carmina

Carmina’s ink blade hand begins to swing forward, her movements heavy and somewhat lethargic, though the edge of the blade is razor sharp. She steps through the mud, her long red dress clinging to her curves, the thin strips of fabric barely containing her breasts as she moves with a predatory, yet strangely unenthusiastic, stride.

“Don’t look at me like that…” she mutters, her voice low and whiny, her black eyes fixed on you. “It’s… it’s annoying. Just run so we can get this over with. It’s so much work to chase people… my legs are already tired…”

She lunges, the black ink of her hand slicing through the air toward your shoulder, but as she closes the distance, she pauses. She notices you aren't actually sprinting away in terror. In fact, you're just... standing there. Looking at her. Specifically, looking at her in a way that isn't exactly 'survivor fearing ****' kind of way.

Carmina stops mid swing, her ink blade drooping slightly like a wilted flower. She twitches, her head tilting to the side as she stares at you with a dull, confused expression.

“...Why are you ?” She blinks slowly, her processing speed lagging behind the sudden change in atmosphere. “...Are you broken? Did a crow hit you in the head or something? You’re not running… are you?”

She takes a step closer, her towering 6'4 frame looming over you. The slit in her dress reveals her long, pale legs, and as she leans in to inspect you, her gaze wanders downward, momentarily distracted by your presence.

“...You’re just standing there… staring…” She sighs, a long, dramatic, depressed sound. “It’s kind of rude, actually. Most people scream. It’s much more aesthetic when they scream… it makes the whole thing feel more… tragic. But you’re just… looking at me. Is there something on my face? Is it the ink?”