fridgetothefire: (nightwaif)
[Public video]

[Anya doesn't look markedly better than she has in the last two months. She still has her crown of bony protrusions (a few of them now snapped by the recent invaders), messy hair, fading bruises and scrapes, and wan, exhausted features. But her gaze is clear and direct, her expression tight-lipped.]

...normal maintenance services will resume shortly. If there's anything you've been waiting to have fixed, please report it for triage.


[Private to Jean]

I don't know if they're still there after the latest debacle, but Arthas had zombies packed into his cabin like sardines when last I checked. Cleanup, aisle seven, etc.


[Private to Stephen]

Thank you.


[Spam for Morgana]

[She skulks, trembles, hides in a nearby empty cabin, like a mouse at a mousehole, until Morgana comes to her own door. She darts out, left hand closing on Morgana's wrist, nails digging in. Her other hand is full of partly-scrunched pages, torn from wherever they come from, a scribbled bestiary and neat pentacle diagrams and a few leaves that are slightly scorched, that look like ordinary paper but smell like burnt hair at the edges.]

Every key has teeth.


[Spam for Ben]

[She comes to find him, after his shift. It's not the first time she's done it in the last few weeks, but it's the first time without a distinct air of aimless hopelessness or frenetic desperation. She still feels weak, drained, and her hands shake a little when she holds out her arms for him, but her gaze is free and clear.]

Ben.
fridgetothefire: (ponder)
[Anya looks - not scared. Slightly apprenhensive, gently vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with how she normally uses her vulnerability. When she speaks, it's calm and clear, in Xaladytko Romani.]

Mama, it's me. Anya. I'm - I'm so sorry, for everything. I'm working on a way to fix what happened to Wanda. I know that sounds impossible, but how many impossible things have happened in your life? If you can hear me, believe this one. When she's taken care of - if you want to get out of there, I'll bring you out, I promise. Bring you somewhere better.

[And. If she doesn't.]

And. Whatever you decide, I forgive you. You should know that.


[She takes a breath, runs a hand through her hair. There are other people she'd love to talk to, but she doesn't know where to start or what to say next; it feels a little like she's used up all her poise and eloquence for the day getting that out without breaking down.]

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fridgetothefire: (Default)
Anya Lehnsherr | Earth 97400

November 2015

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