Ophelia
As eager as they’d been to Ascend that evening with Aamu, Ophelia had been struck to the core with the realization that they had nothing to offer The Voice. They had silently despaired in turn over their own foolish oversight and their self-inflicted delay. Alas, they have waited this many years. What is one more day?
Still, they are uncharacteristically gripped with indecision. Not simply over the items themselves - though that is certainly the cause behind their pinched brows and twisted expression - but whether they will be enticing enough. After all, Ophelia is well aware of their disdain for the Old Gods and their cherry-picking ways. For all the intense devotion a person can have for a God they never met, Ophelia is not spared doubt. Not the least of which is centered around themself.
After all, what can Ophelia really offer? They are posed to receive everything, to do nothing but take. They are similarly underwhelming as an individual. What it The Voice finds them wanting?
Their desperation leads them here, to the market stalls with its various offerings. Haggling fiercely with a pretentious seller who seemingly offers nothing for The Voice. For all their diminutive size and soft-spoken voice, Ophelia does not back down at all. “Your arrogance blinds you, as a merchant you should at least see the financial appeal to offering tributes for The Voice. You would ensure more clientele.” When the man begins to object - more bigotry than logic - Ophelia calmly steamrolls over him. “At least scrape together enough self-respect to direct me to a seller that is not so infantile.” The prim way they say it summons snickers from the surrounding stalls that shamelessly eavesdrop, but inspired only red-faced blistering from the seller in question. The shouted expletives do nothing to Ophelia - their father had much more impressive lungs and vocabulary both - and instead they cross their thin arms and wait with their strange piercing gaze for the man to run out of steam. Or better yet, acquiesce.
Still, they are uncharacteristically gripped with indecision. Not simply over the items themselves - though that is certainly the cause behind their pinched brows and twisted expression - but whether they will be enticing enough. After all, Ophelia is well aware of their disdain for the Old Gods and their cherry-picking ways. For all the intense devotion a person can have for a God they never met, Ophelia is not spared doubt. Not the least of which is centered around themself.
After all, what can Ophelia really offer? They are posed to receive everything, to do nothing but take. They are similarly underwhelming as an individual. What it The Voice finds them wanting?
Their desperation leads them here, to the market stalls with its various offerings. Haggling fiercely with a pretentious seller who seemingly offers nothing for The Voice. For all their diminutive size and soft-spoken voice, Ophelia does not back down at all. “Your arrogance blinds you, as a merchant you should at least see the financial appeal to offering tributes for The Voice. You would ensure more clientele.” When the man begins to object - more bigotry than logic - Ophelia calmly steamrolls over him. “At least scrape together enough self-respect to direct me to a seller that is not so infantile.” The prim way they say it summons snickers from the surrounding stalls that shamelessly eavesdrop, but inspired only red-faced blistering from the seller in question. The shouted expletives do nothing to Ophelia - their father had much more impressive lungs and vocabulary both - and instead they cross their thin arms and wait with their strange piercing gaze for the man to run out of steam. Or better yet, acquiesce.
it's peaceful in the deep, either way you cannot breathe
no need to pray - no need to speak
no need to pray - no need to speak
