(no subject)
The star stands, rubbing at the reddened welts around her wrists and looking remarkably unperturbed for someone surrounded by a good fifteen men who, more likely than not, are not going to be offering her a room to sleep in and a new dress to wear.
"This was, perhaps, not the wisest of your decisions," she begins almost absently, pursing her lips at a particularly ugly looking scrape. "You will get nothing for him."
It's not particularly true - or at least she doesn't think that it is - but that's hardly the point.
"What makes you think that the Queen will negotiate with you? The Royal family isn't well known for their affection toward one another. Or their loyalty."
That last bit, on the other hand?
Is not so much truth as it is general knowledge. The Royal Family of Stormhold is far more likely to murder one another on their own time than they are to pay any sort of ransom.
So while it may not be true, she is certainly banking on it being at least plausible.
She rather needs it to be.
"It is more likely that you have done her a service," her voice drawls, syllables slow and lazy and mocking. "This child is hardly what she wants as a successor, you must admit."
"Child now, eh? Hardly think that's fittin' with that fine display you put on earlier."
Or not.
Shit.
"Very well," she concedes, the slow-spreading flush the only hint of panic at verbally trapping herself - the only hint of the near-frantic mental backtracking.
A new angle then. Something in another direction entirely.
"I am assuming," she blinks, head canting. "From the ridiculously speculative glances, that you are aware of what I am."
The only reply is a dry chuckle that resonates, bounces around the small hold.
She shrugs delicately, "You will get even less for me, I am afraid. I am rather useless to you without a heart."
"C'mon now," a man at her back replies. "You ain't useless at all, Miss. Are plenty of benefits of a servant that don't ever age. Can get more than a pretty penny for that, even if we can’t sell ya by section."
She snorts impolitely, rolls her eyes skyward, "That is your brilliant plan for me? I remain decidedly unimpressed."
"An overly mouthy servant, perhaps," the leader steps forward. "But even that fades with enough time and the right hand, wouldn't you agree?"
Her back stiffens, eyes narrowing silently for a moment before she sniffs haughtily.
"And the appeal, I think, is very clear," he continues, taloned fingers curling at the place where her heart isn't, feathers fanning across her collarbone, along her neck, and it's something of an effort not to shudder.
Her chin tilts instead, voice dry, "Charming."
She peers at him down the line of her nose, lips curling distastefully.
"You may remove your hand now."
A beat.
"Perverted bastard."
The hand draws back and snaps forward again almost immediately, the sound of the impact surprisingly loud, and her head bows forward, face hidden behind a veil of pale hair and shoulders shaking.
"Are we very much done then," he drawls, clicking his beak and flexing his fingers. "Lady Queen?"
The star rights herself, hair falling back and spine straightening neatly - one hand pressed to her stinging cheek (fingers over the row of claw marks and sticky with sluggishly seeping shine) and her lips curled into an amused grin.
She huffs out a laugh, "You do not know me nearly well enough, gentlemen."
Her fingers smooth downward, silvered blood smearing along her skin like war paint, and she hefts her skirts - prim and poised once more.
"Shall we proceed?"