Cassandra doesn’t expect that, either. The way he agrees with her, says that she’s right, about all of it. He’s not trying to handle her. Or talk down to her either, which is a bit of a surprise. She knows she looks just like a little girl.
“We don’t know that,” she tells him, giving the robots a rather impressive suspicious side-eye for a slip of a fourteen year old. “They might be more than just an annoyance. What better way to spy on those of use who have found our way here than with something more than a bit annoying? Lull us into a false sense of security.” Her mother would be ashamed at her lack of subtlety. Her inability to play the game. She’d been the one who’d taught Cassandra all the more… roguish arts she knows.
Her heart clenches at the thought. If this is what she thinks, if this is just another game the Briarwoods are playing… she doesn’t WANT to play it. And there’s no way she can just tell him. If these strange creations are theirs… then they already know that she’s aware of their ploy. Not that she cares. They haven’t killed her yet. She has use to them. And she’ll just have to try to escape again. Whether its here or Whitestone.
"The things you don't expect to be a threat are usually the ones that are." Like guests, welcomed into your home.
Making a face, she curls in on herself a little, making her look all the smaller. He’s probably right, although she hates to admit it. They don’t know anything for certain. And her suspicions mean nothing without evidence.
She’s been trying to hide the fresh bite (on top of the scars of all the old bites) from the last time Sylas fed on her with her wild curls, but in her haste to defend him, to leap into the fray and try and pry the robot off of him, her hair has gone tumbling away from where she had it so carefully pulled over her right shoulder. She needs something with a higher collar. “Maybe,” she agrees reluctantly. “I’d assume they’re all lying to us, however. Even if they don’t realise it at the moment.” Whatever the robot equivalent of charm person or other such spells happens to be.
no subject
“We don’t know that,” she tells him, giving the robots a rather impressive suspicious side-eye for a slip of a fourteen year old. “They might be more than just an annoyance. What better way to spy on those of use who have found our way here than with something more than a bit annoying? Lull us into a false sense of security.” Her mother would be ashamed at her lack of subtlety. Her inability to play the game. She’d been the one who’d taught Cassandra all the more… roguish arts she knows.
Her heart clenches at the thought. If this is what she thinks, if this is just another game the Briarwoods are playing… she doesn’t WANT to play it. And there’s no way she can just tell him. If these strange creations are theirs… then they already know that she’s aware of their ploy. Not that she cares. They haven’t killed her yet. She has use to them. And she’ll just have to try to escape again. Whether its here or Whitestone.
"The things you don't expect to be a threat are usually the ones that are." Like guests, welcomed into your home.
Making a face, she curls in on herself a little, making her look all the smaller. He’s probably right, although she hates to admit it. They don’t know anything for certain. And her suspicions mean nothing without evidence.
She’s been trying to hide the fresh bite (on top of the scars of all the old bites) from the last time Sylas fed on her with her wild curls, but in her haste to defend him, to leap into the fray and try and pry the robot off of him, her hair has gone tumbling away from where she had it so carefully pulled over her right shoulder. She needs something with a higher collar. “Maybe,” she agrees reluctantly. “I’d assume they’re all lying to us, however. Even if they don’t realise it at the moment.” Whatever the robot equivalent of charm person or other such spells happens to be.