[Joy glares at the new creature irritably, but without surprise. It takes so very much to surprise her, anymore, and even this nightmarish purgatory lacks anything that feels novel enough to be worth subjecting herself to the awful affair of knowing about it.
This isn't the first time she's washed up on this shore. She is trying not to remember that, either.
She straightens her back like a pin and flattens her hands on the tissue-slick rock beneath her, lifting her chin, and for all that she is a disgusting wet horror of a thing there is a grace to the gesture bred of ten thousand years of repetition.]
You behold the Saint of Woe. Marvel that you are so blessed.
[Then, with a derisive sniff:] Or don't. See what I care.
no subject
This isn't the first time she's washed up on this shore. She is trying not to remember that, either.
She straightens her back like a pin and flattens her hands on the tissue-slick rock beneath her, lifting her chin, and for all that she is a disgusting wet horror of a thing there is a grace to the gesture bred of ten thousand years of repetition.]
You behold the Saint of Woe. Marvel that you are so blessed.
[Then, with a derisive sniff:] Or don't. See what I care.