[ it's not ALEPH-tier, but don isn't in charge of categorizing their threat level anyway -- she doesn't know what faust would consider roland, whatever roland's become -- but it's the last thing on her mind as she dodges forward this strike at least, tensed at i'll just kill her over and over again, thinking she might get closer with the blunt, wooden end of her improv'd weapon.

still. still. "who is to say i have not suffered? have we not all--" ]

It is thine own decision to bring that suffering with thee, Sir Roland.

[ she doesn't want the flowers talking to each other. much less about the thoughts that flit from one edge of her mind to another, that she keeps sealed behind a smile. ]

It is no fault of mine, [ let her try and jab this into his throat now, thoughtlessly unprotected as her backside is, ] that it rubs thee the wrong way that I do not!

[ because that's what it is, isn't it? she knows, from the various scoldings of her others, of vergilius and the anger she'd gotten at the hands of roland before, she doesn't have the most popular opinions of the people back home. there's others outside their world that have differing nuances too, but the base was always the same. is that not proof enough? ]