"So, you do get out. Thought you Light-heads spent most of your time praying."
Karis' voice held a hint of hostility, a healthy dose of caution and all the sarcasm she could muster. The undead didn't sleep; why would she? Instead she typically spent the whee hours of the "night" walking around the ship. The armor almost always stayed on, unless she was obsessively cleaning it.
The halberd on her shoulder looked like it was excellent condition, for that matter. Still, she wasn't brandishing it.
Nehaalista drew herself up straight again, and clasped her hands over the ruby. Not only could she not fathom what the insidious, vile creature wanted to do with her (Nehaalista assumed it would be something to make the Forsaken feel better about herself), she didn't want to. Instead, Nehaalista turned those bright, pupil-less eyes on Karis and watched her very carefully. It wouldn't matter how fast the Forsaken was.
Nehaalista had the divine shield of the light, and ten seconds was more than enough for her. She signed rapidly at the Forsaken, and at the end, smiled briefly.
Actually, she was just bored. She'd learned how to stave it off during the hours of the night - although ususally she had other Forsaken to keep her company. She frowned and watched the rapid movements and then shrugged. "...didn't catch any of that. Sorry, kiddo."
The Draenei. She didn't particularly like them. Of course, when you're undead, you don't like anyone who claims to be a holy warrior. She shifted her weight and then set the halberd down, leaning it against the wall.
Nehaalista raised an eyebrow at the word, "kiddo". She might've been young for a draenei, but she was certainly many centuries older than Karis. And when Karis finally decided to give up the ghost, Nehaalista would still be there.
The thought was sobering, of course, but something she was used to. She signed again, and wrinkled her nose a bit. Not matter the smell of Stacy's acrid planty-ness, that heavy, dulling smell of rot followed Karis wherever she went. Nehaalista supposed if she smelled like pork left out in the sun, she'd be angry too.
Don't take it personally, Nehaalista. She calls everyone "kiddo". Karis settled against the wall, eying the Draenei over. Here she was. Yards from the enemy. Back home they'd probably be trying to kill each other right now. Here, the only thing stopping them was the ship.
"...so, are you gonna say anything or just sit there?"
Nehaalista raised an eyebrow, and then drew an "x" across her throat. She then shrugged and sat back against the couch. The ship might've been the only thing stopping Karis, but Nehaalista had been granted the boon of self-control.
Considering she'd just had a nightmare about killing the Forsaken, that self-control was very, very, very prevalent. Her thumb coasted over the carved petals in the ruby as she turned her attention back to the Bleed.
Karis' voice held a hint of hostility, a healthy dose of caution and all the sarcasm she could muster. The undead didn't sleep; why would she? Instead she typically spent the whee hours of the "night" walking around the ship. The armor almost always stayed on, unless she was obsessively cleaning it.
The halberd on her shoulder looked like it was excellent condition, for that matter. Still, she wasn't brandishing it.
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Nehaalista had the divine shield of the light, and ten seconds was more than enough for her. She signed rapidly at the Forsaken, and at the end, smiled briefly.
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The Draenei. She didn't particularly like them. Of course, when you're undead, you don't like anyone who claims to be a holy warrior. She shifted her weight and then set the halberd down, leaning it against the wall.
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The thought was sobering, of course, but something she was used to. She signed again, and wrinkled her nose a bit. Not matter the smell of Stacy's acrid planty-ness, that heavy, dulling smell of rot followed Karis wherever she went. Nehaalista supposed if she smelled like pork left out in the sun, she'd be angry too.
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"...so, are you gonna say anything or just sit there?"
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Considering she'd just had a nightmare about killing the Forsaken, that self-control was very, very, very prevalent. Her thumb coasted over the carved petals in the ruby as she turned her attention back to the Bleed.
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But it was meant to be nasty.
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