All Bane can really focus on is the cold within her. All consuming. It brings about a particular kind of venom, the same venom that had taken hold of her the night she’d forced her only child away for the last time. The venom that coated every word, every action, absolutely every godforsaken thing that she did. If only she could well and truly strike them dead. Bane is every bit Medusa where she stands, and in every action she takes. Things inside her have broken, they’ve been hurt. They’ve been damaged, likely beyond repair. What survived of her was unkind, but it was her.
A lavish summer breeze seemed to carry plenty of scents, the most notable at the moment of a man. Bane would ignore him, she’d ignore him for as long as she fucking could. What good were men, anyway? The distaste in her had grown increasingly equal opportunity. Bane has perhaps never been the subject of affection, proper or otherwise. She is no one’s object of desire, and this has begun to suit her far better than she’d let on.
Even when he charges, Bane barely acknowledges that he exists. A painted stallion, tattered and ragged looking. It’s only when he’s well and truly upon her, speaking, that she fixes him with a cold gaze. Steady, unblinking, green. “What’s it to you?” The words are a sneer, dripping venom. Bane’s posture was tense, ears pinned clear to her skull. She wouldn’t yield. She refused to yield.
Anath x Thane