#Lilli's got a thing with either refusing to learn people's names that she dislikes/doesn't care for

[sulphuricgrin]

WIP Whenever

I missed last WIP Wed cause I was taking a break from tumblr. Which was very much needed (i'm still not 100% returned). During that time I wrote a lot! :D

I was tagged by @theoneandonlysemla on Wednesday. thank you 💚

no pressure tagging: @changelingsandothernonsense @hircines-hunter @firefly-factory @dirty-bosmer @scholarlyhermit @captain-of-silvenar @skyrim-forever @yansurnummu @madam-whim @oblivions-dawn @ggghoulish @truth-01001001-liar

[warning: some corpse mutilation] :) As usual, if you see a mistake, no you didn't. And if you're wondering whose fucking corpse, it's a Thalmor dissident. There's not a single good person in this scene, oh wait - I guess the corpse could be considered the only good person 😬 oops

Lilliandra's hands still and her shoulders slump. Giving her mother her fullest attention, she clenches and unclenches her jaw, and says, “Mother, I tire of this. Allow me to finish this first before we get into hypotheticals.” She knows she's running the fine line of being brutally honest and disrespectful now, but her patience has run out. She skipped dinner and easy evening plans to be sitting here, peeling the skin of an unknown mer, answering question after question after fucking question.  Her mother is unamused, but turns her back to Lilliandra, giving unspoken permission to continue the task at hand. Finally. She returns to humming to herself as she works on the hand, exposing the many tendons that sit below the skin. It takes several minutes and rotating the hand this way and that to finally flense the last bit of skin off of flesh. When she finishes, she sets the blade onto the table, returns the now freshly skinned arm back to the mer, and picks up the large sheet of flesh, holding it out in front of herself in admiration of her skill. She likes to think her cutwork is rather smooth, all things considering.  A knock at the door disturbs them. Lilliandra doesn’t care to look who’s bothering until she hears their steps stop behind her and the feel of eyes. It’s unsettling, the hair on the back of her neck rising. With a side glance over her shoulder, she finds annoyingly familiar pale eyes look down at her. She moves her hand to the table and carefully slides her hand over the blade and collects it subtly as she uses the table to support herself. She stands, not out of respect for the mer that joined them, but more to have the upper hand in height. There’s a sense of control regained when it forces him to look up at her.  So she turns and stands there, looking down at Lord Naarifin, a sheet of skin hanging from one hand and an extra sharp blade hidden in the other. She keeps her expression impassive as he looks between her and her obvious work. She’s never liked this mer; she has no specific reason why. She just does.  “I do still stand by my opinion that you’d do well as an interrogator,” his voice monotonous, he speaks his opinion where no one asked.  She hates this is something she can agree with. Between her illusion work and her bladework, she wouldn’t have much issue pulling secrets from victims; it may even be fun. But she simply didn’t care to join this asininity when she could be researching more interesting things. She also didn’t enjoy the company of their young interrogator-in-training. What was his name? She tries to remember as she rotates the blade’s handle in her hand and ignores responding to Naarifin. Over and over the handle turns ― Rellus? No, no. Over and over. Ruliel? Over and over and over. Ruluril? Still not right. You know what? She doesn’t care.  “Lilliandra. You’re free to go,” her mother breaks her train of thought. Though he does a good job hiding it, she can see the way Naarifin’s jaw clenches at her lack of response. She reunites the skin with the corpse, dropping it unceremoniously onto it, but the blade stays in her hand. When she takes a step towards the shorter mer, he does not immediately move out of her way and her mother adds, “Leave the blade please.�� She gives a tense smile when he looks to her hand, it’s still turning the handle around. She considers for fun to stab the corpse, but instead throws it onto the table and feels some petty satisfaction when she sees the obsidian chip and break. It’s worthless now. Taking her gloves and leather apron off, she throws them to join the damaged blade and she leaves without a word.