Thalassa
Dygra's words echo in her head as she ponders the tasks laid out before her. The magic is still new, something she's only barely explored in a few situations, but like most magics, it comes naturally. It's a thread in her chest - her soul - strung to her finger, and connecting her to whatever life force she touches. Luckily, the ability is too intricate for her to walk around sucking the life from everything that comes in contact with her skin. It at least takes a thought, a moment of intention before the energy begins to flow. She can't imagine being a walking death trap for anyone and everyone she cared about (the few that they are), although she does wonder at how uncomfortable it must be, particularly as she stares at the withered stem of a flower.
Thal props her foot against the wall of the coffee shop she leans against, head tilted curiously. People bustle through the town, paying her no mind despite the horns curling from her newly blonde hair. With all the refugees flooding in, she's barely a speck in the crowd, another unfamiliar face. It certainly makes her task easier, just another concerned individual inquiring about the influx of people in town. Little did they know that she was reporting back to the Gray Road's network, spreading whatever juicy information she can find on important players who might have relocated here.
Sipping down the last of her coffee, Thal trades her withered flower for a fresh one from a nearby planter box. It's a purple flower that catches the sunlight with tiny specks of white along its petals, but she doesn't notice them, her mind focusing on the small shimmer of thread immerging with the contact. Then she gives a gentle pull.
Thal props her foot against the wall of the coffee shop she leans against, head tilted curiously. People bustle through the town, paying her no mind despite the horns curling from her newly blonde hair. With all the refugees flooding in, she's barely a speck in the crowd, another unfamiliar face. It certainly makes her task easier, just another concerned individual inquiring about the influx of people in town. Little did they know that she was reporting back to the Gray Road's network, spreading whatever juicy information she can find on important players who might have relocated here.
Sipping down the last of her coffee, Thal trades her withered flower for a fresh one from a nearby planter box. It's a purple flower that catches the sunlight with tiny specks of white along its petals, but she doesn't notice them, her mind focusing on the small shimmer of thread immerging with the contact. Then she gives a gentle pull.
is my value based only on your perception?
or is your opinion of me…
not my responsibility
or is your opinion of me…
not my responsibility
