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Nay, my good and dear Mithalwen, the cry is to be rendered thus:
AIIII! AIII! THE BETHBERRY! THE BETHBERRY HAS COME!
Helen, with Bethberry's good and true blade-hilt artistically protruding from her sternum, keels over in a dead swoon. Her arm, flung by the force of her fall, lifelessly points to Roggie Of Morgoth's eyeliner, which despite all claims on the packaging has begun to smoulder around the edges. Roggie looks down on the lifeless form, and with a sigh of regret, sends a glare towards Helen's Bane, who comes to retrieve her blade.
"You could have let her write one good swoon-post. Just one, " he mutters, and stomps off, swiping his whip-handle at his smouldering eyeliner. "Get this stuff off of me. Where's that Mirrormere again? Outside? Drat. Another forest fire, and I'm the one that gets cursed for it."
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