It had been rising steadily since she first felt it. It kept her from sleep, from conversation, from distraction, from any semblance of peace she'd come to know here. Her heart raced, her eyes ached, her teeth ground against each other; her hands would not keep still, as though she were some anxious girl riddled with some trifling horror.
She sits deep in an armchair, watching the rest of the Bar chat and pass before her, blithe and bonny. She grips the arms until her knuckles are white, eyes darting. No one speaks to her. And just as well -- because with no warning, the sensation that had previously been an insistent buzzing making a hive of her body explodes.
Lady Macbeth goes perfectly still. The world whites out before her eyes for a moment, and all she can hear is her own utterance:
"The hour is come."
She rises, blind to her own will but guided by something deeper. The knife finds its way to her hand on its own. She begins prowling the Bar, ready.
After lingering by the door for some time, Macbeth begins wandering throughout the room. He gives a nod to those who glance at him, but gives no verbal reply.
For now, he is content to see what he might glean through observation.
Visions flicker before her as she walks: a candle, a knife. "No, no, I will not allow it!" she hisses under her breath. Her eyes dart: there is no trouble to be seen, though she could little expect anyone else to know what tormented her. Nor does she recognize anyone in sight, not Sharpe, not Mary Anne, nor Hel nor Puck nor even new-wed Catherine.
The wood floor gleam red for a moment. She stops where she stands, breathing hard through clenched teeth. "I care not," she murmurs, staring straight ahead. "It is all one to me. I was not punished. I will not let this pass."
The weapon is to its breaking point. Almost. Softly, softly.
People and things and things that may be people--this place seems like a child of the witches' fiendish brain. It is wonderous and strange and none of it familiar.
Except...
There is a woman who stalks about the room whose movements he recognizes as he does his own. Enthusiasm, perhaps, outweighs sense as he approaches her from behind.
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She sits deep in an armchair, watching the rest of the Bar chat and pass before her, blithe and bonny. She grips the arms until her knuckles are white, eyes darting. No one speaks to her. And just as well -- because with no warning, the sensation that had previously been an insistent buzzing making a hive of her body explodes.
Lady Macbeth goes perfectly still. The world whites out before her eyes for a moment, and all she can hear is her own utterance:
"The hour is come."
She rises, blind to her own will but guided by something deeper. The knife finds its way to her hand on its own. She begins prowling the Bar, ready.
Reply
For now, he is content to see what he might glean through observation.
Reply
The wood floor gleam red for a moment. She stops where she stands, breathing hard through clenched teeth. "I care not," she murmurs, staring straight ahead. "It is all one to me. I was not punished. I will not let this pass."
The weapon is to its breaking point. Almost. Softly, softly.
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Except...
There is a woman who stalks about the room whose movements he recognizes as he does his own. Enthusiasm, perhaps, outweighs sense as he approaches her from behind.
"Gruoch?"
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