Beatrix
Beatrix’ nostrils flared; the insult clear in those two words. He’d irritated her, and it showed in the way her right eye twitched. She doesn’t speak, just basking in his disappointment in herself—and hers in herself, because she was like their mother. She did want more; and more; and more. The insult would spur her to seek out more—like a bad comment about an outfit that ruins one’s self-esteem, except this worked in her favor.
When he informed her, he had water magic, she’d composed herself. He continued to talk, and she listened, idly picking at the hole she’d made in the table. “Mother was… Grand Sorceress, I think.” It sounded about right—what you’d expect Zariah Launceleyn to call herself.
When he informed her, he had water magic, she’d composed herself. He continued to talk, and she listened, idly picking at the hole she’d made in the table. “Mother was… Grand Sorceress, I think.” It sounded about right—what you’d expect Zariah Launceleyn to call herself.
Let's see how long you'll last, puppet.
