She doubles down in remaining on top of him, with a little hiss of pain when he gets her on the other leg; if anything, it only increases the vigor with which she tries to restrain Bastien, but she can tell almost immediately, by the feel of the wound, that something is wrong.
"What did you coat it with," she snarls, hopping to her feet long enough to kick him again, this time aiming for his back.
"Nothing you need to—" Ow. "—get worked up about," he says, which is advice as much as cheek.
The real answer is: a cocktail of paralytics and incapacitating agents, slow-working by necessity, because combining enough poisons to sidestep a target's potential overachievement in the field of mithridatism would make them lethal if they all hit at once or hit too strongly. But they'll work a bit faster if someone insists on wriggling. Or kicking.
But it means his job is done, more or less. He doesn't let go of his daggers. He isn't that stupid. But he does hold them up a little, fingers loose, in a suggestion of surrender.
She can feel the numbness creeping up her leg, which shows itself quickly in the form of a perfectly avoidable stumble as she tries to step back on the injured foot.
"NO," she roars, raising her eyes to meet his and, seeing how casually he holds up his own daggers, knows it's already over. She'll die slowly, or worse, fall asleep completely alive, to be taken helplessly to another location and no doubt drugged or tortured until the traitor's allies have all they could want from her.
There's a moment of genuine terror in the woman's eyes, her accelerating heart rate no doubt expediting the poison as it renders her clumsy as a newborn foal, unable to stand. There's only one thing to be done.
Meeting Bastien's gaze with as much vitriol as desolation, she flips her own dagger on its hilt and stabs upward into her own ribcage.
“Fait chier,” Bastien says, dropping his arms. He’s in trouble, he’s probably just lost money, and he didn’t want her to die, honestly. “I told you to wait for him, you over-dramatic—“ No, he isn’t going to call her names. He points at her instead, in a warning sort of way. “Do not pull it out.”
It’s a lost cause, almost certainly, at that angle. But he drops one of his daggers to try rifling through his pockets for anything that might help—with the pain, if nothing else.
Teren has been down this road before, and knows that even the strongest will can break. She's lived a good long life, and if this is how she sticks it to the man who thinks he's won, then she's just petty enough to follow through with it. Meeting Bastien's eyes squarely, she pulls the knife out. A cough follows, blood splattering on the floor, and she sinks to the ground on her side, breathing labored.
“Shit,” he says, with feeling—but quietly, to himself.
He’s found a bundle of elfroot leaves, meant for chewing to stave off headaches and minor pains. Useless. But it’s what he has, so he comes closer and crouches, dagger still in one hand, leaves in the other, ready to put them in her mouth himself if necessary.
For a moment, it looks like Teren is going to comply. She weakly lifts her hand as if to take the herbs, but, quick as a snake, grips at the collar of Bastien's shirt instead, dragging him toward her. There, she kisses him deeply.
And coughs.
Her tainted blood spatters into his mouth, which she holds against hers with all the strength she has, his dagger going ignored-- what is he going to do, stab her some more?-- and then, just as abruptly, she crumples back to the floor, the light beginning to leave her eyes, her teeth and lips streaked with red. She coughs again, spewing more blood onto the floor.
"May it-- rot you from the inside," she rasps, smiling ghoulishly, "until-- you yearn-- for death."
no subject
"What did you coat it with," she snarls, hopping to her feet long enough to kick him again, this time aiming for his back.
no subject
The real answer is: a cocktail of paralytics and incapacitating agents, slow-working by necessity, because combining enough poisons to sidestep a target's potential overachievement in the field of mithridatism would make them lethal if they all hit at once or hit too strongly. But they'll work a bit faster if someone insists on wriggling. Or kicking.
But it means his job is done, more or less. He doesn't let go of his daggers. He isn't that stupid. But he does hold them up a little, fingers loose, in a suggestion of surrender.
no subject
She can feel the numbness creeping up her leg, which shows itself quickly in the form of a perfectly avoidable stumble as she tries to step back on the injured foot.
"NO," she roars, raising her eyes to meet his and, seeing how casually he holds up his own daggers, knows it's already over. She'll die slowly, or worse, fall asleep completely alive, to be taken helplessly to another location and no doubt drugged or tortured until the traitor's allies have all they could want from her.
There's a moment of genuine terror in the woman's eyes, her accelerating heart rate no doubt expediting the poison as it renders her clumsy as a newborn foal, unable to stand. There's only one thing to be done.
Meeting Bastien's gaze with as much vitriol as desolation, she flips her own dagger on its hilt and stabs upward into her own ribcage.
no subject
It’s a lost cause, almost certainly, at that angle. But he drops one of his daggers to try rifling through his pockets for anything that might help—with the pain, if nothing else.
no subject
Meeting Bastien's eyes squarely, she pulls the knife out. A cough follows, blood splattering on the floor, and she sinks to the ground on her side, breathing labored.
no subject
He’s found a bundle of elfroot leaves, meant for chewing to stave off headaches and minor pains. Useless. But it’s what he has, so he comes closer and crouches, dagger still in one hand, leaves in the other, ready to put them in her mouth himself if necessary.
“Take these.”
CW THIS IS GROSS
And coughs.
Her tainted blood spatters into his mouth, which she holds against hers with all the strength she has, his dagger going ignored-- what is he going to do, stab her some more?-- and then, just as abruptly, she crumples back to the floor, the light beginning to leave her eyes, her teeth and lips streaked with red. She coughs again, spewing more blood onto the floor.
"May it-- rot you from the inside," she rasps, smiling ghoulishly, "until-- you yearn-- for death."