Cassandra hates all of this. She hates all of this so very, very much. They are playing with ALL of those that have been brought here under the guise of proving their worlds worthy of saving. And while she no longer believes that this is just another game the Briarwoods are playing… she still firmly believes that SOMEone is playing a game with them.
To be brought here, to be FORCED to be here, and thrust into this false, pre-made family… it strikes her somewhere she’s buried so deep. That she’s had to bury so deep in order to survive. The still deeply raw, bleeding wound that that is the slaughter of her family by those they had welcomed into their home. Something she's never had a chance to truly deal with. Something she's never had a chance to mourn.
It makes her more prickly than usual. More tense, and more suspicious, and swallowing down a deep-set desire to rebel. To tear this place apart at the seams. (That, however, is extremely unlikely. No matter how badly she might wish it. But she can watch. And she can learn. And she can wait. She can play this game.)
So here she is, a slip of a girl in an oversized sweater, frowning and making a face at the interior of the house this family they’ve been assigned has been provided. (Does she have half a desire to knock one of the ugly vases sitting around to the floor like the half-feral cat that she is? Yes, yes she does.)
“Do you think they’re monitoring us here?” she asks. “Or is it just in public?” It feels like a near certainty that they are.
no subject
To be brought here, to be FORCED to be here, and thrust into this false, pre-made family… it strikes her somewhere she’s buried so deep. That she’s had to bury so deep in order to survive. The still deeply raw, bleeding wound that that is the slaughter of her family by those they had welcomed into their home. Something she's never had a chance to truly deal with. Something she's never had a chance to mourn.
It makes her more prickly than usual. More tense, and more suspicious, and swallowing down a deep-set desire to rebel. To tear this place apart at the seams. (That, however, is extremely unlikely. No matter how badly she might wish it. But she can watch. And she can learn. And she can wait. She can play this game.)
So here she is, a slip of a girl in an oversized sweater, frowning and making a face at the interior of the house this family they’ve been assigned has been provided. (Does she have half a desire to knock one of the ugly vases sitting around to the floor like the half-feral cat that she is? Yes, yes she does.)
“Do you think they’re monitoring us here?” she asks. “Or is it just in public?” It feels like a near certainty that they are.