The apathy has molded itself to her by now, curled around and around her insides like a virus and settled.
And it could be a curse, a slow descent into uncharted territory, but she feels as though she has gone through catharsis, really, has come out clean and holy, all of her old sins shoved into the glove compartment of her car where they rattle around with crumpled tissues and a pack of Lucky Strikes.
Chrysamere collides with Fearstruck with a cracklike rolling thunder, shaking the arena and sending a sharp jolt along Boethiah’s arm. Trinimac, it turns out, was not lying: Stendarr hits like a drunken Mehrunes Dagon taking a plummet out of a tall tower. Oh, Stendarr is not a cleveropponent and he moves slowly, but Boethiah is already out of his element, fighting with a shield, and it takes every ounce of concentration to manouveur around the slow cumbersome blows of Lorkhan’s current-favorite warrior while grappling with his own unfamiliar weapons.
Not that this is a bad thing. Boethiah adores a challenge.
I also love like a clutch of eggs that just keep growinglike until they come out. And you can trigger laying at any time but - you keep thinking just a few days more, just a little bigger - until they’re so big you can barely move, barely breathe, and you think you’ll lay them now but … maybe one more day…
