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Summary
The washed-up ex-gamblignant washed ashore the broadside bay, pulled in by the gravity well, tossed aside with reckless indifference like the latest swill. A sword propped her up, connected to a hand, connected to her wrist, and from there, the rest of her body. Rusted cybernetics creaked their last gasps of breath, locking up while her windsacs ground and whirred and clicked, just as used as the rest of her. A scurrybeast's nest of tangled locks buried her face in so much interstellar grime, pockmarks of long-passed neutrino rays like freckles burnt through her skin.
Vriska Serket was not having a good sweep.
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Not sure what just happened, exactly, but it draws you in.