theres an old man sitting on a throne thats saying...
Aside from flattening his narrow ears against his head, Amet doesn’t move throughout her outburst. This only succeeds in making her angrier. He’s her brother, yes. But right now she wants him to hurt. She wants him to feel the whispers of forgotten pain that continued to lash across her mind and body.
Iset rolled bright eyes, “Typical,” she muttered under her breath. She knew, without a doubt, that Sakir would tell her to let it go. She tried. She tried really hard. And for now, she pushed her temper down like a ball being shoved under the water.
Amet’s calculating eyes trail her sides as they balloon with air, barely stretching over her protruding ribs. Their matching eyes were flames hiding behind sheets of ice; unyielding and absolute.
Neither was willing to let their guard down for long enough to melt the frosty shield and see past the facade the other was hiding behind, so they just stood there, staring at each other. She fought the ball of her temper that was threatening to burst to the surface, clenching her jaw and grinding her teeth to try and force it deeper and deeper below.
Iset cackled and bumped her brother in the shoulder, shocking herself with how weak she was when she almost knocked herself over. Large eyes blinked slowly, looking far too large in her thin face. She recovered quickly, sliding the wall back up to hide her shock and disappointment in her own physical insufficiency.
She laughed again, but this time it sounded forced and unused, “So you finally made some friends, have you brother?” she taunted, “Well thats new.” She looked around searchingly, “Where is this girl, Amet?” she teased, “Hiding away in your head with all the rest of your imaginary friends?” She scoffed. Iset shook her metallic head firmly, becoming abnormally serious for her, “I want to go somewhere new. Somewhere we can both have a completely new start."
...I should probably keep my pretty mouth shut