#// like it feels these lines while having convincing heartbreaking and anguishing cadence. feels brushed to the side.

[ymirgel]

𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆. encircling grief &. remorse is met at the end of yet another tankard filled with whatever alcohol she could find. desperate to quiet the plighted screams of terror; mothers grossly sobbing their tears unto blood-caked cobblestone. bodies of their husbands hung ruthlessly at the gallows in minrathous's square, parading a horrifying statement intending to ward off defiance against venatori usurpers.

their cruelty never ending; she vividly recalls the pile of bodies during her search for key vendors she's cordially acquainted prior to the devastation wrought upon their home. no mortal can forget fetid stench of decomposing cadavers, especially one whose foot is always six feet from entering her own mental grave.

the beggars plead for coin along the path with only cardboard and wood as their makeshift homes. echoes of the desperate voicing concerns over their missing children, praying for their safety. these lucid recounts gradually dilute from increasing static droning her mind; an audible stream from her own conscience reverberates:

it's all your fault. you failed as a protector of the living.

unable to withstand stomaching this recollection, ymir's head tilts back in tandem to lofting high her tankard; hefty swig barrels down parched throat, accompanied by an exhaled grunt. slamming it upon the table. green peripherals steadily cast toward the lit fireplace, focusing on the sound of crackling wood. as engulfed as her heart is, she swore swift vengeance upon these zealots. an ever-burning quest to eliminate all opposition; heretical foes meeting justice at the end of her skull flail.

she envisions it. like a new movie clip, transitioning to gauntlets caked in crimson. one cannot shed away the blood that stains their hands. another fleeting foreground depicts her boot crushing the skull of a venatori—a memory of what happened after the bulwark returned to minrathous, witnessing the consequences of her actions. she could have saved neve's city. caught in her assumptions that the shadow dragons could fend for themselves. oh, how wrong she clearly was.

and so, wallowing and mulling over the past, yet again, as she looks on in the vicious flames—much akin her own emboldened heart. to quench this thirst for justice. ymir's visage hardens, molding a scowl. motionless, regrets freeze her. brooding in solitude. conceiving her next course of action for revenge.