MAEA
Carry me through this world alive
I feel no more, this suffering
I feel no more, this suffering
It was perhaps more of an answer than Maea had really asked for, but she was not one to decline ny information, especially not one so willingly offered. Her attention was rapt as it was respectful, realizing these were deeply personal matters indeed... and she was honored to hear of them.
In the end, she shook her head a little, eyes damp from hearing about the loss of a mother - she could relate to it - and of learning such intimate descriptions of Mort.
"I think family is what you make opf it, who you choose, just as much as what you're born into," she assured, "and sometimes even more so. I loved my parents and my brother, all of them, but now that they're with Mort, I have to find new connections on my own."
Pale eyes, almost entirely void of color save the darkness of the pupils, took in the eyebrows Delphia hinted at, and searched her face. Wondering, what other traits were more like Mort's, and which were her mother's. Not that it mattered, but... "What is he like? Your father?"
A shy question, wistful and longing; perhaps her devotion was more scattered than Circe's, less focused on just one of the three, but there all the same, somewhat stronger in affection than for the others. She'd always been more drawn to the dark and the shade, the night and the end of things than their beginnings and beings.
In the end, she shook her head a little, eyes damp from hearing about the loss of a mother - she could relate to it - and of learning such intimate descriptions of Mort.
"I think family is what you make opf it, who you choose, just as much as what you're born into," she assured, "and sometimes even more so. I loved my parents and my brother, all of them, but now that they're with Mort, I have to find new connections on my own."
Pale eyes, almost entirely void of color save the darkness of the pupils, took in the eyebrows Delphia hinted at, and searched her face. Wondering, what other traits were more like Mort's, and which were her mother's. Not that it mattered, but... "What is he like? Your father?"
A shy question, wistful and longing; perhaps her devotion was more scattered than Circe's, less focused on just one of the three, but there all the same, somewhat stronger in affection than for the others. She'd always been more drawn to the dark and the shade, the night and the end of things than their beginnings and beings.
Bury me in this cold light
I feed the wolf, and shed my skin
I feed the wolf, and shed my skin
