Mayrin's grip remained for long seconds after he spoke, arm convulsing in it's stretch; though, as it'd be, she had always considered him the most trustworthy man she had ever met. She trusted his judgement over others, trusted his protection, trusted each step of advice and encouragement he had ever fed her, taking in some prideful stride that he was the most wise she had ever met, his word to be above the opinion of others. And so it'd be as well, she did not understand why there was a blade in her gut, why or what was happening...
So why was she to start questioning him now? The spitefire that was the woman became an aura of a chill, the sort of emotional, mental will of life slipping quickly. The angry burn of her face even softened, expression lightening as if ready to slip away. One by one, each finger slipped from the man's shirt, until her arm limply fell, hanging at her side. Each breath was a shudder, though not in the quick approach of death quite yet. Even so, she let herself sit still, ready to face the fate he had decided for her.
Time passed. She wasn't dying.
He was gone, and Catilyn, she presumed, was dead as well.
Had the bleeding stopped--?
She had given up. She was ready to die. But her own hands, coated in blood, couldn't twist the knife once more. She was helpless, helpless as ever; she couldn't even die.
All she could do was rip the blade from her stomach, and weakly stand; falling to her knees, she'd crawl in the direction that which she had heard Praesule leave. The door was unlocked. With labored breathing, weak bodied, she exited, finding herself amount the streets of Bree.
She couldn't crawl for long, eventually having to stop--against some unknown wall, on an unknown street, the woman would curl up upon herself, mind drifting off into a depressed, sleeping dreamless state.
Fate had played another card, and it was the last, she was sure. But fate had not yet killed her. All she could hear, ringing in her mind...
Your time is coming.
