Stormclouds Gather

[Jayce]

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Slowly, dimly, Yolande began to regain some measure of focus. From where it had stopped, time once again began its inexorable march. Had it been seconds? Minutes? Hours? She had no idea. The agony of her split scalp sizzled to life once more, and with it, the dampness that spoiled her hair. Blinking the grogginess of spent adrenaline from her eyes, she stared up at Hemlocke, utterly bewildered. His hot breath splashed against her face, battling with her own panicked breaths. Forcing her body to comply as best she could, the Corsican sucked down a deep, steady inhalation, before releasing it slowly, sending a few errant strands of the man's hair twirling just so.

The words failed to entirely register. She heard, them, of course, but, still half-stuck in her reverie, she failed to entirely listen to them. Her attention was drawn to the blade, sliding away from her unprotected neck. A particularly violent shudder had brought the edge to kiss her soft skin ever-so-slightly, the nick beginning to weep, an indication as to just how close the end truly was.

"Is why I will provide you with what you seek."

Near-instantly, her eyes hardened once more, locking with the Rogue as he grew closer with each passing second. A trick, surely. He didn't want the woman to peacefully depart, as peacefully as possible when one's head is removed at knifepoint, at least. No, he wanted to see her suffer. That was the only explanation. Dangle a treat of hope just out of reach, then lunge for the kill. Make the moment memorable, extend it from the simple moment of death, turn it to a display of panicked theatrics. Put on a show for the other attendees. Remind them of what their leader was truly capable of, what happened to those who crossed him.

"With a condition."

A condition? Any "condition" this man could ask for was likely to be so wildly esoteric, so outside the realm of a well-adjusted being, she daren't even attempt to guess what it might be. Perhaps an extension of the torture. Two parts of her began a silent battle. One half wished to simply return to the moment of her death. She had experienced a peace, then, a peace Yolande had scarcely felt in her waking life. The other, though, was curiosity, desire, and drive. An inquisitiveness begin to take hold within, forcing the soldiers of peaceful expiration back to their last bastions, before battering them down in one fell swoop. The war had taken merely a moment, just long enough for the matriarch to fully return to her senses, dulled by withdrawal and pain as they may be. A sense of dread befell the woman as she spoke the words, the remnants of that destroyed army returning home with tales of vicious sadism and unhinged madness, but she spoke all the same.

"Nomme le. Name it."

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