 Her fingers scramble against the stone trying to find a hold, one hand still wound in the ivy anchors her to the wall. Not for the first time she misses her powers her fingers used to be able to stick to the wall and now she was fighting to find tiny ledges and grooves to cling to. Even before she’d developed the ability to stick to walls she’d had plant manipulation and she’d known the ivy would never betray her now she just had to hope it remained strong enough to hold her without magic. The danger of falling wasn’t the worry it had just been easier before. Ugh, she was turning into Wayra; becoming a whiny little bitch already the bird had pointed out that this idea was even stupider than her usual ones and as usual she’d ignored him. Besides Bryar had done this before, scaled the castle wall in the dark to sneak into her friend’s room… sure she hadn’t done it without magic before but what was life without a challenge. Yes that’s right she wasn’t a neurotic little bird she was Bryar and she loved this kind of shit. “Fffu…” her fingers slip and her already broken nail splits, she bites down on a curse and her teeth open a just healed cut on her lip. Tasting blood she glares up at the window a few feet above her; he better appreciate this.
Wayra buzzes somewhere around her left ear with the helpful reminded that if she falls now she’s going to die, or break something, or die. There’s a silent glare thrown at the bird though she refrains from adding that if they get caught they could die, or be thrown in the dungeons or die. She doesn’t need to remind him of just another thing that’ll drive him insane or insane-r. How she ended up with a familiar so unlike her she wasn’t sure. She didn’t mind that he was some kind of tiny bird she just wished he had a little more backbone and that he didn’t stress so much. Really not everything she did was dangerous, was it? Returning to ignoring the bird she focuses on silently cursing whoever built or made up castles in the first place, stupid bloody… design that was the word wasn’t it? With a few more silent curses and damaged nails she drags herself up to the window. Balancing precariously and clinging desperately to the ivy she listens for a few moments and hearing nothing almost sighs. Bryar’s not exactly sure what she’d have done if she’d heard someone else in Tristan’s room but as the wind whips against the castle walls and a cold sweat breaks out on her skin she has the feeling she’d have done exactly the same thing as she was going to do on having heard no one. Rapping sharply on the window once she proceeds to fling herself against it, the window pane thankfully doesn’t shatter but the lock or catch breaks and she fall unceremoniously onto the floor of the room inside.
Now with face pressed against the floor she thinks maybe she should have just waited but it was cold and her fingers hurt and like with all her ideas it had seemed like a good one at the time. Groaning she rolls slowly over onto her back and rises her stinging palms in a mock surrender after all last time she’d called on Tristan in this particular manner he’d greeted her with a dagger. “Hey twat,” she grins, the movement splitting her lip wider, fairly certain she’s not going to get stabbed this time she wipes the blood of with the back of her hand and onto the scruffy shorts she wears just adding another stain to the fabric. “So you gunna help me up or just stare? I mean sure I kinda got a bit of a rack now but fuck you look weird. I remember a scruffy little boy you got tall,” she shrugs and waves a hand at him before holding hers out. True enough she looks different than last they met. The little girl is long gone and beneath the layers of muck, grime, dust, blood and whatever that grey coloured stain on her shirt is she’s undeniably got the makings of an attractive young woman. That’s what the layers of dirt are for, no one will notice if she’s covered in dirt and bruises or so she hopes. The cut on her forehead and just dawning bruise on her cheekbone weren’t ones she’d come by on purpose however. The cuts and scrapes on her legs, knees, elbows, arms and anywhere else were more ambiguous. Some of the bruises she swore she had no idea how she got they just happened.
Once on her feet she runs her fingers through her mess of hair, pulling the tie out and trying to fasten it back into some kind of order. “So you got food up here or what? Some bastard stole the fish I caught. Fucker didn’t even eat it just sold it. People suck,” pulling a face she doesn’t think she needs to say that’s how she got the bruises on her face because she knows him enough to know that’s a question that’s coming. Wayra had been right that time she shouldn’t have picked a fight but she just couldn’t stand backing down. Her eyes spot the bed she’d been so enamoured with on her last visit and with a grin she bounds over and throws herself onto it. She settles and moves her hands behind her head. “Seriously before I die I wanna own a bed like this”.
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