He's laughing. The sound borders on unhinged in the silence after Sanguine's departure, leaving chills running up her spine. Vera lingers to the side for a moment, watching him, her anger threatening to boil over what she can contain. But it's staunched by the lingering horror of what she's seen and felt, the realization that she had a whole night in Sanguine's company and she doesn't remember a damn thing of it.

At last, she strides towards the pathetic ball that is Martin and puts her boot on his side, shoving him onto his back. Were Lucien here, he would beg for her to put him out of his misery and to send him to the Void with Sithis.

But this has little to do with the Dark Brotherhood. It has everything to do with herself, petty selfishness and all.

She drops down in front of him (careful, too, not to straddle him and invoke more memories from what he's given her), fisting her hands in his cassock. Her eyes are narrowed in anger, her voice nearly a snarl. She'll choke him if she has to snuff out what lingers of the memories now burned into her mind. No person should be capable of passing on memories. She's not a damned sponge. The only time she's been able to do that has been with...

...dragons. "Who are you?" she growls, shaking him. "Talk, or I'll slit you from navel to nose."