maybe who we were then is shattered, but who we are in the end is what matters
She makes a temporary camp of sorts near the Mathair while awaiting Sunjata. There is nobody to hide the trip from aside from her children, who have no reason to be suspicious, and even less reason to have feelings about the choice one way or another. Noah is the only one who might, truly. She doesn’t have many friends left these days, off on farther adventures if alive at all. It feels a bit hollow and sad to have nobody to turn to and ask if she should, what she should do, or wear, or how early to arrive, how hopeful to be. Or maybe that’s just girlish nonsense unbefitting a woman her age.
Andraste curls around her neck beneath her hair, hiding from the occasional distance scream of rain and keeping warm and half-concealed under the wet blonde strands. Blood runs down Hotaru’s forearm as she lays her brutal offering at Mathair’s roots and the carnivorous plants that surround them. A simple, clean, fresh kill. No frills or missing pieces.
Bowing her head in brief prayer, the Valkyrie flicks blood off her fingers as she stands, turning her head slightly when she picks up human noise. Turning to face Sunjata, she folds her fingers carefully into her palms, trying not to make the move appear combative when really it’s to restrain herself from reaching for him. Her nails whisper pressure against her lifelines, a promise of controlled pain if she needs it. “Hello,” she says simply, voice soft. Neither of them need loud tones when they often half-shift. Not that she has faith she can lift her voice much louder either.
Andraste curls around her neck beneath her hair, hiding from the occasional distance scream of rain and keeping warm and half-concealed under the wet blonde strands. Blood runs down Hotaru’s forearm as she lays her brutal offering at Mathair’s roots and the carnivorous plants that surround them. A simple, clean, fresh kill. No frills or missing pieces.
Bowing her head in brief prayer, the Valkyrie flicks blood off her fingers as she stands, turning her head slightly when she picks up human noise. Turning to face Sunjata, she folds her fingers carefully into her palms, trying not to make the move appear combative when really it’s to restrain herself from reaching for him. Her nails whisper pressure against her lifelines, a promise of controlled pain if she needs it. “Hello,” she says simply, voice soft. Neither of them need loud tones when they often half-shift. Not that she has faith she can lift her voice much louder either.
