actuallyawolf (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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come_sailaway2022-10-24 02:24 pm
actuallyawolf) wrote in come_sailaway2022-10-24 02:24 pm
Entry tags:
winning, but at what cost
Who: Ylva and any concerned parties?
What: Ylva got in a fight with a cat, and now she's off to lick her wounds.
When: mid-to-late October, before the party, after this altercation with Siffleur
Where: The buffet
CW: Some blood and wound talk.
She won. The important thing is that she won.
Or so Ylva keeps telling herself. She's tougher than she looks, and can take a lot of punishment, but she can't stop thinking about some of the things Siffleur said to her before she shook him in her jaws like an errant pup and told him he wasn't worth killing. It isn't often that she is mocked for her very-canine-desire to be appreciated and trusted, to be liked, and he's just a stupid cat and cats are always by themselves, he's wrong and she knows he's wrong, but why does it bother her?
She never did ask his name.
At any rate, here she is in Windjammer's, in a far corner with a plate of dino nuggets, a large slab of meatloaf, and a large pile of raspberries. At the moment, though, she has her shirt pulled up, running her hand over the wounds on her side. The cuts close behind the touch of her hand, the flesh knitting back together into some bright pink scars, though her blood remains. Sighing, she takes some of the huge pile of paper napkins and, wincing a little, starts wiping herself clean.
What: Ylva got in a fight with a cat, and now she's off to lick her wounds.
When: mid-to-late October, before the party, after this altercation with Siffleur
Where: The buffet
CW: Some blood and wound talk.
She won. The important thing is that she won.
Or so Ylva keeps telling herself. She's tougher than she looks, and can take a lot of punishment, but she can't stop thinking about some of the things Siffleur said to her before she shook him in her jaws like an errant pup and told him he wasn't worth killing. It isn't often that she is mocked for her very-canine-desire to be appreciated and trusted, to be liked, and he's just a stupid cat and cats are always by themselves, he's wrong and she knows he's wrong, but why does it bother her?
She never did ask his name.
At any rate, here she is in Windjammer's, in a far corner with a plate of dino nuggets, a large slab of meatloaf, and a large pile of raspberries. At the moment, though, she has her shirt pulled up, running her hand over the wounds on her side. The cuts close behind the touch of her hand, the flesh knitting back together into some bright pink scars, though her blood remains. Sighing, she takes some of the huge pile of paper napkins and, wincing a little, starts wiping herself clean.