Stormclouds Gather

[Jayce]

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The throbbing, incessant pain in the back of Yolande's head intensified as the svelte woman was lifted bodily by the neck, before slamming back down to the surface of the table, propelled by psychotic strength and artificial gravity. Her vision blurred from the sheer force of the impact, and through the white-hot, searing agony, there was a distinct, warm, wet sensation. Tendrils of blood began to trail across the previously-pristine surface, their source obvious. Blinking the shock from her eyes, the shimmering, trembling form of the blade nearly kissing her neck first drew her gaze, before it slowly, painfully slowly, shifted to meet that of her attacker. Her breaths came rapid and ragged, before stopping entirely as she winced. One of her polished hairpins had been thrown free by the blow, rolled from the surface of the table, and finally clattered to the floor.

Her mouth opened, and, for once, no words were ushered forth. No matter how she searched, no matter how quickly her mind raced, not a sound escaped her lips. There was nothing she could say, there was nothing to say. The consummate diplomat, the negotiator, the mother, and, finally, the soldier. Every layer of her personality, every painstakingly-crafted version of Yolande Cartier, every facet of her being had been stripped away, leaving nothing but the scared little girl that once scurried the dank corridors of the sunken cities, desperately searching for her next meal. Scrabbling up discarded change, picking pockets, enduring the beatings when she was caught, biding her time. Years, decades, had led up to this moment, and she'd failed. Miserably. Tears welled at the corners of her eyes, trickling down to mix with the blood beginning to mat her flawlessly-kept hair. The matriarch sealed her lips once more, those brown eyes sinking lower, taking on an air of quiet resignation, before fluttering shut.

The faces of Marie, Sauvanne, Vivienne, Christiane, Sylvie, of Arnaud and the rest of the Famille flashed through her mind. Each was paired with a moment, a time where the rigors of the world seemed to melt away, leaving nothing but the joy of the here-and-now. Sauvanne finally taming her beast, Vivienne and Christiane trading off-color jokes with Arnaud at Clairvaux. Marie's overjoyed expression as she brought home her brevet de pilote, and little Sylvie, asleep in her cradle, blissfully unbothered by life's many tribulations.

"Josie..." The word was barely audible, perhaps quiet enough that even the man towering over her battered form may not be able to hear.

The matriarch had been so certain she'd succeed, completely convinced of her own ability, perhaps even superiority. She'd fought harder men than these Liberty thugs, or so she'd thought. It was to be just another deal, another rung on the ladder to success, another step towards finally being able to enjoy what life had to offer. All a means to an end. 'It would take much, much more'? No, it wouldn't. All it took was one half-man, one hour, and the realization that, perhaps, she had been doomed to fail from the very beginning. Yolande's eyes cracked open, focusing on nothing at all, as a last smile crossed her face. It was neither the grin of a lover, nor the beam of a mother, nor the smirk of a politician, nor the facade of a diplomat. It carried an honesty, an indication that, perhaps, she wasn't truly in the room at all, not any longer. Yolande was aboard the Morelle Mortelle, fingers playing over the fine silk of her gown, just as they had a scant hour before. She laughed. It wasn't loud, barely more than a 'huh' of air, enough to cause her chest to rise and fall just once. The scenes overlaid one another, Yolande on the ship, Yolande at the tender mercy of the animal, and she spoke the same words twice.

"...Very cute..."

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