored tunic, the silk heavily embroidered with gold-threaded designs. There was a vaguley-illusory quality to it, as though it depicted something different depending on the angle at which it was observed. If Ashton and Sparrow were quite unaccustomed to such finery, he was anything but. In stark contrast to the incarcerated pair, Rilien was as immaculate as ever, not a single hair out of place and free of all dirt, which was rather stark in comparison to the vaguely-grimy dinge of the jail's stone hallways.
His eyes flickered over the pair, flitting from Ashton in all his inglorious sprawl to her, clearly attempting to clamp down on the contents of her stomach. Just how long he'd been standing there, as well as how he'd known to find them there in the first place, were questions that for now would be resolutely without answer. He intended to extract answers of his own, first, including why he'd had to go to the trouble of speaking with several officers of the peace and procuring a certain piece of paper. One he was quite certain they would be interested in.
From his sleeve, the Tranquil drew three objects. Scissored in the spaces between his fingers were the necks of two glass bottles and one large brass key, all of which he flashed in full view of the other two, dangling them in front of the bars. "I expect these might be of some assistance to your... ailments. In order to be completely certain, however, I would need to know how such conditions came about." He did not doubt that at this point, he knew more about their night than they did, but frankly, he was in a position to force the story from them, and he fully intended on doing so before allowing them any relief. He considered it a due measure of retribution for the fact that they obviously carried nothing he had asked for.
"Well," He began, forcing whatever was crawling it's way up his throat back down to the rippling abyss that was his stomach. "I think it began in something like that--" He said, pointing at the bottle in Rilien's hand before whatever had climbed his throat returned, this time with a righteous vengeance. He couldn't tame the beast this time, and he sat up and clutched the bucket as well. He was pretty sure that time he expelled his pickled liver. "Ughhh... And it ended.. In this cage," he managed. He couldn't even look at the bottles in Rilien's hand, they reminded him so much of the demons swimming around his own belly.
Had his mind not been pickled as well, there would be some questions of his own asked. Such as how long had the tranquil been there. How much of their night did he know-- certainly it was more than him. A complete stranger would know more than him. But alas, the only thing that Ashton could ask was "Why?" It was rhetorical of course. He damn well knew why. Because he was a silly, silly man whose limits knew no bounds. Damn his unbound soul. He laid there for a few moments, careful to avert the sights of the bottles away from his eyes. Finally, he had enough solid foundation to project his next sentence. "Well, the last thing I remember was heading in the general direction of the Hanged Man. I suppose we got there..." said.
"Hey Ril? Can you stand still. You're making everything worse," of course the Tranquil was still as a statue. It was Ashton that was moving. He had manage to catch a bout of the shakes. His own body was plotting against him now, probably in retribution for whatever he did to it last night. What did he do last night? Well. He didn't have a nice night's sleep in his own bed. That much was for damn certain.
With Rilien's untimely arrival, and one that Rapture hadn't been anticipating, or detected, in her debilitated state, the demon began pushing against her fleshy restraints. Kicking out like a wanton child with all ofher power, throwing herself back into the Fadespace and nearly colliding with Sparrow's barrier-prison. Every object within Sparrow's dreamscape shimmered like a mirage, crumbling into hazy pieces with each desperate collision. She did not want to face Rilien in her condition. She did not want to be seen weak or vulnerable. Cleverness was all and well, but there would be repercussions if she flaunted any chess pieces, at all. Her liquid arms, ethereal and impossibly elongated, pitched through the barrier, grappling onto Sparrow's shoulders. And for once, Sparrow smiled and nearly refused, pulling away from her - let her suffer the consequences, let her face discomfort. But, Rapture's insistence was too strong, far too wild to struggle against. The demon pulled Sparrow straight through, fingers wrapped around her tender neck. Like always, an iciness enveloped her body, as if she'd been thrown into water that was absurdly cold. Impossibly so.
A guppy-fished gasp escaped her lips, and Sparrow sat straight up, relinquishing her hold on the washbasin. Unlike Rapture, she'd felt this way before. On many occasions, actually. How many times had she found herself too drunk to walk home, and in need of assistance? How many times had she found herself retching into a bucket because her thoughts had taken a turn for the worst? Far too many. And so, feeling as badly as she did, it wasn't the end of the world. She'd felt worse before. Her body felt foreign to her, igniting twitches down her forearms, legs, and fingers, as if it'd begun to wake up from a horrible nightmare. Pinpricks and short spasms; slowly, ponderously becoming more aware of itself. Eyelids clicked open, and the pigment around her eyes darkened, losing its unnatural light. In spite of the bongo drums trouncing through her skull, and the caustic illness spreading through her midsection, Sparrow laughed loudly. Then, slumped onto her back, arms crossed over her chest.
"I bet she's never felt that before," She breathed, still a little short-winded, "Seems to me that we've found a weakness, getting piss drunk and all." Sparrow looked through her eyelashes regarding her upside down companion, who seemed disappointed by the turn of events. "Like he said. The Hanged Man. Drinking loads, stealing clothes. We didn't hurt anyone, did we?" She paused, waggling her fingers just below the peculiar vials Rilien was holding. It was just beyond her reach, so she pawed at them. She hoped they hadn't encountered anyone, and hurt them to steal their clothes. One could never be sure when they've traversed the bottom-of-the-barrel. The likelihood of she and Ashton carousing the streets and randomly accosting someone, particularly nobles, for their clothes seemed a ridiculous notion. It hadn't happened before, after all. There was another pause. "By the way... I'm sorry, Ash. She's a little unpleasant. S'pose we haven't talked much about that. I was hoping—," that she wouldn't appear, that she'd flit away like the night, that the talk would be unnecessary. Her selfishness, it seemed, far outweighed any of her other conventional senses. Her hopes were childish things. Soon enough, she'd have to talk about it, even if she didn't feel ready.
She'd have to trust her friends.