Cassandra’s arrival to this world had been filled with… panic, mostly. At least initially, in those first moments immediately after waking. She’d been panicked, terrified, searching for Delilah, Sylas as she’d tried to stem the bleeding from where he’d fed on her most recently. But they weren’t there. At least, not that she could see. Was this another game they’re playing with her? Another way to make her suffer?
Now, though, there were other things that became far more important. Survival. (Not that that hadn’t been the most important thing in her life for the past year. Just not this… flavour.) It’s cold, and snowy, and she’s not dressed for the weather. Her pale blue dress (where it’s not growing ever more stained wither blood) might have long sleeves but it’s not thick enough to keep her warm.
Pelor, she hates the cold.
Curling in on herself, she makes her way through the snow in the hopes that she can find somewhere, or someone. Perhaps they’ll be able to tell her where she is. What’s going on. She doesn’t know how long she’s been walking when she hears it. The sound of a voice. In trouble, from the sound of it.
And she’s running then, hitching the skirt of her dress up to her knees to try and keep it from slowing her down. Until she reaches where she thinks the voice was coming from. Asking for help. She finds her way to the edge of the hole, dropping to her knees and leaning over, a slip of a girl looking a little younger than her thirteen years, white-streaked dark curls falling wild over her shoulders. “Of course,” she answers his request for help immediately, in a voice laced with what sounds like a rather proper English accent. If England existed in Exandria. “Are you all right, aside from having fallen down a hole?”
She’s ignoring her own injuries, of course. They were simply a part of life under the Briarwood’s control. She’s had worse. Her focus is on figuring out how best to aid his escape. That’s far more important. She needs to make sure he’s not hurt, first, though. She doesn’t want to hurt him more in trying to get him out.
You lying next to me.
Now, though, there were other things that became far more important. Survival. (Not that that hadn’t been the most important thing in her life for the past year. Just not this… flavour.) It’s cold, and snowy, and she’s not dressed for the weather. Her pale blue dress (where it’s not growing ever more stained wither blood) might have long sleeves but it’s not thick enough to keep her warm.
Pelor, she hates the cold.
Curling in on herself, she makes her way through the snow in the hopes that she can find somewhere, or someone. Perhaps they’ll be able to tell her where she is. What’s going on. She doesn’t know how long she’s been walking when she hears it. The sound of a voice. In trouble, from the sound of it.
And she’s running then, hitching the skirt of her dress up to her knees to try and keep it from slowing her down. Until she reaches where she thinks the voice was coming from. Asking for help. She finds her way to the edge of the hole, dropping to her knees and leaning over, a slip of a girl looking a little younger than her thirteen years, white-streaked dark curls falling wild over her shoulders. “Of course,” she answers his request for help immediately, in a voice laced with what sounds like a rather proper English accent. If England existed in Exandria. “Are you all right, aside from having fallen down a hole?”
She’s ignoring her own injuries, of course. They were simply a part of life under the Briarwood’s control. She’s had worse. Her focus is on figuring out how best to aid his escape. That’s far more important. She needs to make sure he’s not hurt, first, though. She doesn’t want to hurt him more in trying to get him out.