That undercurrent has always been visible to Mary. It has always flickered there in the scorching flames that consume her world. The voices of the dead--(the voices of her madness)--have always taunted her with such tales. It wove a knot of fear in her heart, a fear that had becomes feral and starved for power of its own; dreadful power that she could wield against others and take justice in her own pitiful name.

What is justice, anyway.

She looks towards Robin slowly, as if she's not quite sure he's there at all, perhaps nothing more than another maddening whisper from a phantom. She answers him regardless, her words slow and heavy.

"The birds can bring savage portents. And we may take their auspices from them by force and spill them out upon the table..." Her fingers table on the stair she's sitting on, fingernails clicking in a spider-tattoo. "It is not God who rules the wilds."