Noirette lounged atop Blanchette's back with casual indifference, her legs dangling over the smaller woman's shoulders like a makeshift throne.
The ruined church loomed before them, its crumbling spires piercing the overcast sky like jagged fingers grasping at forgotten gods.
Vines choked the stone walls, and the air hummed with the faint, unnatural static that seemed to permeate this forsaken corner of Fathomi.
Blanchette, ever the picture of strained and tortured composure, bore the weight without complaint—though her knees trembled slightly under the pressure.
It wasn't the first time she'd been reduced to furniture; Oizys and Samael had turned it into something of a habit, a peculiar ritual of dominance that Blanchette had learned to endure with her trademark tomfoolery and annoying smiley deadpan plastered firmly in place.
