"Yes." Ysaryn nodded, still looking bothered. "Two face, mirror. I say." She confirmed, watching Kire as she swore (which, she would have found endearing in a different situation), and the anger that seemed to flood through Kire, taking its time to crawl into every appendage. As Kire approached, Ysaryn didn't retreat, but shifted her body when Kire grabbed her, as if ready to fight out of pure instinct. 

"I do not recall much." Ysaryn admitted. "I say, they drug us." She pulled at her sleeve with her free hand, revealing scars along the inside of her elbow from multiple injections along the vein. Dozens of small, dark grey spots marred her skin. "I remember being dark. Smell of rot. Like home. Maybe in the slums, but hard to say. Lots of Cordon sunk long ago. Lots of rot and sea."
She chewed on her lip, staring at Kire, trying her hardest to remember to help the woman. "Green eyes. I recall. Very pretty. Rare to us. But cold. Empty." Ysaryn thought some more, then clicked her tongue and raised her leather tunic. 

About an inch beneath her belly button, there was a thin, pale grey line of a crooked scar, only perhaps an inch long, itself. "I wake up on table." Ysaryn recalled. "They do not know red hair makes strong against their drugs. I come to. They are surprise. I fought. Bled. Made free, and to Bolym, who sewed me shut." Her fuschia eyes had lost some of their fearless glare, and she looked paler. "I do not know why, Kirai."