[ It's outrageous. How is it that she, of all the nameless beasts transported all this way, is being left utterly untended? It isn't that she'd been looking forward with any genuine anticipation or appreciation to the prospect of rest, and it isn't that she would have reposed in any grace upon the paltry bedroll provided her. It would never have suited, it would never have been appropriate for a woman of her station, and she would have made her displeasure known.
To be offered nothing, however - that is twice the insult. It would seem that no one is particularly troubled by the realization, if they have realized it at all, and there is absolutely no effort made to correct what is so egregiously wrong.
She is adamant in her refusal to acknowledge this great indignity even when it is clear that no apology or recompense is forthcoming. Seated, she begins to wonder with mounting dread if she will in fact be left to make a terrible nest of grime and dirt and stone. Then, at the sudden sound of a voice addressing her, she looks up, her displeasure vivid on her face.
She is not only addressed, but offered exactly what she is lacking: a pale imitation of a featherbed. Her gaze cuts in cold judgment down to the man's hand, and she resents him at once for holding forth this awful piece of bedding instead of a sword. And even if she has now what she should have had at the start, it is still a great deal less than she is owed, and she glares her disdain at the stranger whose ill-fortune has placed him beside her. ]
Do you honestly think I am going to sleep on that repulsive thing? I could have you killed for even making the suggestion. [ As if it had been her own idea all along to nobly refuse the humiliating accommodations. As if some part of her is not at this moment yearning to lay herself down on even this wish-thin piece of... cotton? Wool? It does not bear thinking about. She is only certain that it is most decidedly not silk. ]
v3. and there was only one bedroll
To be offered nothing, however - that is twice the insult. It would seem that no one is particularly troubled by the realization, if they have realized it at all, and there is absolutely no effort made to correct what is so egregiously wrong.
She is adamant in her refusal to acknowledge this great indignity even when it is clear that no apology or recompense is forthcoming. Seated, she begins to wonder with mounting dread if she will in fact be left to make a terrible nest of grime and dirt and stone. Then, at the sudden sound of a voice addressing her, she looks up, her displeasure vivid on her face.
She is not only addressed, but offered exactly what she is lacking: a pale imitation of a featherbed. Her gaze cuts in cold judgment down to the man's hand, and she resents him at once for holding forth this awful piece of bedding instead of a sword. And even if she has now what she should have had at the start, it is still a great deal less than she is owed, and she glares her disdain at the stranger whose ill-fortune has placed him beside her. ]
Do you honestly think I am going to sleep on that repulsive thing? I could have you killed for even making the suggestion. [ As if it had been her own idea all along to nobly refuse the humiliating accommodations. As if some part of her is not at this moment yearning to lay herself down on even this wish-thin piece of... cotton? Wool? It does not bear thinking about. She is only certain that it is most decidedly not silk. ]