12-29-2019, 12:09 PM
It was a given name – odd, perhaps, to an outsider, but normal amongst her family, all named for monsters or other terrible things. She likes the name, the sharpness of it on the tongue, how it is cruel and fitting both.
He gives his name, then - Clegane - and she nods, though the name means nothing to her. Still, it is useful information, perhaps – they soften, sometimes, when their own name is repeated. A false familiarity. He moves for her, and she considers going on her way, but she still has questions about him, curiosities she thinks can be satisfied with a little bit of prodding.
He doesn’t strike her as exceptionally strong-willed, though she bases this on nothing but brief assumptions. She doesn’t touch at his mind, not yet, but the temptation is there, mulling in the back of her mind.
So she doesn’t move, instead, she stands, watching him. The bone-thing watches to, empty sockets fixed on him in mimicry of Violence’s gaze.
“I have nowhere to be,” she says, and this is more honest of her. She is bound to no one, to no kingdom. She doesn’t even see her family much, anymore, they are boring and stupid and scattered.
“I’d hear your story, Clegane,” she says, “if you’d tell it.”
She hopes, of course, that the story is full of her namesake, and that he will share it, the gory details that left him so scarred, But even if it doesn’t, she wants to get him talking, to see what he’s like, and what, perhaps, she could do with him.
He gives his name, then - Clegane - and she nods, though the name means nothing to her. Still, it is useful information, perhaps – they soften, sometimes, when their own name is repeated. A false familiarity. He moves for her, and she considers going on her way, but she still has questions about him, curiosities she thinks can be satisfied with a little bit of prodding.
He doesn’t strike her as exceptionally strong-willed, though she bases this on nothing but brief assumptions. She doesn’t touch at his mind, not yet, but the temptation is there, mulling in the back of her mind.
So she doesn’t move, instead, she stands, watching him. The bone-thing watches to, empty sockets fixed on him in mimicry of Violence’s gaze.
“I have nowhere to be,” she says, and this is more honest of her. She is bound to no one, to no kingdom. She doesn’t even see her family much, anymore, they are boring and stupid and scattered.
“I’d hear your story, Clegane,” she says, “if you’d tell it.”
She hopes, of course, that the story is full of her namesake, and that he will share it, the gory details that left him so scarred, But even if it doesn’t, she wants to get him talking, to see what he’s like, and what, perhaps, she could do with him.