Piggies on patrol.

Alone in the dark tent, Farrago had removed her rucksack from her thin shoulders. Her eyes closed and opened again slowly, and she'd struggled with herself to keep awake and in the moment. Her pale hands shook as she removed her slightly torn black garment and stepped into this newer, fancier one... she pulled it over her shoulders and smoothed it with her hands, completely unaware of how beautiful she looked. At the time, she was aware of nothing, except that they were going back to Larkin's so-called palace, to a party of some sort.

Now, they were in the midst of the ball, and Farrago was suddenly stricken with terror. How could she have let them take her back to this place? Why did she?

Before long, however, it dawned on her that she might have a purpose here, maybe there was something she could do to assist her... friends. Friends? She whispered to Merlin. I have friends...

A newly found responsibility coursed through Farrago's veins, and she stood up straight, determined to help. She knew that Matthias and Miraye both felt extreme hatred to the man called the shrike, and she let some of this hatred in. It felt strange, she noted, to feel hate toward a human being... but, then again, this shrike could hardly be considered such. He felt no compassion. He cared naught for others. His hands remained constantly steady, even though he'd killed so many people there was no way anyone could keep count anymore. Indeed, Merlin, Farrago whispered. This man is no man at all, and for that he must die.

Suddenly, a hush fell over the ball attendees, soon to be replaced by a rather sarcastic cheer. The shrike had entered the room, and at his side was a boy... Farrago's eyes burned with hatred at the shrike, but this boy, this frail boy caught her attention, dulling the angry poison. There was something about him that puzzled Farrago... something that made her like him. Like. Hatred. Friendship. Responsibility. Anger. Such strong emotions... how very curious.