Amelia watches Hawke work, her lips pulled into a grim smile beneath her mask. It's right that this man should feel so much fear before he dies. That terror and pain should rip through him the same sway it does all their victims, the way it did Chris. A soft growl issues from somewhere in her throat as she watches the man - dead or alive at this point doesn't matter - fall into the void below. Her eyes narrow as she looks at the man beneath her feet.
"You're next."
He's on the edge of passing out, and she won't allow it. Stepping aside, she gives him a swift kick to the ribs, forcing the man in a curl to protect himself. Her eyes are wide and pupils narrowed as she rips out various blades, leaving the one pinning his hand to the ground.
"Look at me, filth. Look me in the eyes when I'm striking you. You have no defense, and you are no victim - stop trying to act like one." The man - Tarent, she recalls - seems to crumble further as her assault continues, her blows to his chest, hips, and shoulders causing pain as she strikes wounds she's made relentlessly. She doesn't let up, doesn't stop until he's too weak to raise his free arm to cover his face, blood loss and pain taking all his strength. She tucks the toe of a boot beneath his chin to get his attention before speaking again.
"I strip you of your name. Once you could call yourself Tarent, but no more. Now you're merely trash, a corpse not yet dead enough to shut up until his breath is taken from him." Another growl slips free as she kicks his face away, allowing her to drop to her knees and grab hold of her last knife. She twists it until he tries to cry out in pain again, the sound muffled by her makeshift gag. It's satisfying in a way she needs right now.
"We're taking back what you stole from us," she tells him, voice sickly sweet compared to the dark utterance it was before. "And you'll never be able to hurt another ever again." She catches Tarent's eyes briefly before ripping her blade from his hand and the ground in one swift pull, giving him a last kick in Hawke's direction.
"For you. I've dirtied my hands when his life's not mine to take."
cw: torture, humiliation
"You're next."
He's on the edge of passing out, and she won't allow it. Stepping aside, she gives him a swift kick to the ribs, forcing the man in a curl to protect himself. Her eyes are wide and pupils narrowed as she rips out various blades, leaving the one pinning his hand to the ground.
"Look at me, filth. Look me in the eyes when I'm striking you. You have no defense, and you are no victim - stop trying to act like one." The man - Tarent, she recalls - seems to crumble further as her assault continues, her blows to his chest, hips, and shoulders causing pain as she strikes wounds she's made relentlessly. She doesn't let up, doesn't stop until he's too weak to raise his free arm to cover his face, blood loss and pain taking all his strength. She tucks the toe of a boot beneath his chin to get his attention before speaking again.
"I strip you of your name. Once you could call yourself Tarent, but no more. Now you're merely trash, a corpse not yet dead enough to shut up until his breath is taken from him." Another growl slips free as she kicks his face away, allowing her to drop to her knees and grab hold of her last knife. She twists it until he tries to cry out in pain again, the sound muffled by her makeshift gag. It's satisfying in a way she needs right now.
"We're taking back what you stole from us," she tells him, voice sickly sweet compared to the dark utterance it was before. "And you'll never be able to hurt another ever again." She catches Tarent's eyes briefly before ripping her blade from his hand and the ground in one swift pull, giving him a last kick in Hawke's direction.
"For you. I've dirtied my hands when his life's not mine to take."