NEPHELE
down in the forest we'll sing chorus
Nephele, though tall for her race, had always had one thing to her advantage: she was fast.
Feverish and consumed with not only the gentle pull of Vi's guidance, but her own rabid desperation to save her home, her sister, her clan, she flies as straight and as fast as she can towards Mathair.
The Goddess was a closely kept secret, one they'd been dancing around telling the nosy Outlanders any time they came asking. But Nephele had known these woods like the back of her hand since her wings were still small and curled, flightless and as human as they could possibly get. Mathair was a secondary home, a mighty guardian, and she needs to plant the rose there. So she flies as fast as she can, until her spine aches hot in a way it hasn't since she first was building up her flight muscles. Her heart pounds in her ears, and her feet hit the ground hard and graceless as she arrives, breath puffing desperately from her throat.
Nephele wastes no time. This feels like an urgent mission, and she reaches for her spade once more, gently placing the other two roses in her bag, careful to curl them carefully. These were plants to guard with her life, no matter how useless she was in a fight. She should have asked Eriadne for more lessons, but there's no time to think of that now. Not with Vi's steady, guiding hand on her shoulder, giving her a way to hopefully cure her sister and give them both a chance to take each other up on that in the future. To have a future.
Even in her haste, Nephele can't bear to rip through the earth carelessly, not with Mathair so close and surely watching. She carefully digs her spade into the hard earth, using her hands to pull cold clods and rocks from the winter-hardened crust until there is enough room for the roots to spread out. Only then does she gently, oh so gently, place the rose in the earth and push the dirt over the roots.
Something holds her there, stuck fast to the earth, crouched over the rose like a defensive wolf mother. Sharp hazel eyes flit around the surrounding trees, lip twitching as if to snarl. Vi may be the god of Life, but she'd sooner meet Mort than let this plan fail. What did one life mean in the grand scheme of saving the land and its people?
Feverish and consumed with not only the gentle pull of Vi's guidance, but her own rabid desperation to save her home, her sister, her clan, she flies as straight and as fast as she can towards Mathair.
The Goddess was a closely kept secret, one they'd been dancing around telling the nosy Outlanders any time they came asking. But Nephele had known these woods like the back of her hand since her wings were still small and curled, flightless and as human as they could possibly get. Mathair was a secondary home, a mighty guardian, and she needs to plant the rose there. So she flies as fast as she can, until her spine aches hot in a way it hasn't since she first was building up her flight muscles. Her heart pounds in her ears, and her feet hit the ground hard and graceless as she arrives, breath puffing desperately from her throat.
Nephele wastes no time. This feels like an urgent mission, and she reaches for her spade once more, gently placing the other two roses in her bag, careful to curl them carefully. These were plants to guard with her life, no matter how useless she was in a fight. She should have asked Eriadne for more lessons, but there's no time to think of that now. Not with Vi's steady, guiding hand on her shoulder, giving her a way to hopefully cure her sister and give them both a chance to take each other up on that in the future. To have a future.
Even in her haste, Nephele can't bear to rip through the earth carelessly, not with Mathair so close and surely watching. She carefully digs her spade into the hard earth, using her hands to pull cold clods and rocks from the winter-hardened crust until there is enough room for the roots to spread out. Only then does she gently, oh so gently, place the rose in the earth and push the dirt over the roots.
Something holds her there, stuck fast to the earth, crouched over the rose like a defensive wolf mother. Sharp hazel eyes flit around the surrounding trees, lip twitching as if to snarl. Vi may be the god of Life, but she'd sooner meet Mort than let this plan fail. What did one life mean in the grand scheme of saving the land and its people?
