It's a wise move, Gideon has to give her that. Entirely free of her restraints there's no telling whether her temper will hold, whether all she's been subjected to would rip through her and bring them to a bloody end. As it is, Lenore says little this time, pushes no mental buttons, and once she's retreated from Gideon's enclosed space she's swift to set about freeing herself.
Or partially freeing herself, as it transpires. Just three keys for four locks, and when not a one works on the collar chained about her throat she's angry yet unsurprised. It's an abortive kind of anger though, one that swiftly sputters and dies as she focuses instead on the stew, and the water, consuming both with ravenous intensity because fuck it, there's no one watching her now, and her whole body still screams for sustenance. It isn't enough, but it’s also verging on too much; her rate of consumption leaves her nauseous, abruptly wishing she'd taken at least a little more time over it. There's a full ten minutes where she does nothing but sit and breath in big, deep lungfuls of air, trying to settle the sick, reeling feeling.
It passes though, leaves her with enough strength to strip off the filthy rags that were once her clothes and scrub herself as close to clean with the only slightly cooled water as she is able to get. Does she feel good after this? Fuck, no. But she does smell more human than corpse, the scented soap a small delight never before encountered, and she can appreciate that her skin no longer feels itchy and vile with unspeakable grime. The keenest edge of her pain is subtly blunted by the fact she can now stretch her limbs, though her body is still hotly aching from the abuse it has recently endured, and the battle that had come before it. Her wrists and ankles sting where the flesh has been rubbed raw, but now only partially restrained and better fed the worst of her fury turns from a raging fire to subtly glowing coals.
A small amount of the water she saves to slough across the dirty floor, and once freshly clothed, with the cider consumed, she feels something closer to human. Closer to human, but more exhausted than she’s ever been in her entire, short life. Weak and starved as she'd been, injured as she is, these simple acts have taken more out of her than they have any right to. She tries to fight off the riptide drag of it at first, but it's too strong to resist forever; Gideon ends up foetal on the floor, dropping hard into a deep, black sleep.
no subject
Or partially freeing herself, as it transpires. Just three keys for four locks, and when not a one works on the collar chained about her throat she's angry yet unsurprised. It's an abortive kind of anger though, one that swiftly sputters and dies as she focuses instead on the stew, and the water, consuming both with ravenous intensity because fuck it, there's no one watching her now, and her whole body still screams for sustenance. It isn't enough, but it’s also verging on too much; her rate of consumption leaves her nauseous, abruptly wishing she'd taken at least a little more time over it. There's a full ten minutes where she does nothing but sit and breath in big, deep lungfuls of air, trying to settle the sick, reeling feeling.
It passes though, leaves her with enough strength to strip off the filthy rags that were once her clothes and scrub herself as close to clean with the only slightly cooled water as she is able to get. Does she feel good after this? Fuck, no. But she does smell more human than corpse, the scented soap a small delight never before encountered, and she can appreciate that her skin no longer feels itchy and vile with unspeakable grime. The keenest edge of her pain is subtly blunted by the fact she can now stretch her limbs, though her body is still hotly aching from the abuse it has recently endured, and the battle that had come before it. Her wrists and ankles sting where the flesh has been rubbed raw, but now only partially restrained and better fed the worst of her fury turns from a raging fire to subtly glowing coals.
A small amount of the water she saves to slough across the dirty floor, and once freshly clothed, with the cider consumed, she feels something closer to human. Closer to human, but more exhausted than she’s ever been in her entire, short life. Weak and starved as she'd been, injured as she is, these simple acts have taken more out of her than they have any right to. She tries to fight off the riptide drag of it at first, but it's too strong to resist forever; Gideon ends up foetal on the floor, dropping hard into a deep, black sleep.