my ears can hear my mouth can speak my spirit talks my soul believes
As the masked woman’s mind is laid bare, she is caught in appraisal of the empath-- in judgment of his role as competitor or predator or prey. She had not expected him to agree to the hunt, but his compliance makes her less likely to test his strength against her own. Still her hackles are up as he approaches, her words just a little too short in the reply.
“In fact, I was born there. My father was a cobbler and my mother raised chickens.” She can still remember the smells of leather and glue, the nonsense of navigating a crowd of knee-biting birds. But these memories are dismissed as her attention is drawn by the settling ramphire herd, any suggestion of sarcasm refuted by the honest concession, “But no, I am no Torcher.”
But who was to say that meant anything? On the other hand, “When was the last time you killed your own food?”
“In fact, I was born there. My father was a cobbler and my mother raised chickens.” She can still remember the smells of leather and glue, the nonsense of navigating a crowd of knee-biting birds. But these memories are dismissed as her attention is drawn by the settling ramphire herd, any suggestion of sarcasm refuted by the honest concession, “But no, I am no Torcher.”
But who was to say that meant anything? On the other hand, “When was the last time you killed your own food?”
Base code by Odd • Art by Krakenkatz
