chaele
worship like a dog
As the snow sprays, so too does a flutter of birds rise from the branches above. Chaele’s attention perks toward the sudden movement, the stirring breeze, the not-so-distant cry. A thin layer of snowfall tips away from the thick mantle of her cloak and she lowers a protective hood.
For a precious moment, her face is exposed to the cool, sweet air. Then she lifts the flap of her tent and retrieves her mask.
The stag skull has a weight to it, a heft in her neck that reminds her to mind no burden. Its ocular holes, one on the left and one on the right, show her what it is to be prey. It is conspicuous, and so is her camp; perhaps he has already detected the spindling smoke trail that rises up from her dying fire, or the acrid smell of drying tannins on her latest fur. She has no reason to hide, and every reason to follow her curiosity.
The trail leads her to the demi-god’s slumped form, a sight that might be pitiful if it weren’t for that wary sinking in her gut as she sees him. She has learned too well that a predator is just as likely to have claws and fangs as soft hands and sad eyes. The sheathed hunting knife at her side might be glimpsed between the folds of her cloak as she emerges from between the trees, glimpsing first at the evening sky before her gaze settles on the seated man.
Her voice is quiet, gravelly from lack of use. “Keen to feed the vultures, are you?”
For a precious moment, her face is exposed to the cool, sweet air. Then she lifts the flap of her tent and retrieves her mask.
The stag skull has a weight to it, a heft in her neck that reminds her to mind no burden. Its ocular holes, one on the left and one on the right, show her what it is to be prey. It is conspicuous, and so is her camp; perhaps he has already detected the spindling smoke trail that rises up from her dying fire, or the acrid smell of drying tannins on her latest fur. She has no reason to hide, and every reason to follow her curiosity.
The trail leads her to the demi-god’s slumped form, a sight that might be pitiful if it weren’t for that wary sinking in her gut as she sees him. She has learned too well that a predator is just as likely to have claws and fangs as soft hands and sad eyes. The sheathed hunting knife at her side might be glimpsed between the folds of her cloak as she emerges from between the trees, glimpsing first at the evening sky before her gaze settles on the seated man.
Her voice is quiet, gravelly from lack of use. “Keen to feed the vultures, are you?”
at the shrine of my lies
