Re: [Not-a-picnic: Nel, Lear, Daddy]
There was no reaction to Lear's slithering. Her feelings about it, had she any, were her own, and she'd not display them here. She was as always: collected, calm, in control, and she watched as her brother became her brother. It was his posture that almost made her smile, because Lear was nothing if not himself, and in all things. Unlike Nel's cultivated reserve, and she admired him for it. But there was only a moment for such reflection, and her hands remained in the pocket of her lavish coat as she looked at the dark-haired man meant to be their sire.
She didn't move, fidget, wander, or shift. Her cant of hips was forward, and her chin was not at all jutted in defiance. Daddy was over there, making assumption after assumption, piling them all as if they were buttercream upon some human cake. "You won't know if you're seeing me pushed to an extremity," she informed him, and she did this because it was true, and because she was no trickster god that required such an upper-hand in her dealings. "And, dearest father, you can hardly expect us to throw our arms wide open. You say you're not true to him, but how we do we know this to be true? Certainly you don't expect us to be trusting fools. After all, we are who we are." She pulled a hand from her pocket, and she tucked back a strand of windblown blonde. "Words are merely words. Coming from you, they're even less. Surely you know that." She glanced at Lear, and then back again. "I'm not making idle threats. I'm merely telling you, in all honesty, that we will end you, should it be required. So, father, do try not to make it a requirement."
Now, she moved. A small step, and it indicated a shift in the conversation. "So, what have you to say of the gathering here?"