@Cordelia | "Speech." | sorry she's a bitch

Sabrina liked to think of herself as uncomplicated. She had basic needs which she pretended were met. She ate just enough to get by, drank more than she ate, and moved forward on the singular mission of finding her sister, like one of those fuzzy worm on a string toys. A simple girl of simple tastes: whiskey, bar snacks, advancing progress. Except, since coming to Novus, she’d hit a wall seemingly made out of bedrock. Delphine’s trail had simply disappeared, which either meant she was so close the clues were minuscule, or she was further away than she’d ever been-- further, still, than the alley where Puck’s dusty ashes surely still swirled in little gutter-trash storms.

It was a frustrating thought, and Sabrina didn’t deal with frustration well. She got angry. When she got angry, she got punchy. And when she got punchy, people got hurt. People getting hurt tended to get the law involved.

Community service, the warden said. Conscription. A year.

“For a bar fight?” Sabrina’d howled, rage palpable in the air. Gripped on her shoulders by strong hands bearing swords. They’d called in extra guards.

Over a thousand signos in damage and medical bills. A pause. And screaming at the warden.

So here she was, prancing in the sand like some shitty ass winter soldier, clad in piss-poor padded armor and swinging a sword with more rust than a shipwreck’s hull and duller than the nameless warden she was currently pretending to wail the shit out of. Sabrina was good with a blade-- great with a blade-- but she was simply too angry to consider anything other than using the weapon as a hammer.

She reared up on her hind legs with a ferocious downward stroke of her wings to give her more oomph-- magic sizzled its way through her veins, clouding her already murky mind-- and brought the training sword down in a vicious, pulverizing blow that would have done some serious harm despite it being a training weapon. As it was, the blade lodged in the wooden shield her hapless opponent was hiding behind, an inch from cleaving it in half. With a powerful roar, Sabrina jerked the sword with such force the impetus carried her backwards, stumbling in the sand. She almost went careening into some tiny, golden thing, who apologized sweetly and batted her lovely blue eyes into the sunlight.

Sabrina wanted to vomit. She was coated in sweat despite the winter air and sizzling with stolen magic and her own personal brand of rage. Spitting into the sand, she wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, and brandished the now almost-broken training sword. “Are you blind?!” she snapped, shaking the useless thing-- it was an aggressive motion, but not necessarily one of attack. Just shaking whatever she happened to be holding, and it happened to be a useless, gnarled sword. “I’m a giant cow-colored shit-stack with big ugly ass wings! How could you not see me?”

She was mad. She was mad at Solterra and all the golden, whingy, pretty things walking around with their delicate gilded skin and their delicate blue eyes, so soft and so pretty. She was mad at law and order.

She was, mostly, mad at herself.