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[indent][indent]Fucking—

Fine. 

Sybil looked around the rest of the meal hall one last time, struggling to hide how desperate she was for literally [i]anyone else[/i] to make an offer, before she reiterated to herself: Stomach over discomfort. So, with a scoff at the noble boy’s folding, she made the short, haughty stride to his table. 

Rather than sit, she placed a boot up on the bench and snatched up the bowl, heedless to the little that spilled over. The spoon she flicked aside, then angled the cusp to her lips and drank. Cold, gritty, tasteless, like swallowing a mouthful of chicken spit. She didn’t care. Food was fuel she could burn before having to burn…well, herself, she supposed. 

She’d gulped down half the bowl when the perfumed little shit decided to be smart with her. Sybil lowered it briefly, just long enough to stare him down—not that he had the guts to look her in the eyes. Coward. He had his nose pasted to the parchment on the table, though it didn’t seem to her like he was making much progress. On instinct she tilted her head to get a better look at the words, but that didn’t do much for her considering she wasn’t particularly literate. She’d had to learn how to read and sign her name when she turned her father over, and she recognized the names of a few towns and cities on the roads, but nobody in the old band had been known for their linguistic expertise.

Which was all to say that she [i]wanted[/i] to bean him with the bowl, or snatch the paper up and blow her nose in it, but she didn’t. When Daumm wanted something, and someone gave it to him, he—usually—didn’t bully them for it, he went easier on them. Of course, that only ever went for the people in the band. Everyone else got their heap of bullying whether they gave him what he wanted or not. But, as she’d been trying to convince herself, the Blackwardens were essentially her new band. 

So instead she finished drinking down the soup. Eventually Thomas did speak up again, and she ignored him until she was finished. When the bowl was practically empty, she dropped it back onto the table, spit out a chunk of vegetable stuck between her teeth, then leveled her eyes at him again, though he still had his head down. The longer she stood there, the more she realized that, even though he was sitting, they were still practically at-eyes with one another. Not a good look. 

“Me?” She asked, sitting down with her back to him, elbows propped up on the table. “Sure. I’ve handled plenty of shit whether I was ready for it or not. You, though…I dunno. Unless you’re gonna [i]read[/i] the monsters and marauders to death, I’d be worried. But [i]I’m[/i] not. Worried. About me.” [/indent][/indent][/color]