in tenebris est veritas.
The last of the kindling, or at least whatever seems to her to suffice, is thrown into the mature pile at Chaele’s feet. She produces a wrap of twine and sets to bundling it, loosing a few grunts of exertion that might sound strangely human coming from her alien form. Only as she is tying the final knot does she reply.
“Protection is about more than preserving life. It is about the connections that sustain life. The cycles of death and nourishment. The violence of birth and predation.” Then she hoists the bundle up by its bindings with one hand, clutching the scruff of the rat in the other. “So too is a quarry used for more than its meat. Tonight, I will glimpse its connections to the land that bore it.”
Her gaze lingers on the pack which holds the box which holds the bottle, curiosity stifled by hesitation. It would not be the first time she saw a strange thing gathered for an abstract purpose, but this indelicate creature did not strike her as the ritualistic type. “Your advice is noted,” they say in response to a number of things, turning toward the narrow wildlife path to resume their onward trudging. Their attention swings around them: over their shoulder toward Talyson, toward his feet in search of the still absent companion, through the trees to scout for a proper location to rest, and ever vigilant for the return of the fickle mists.
“What properties does the mud have?”
“Protection is about more than preserving life. It is about the connections that sustain life. The cycles of death and nourishment. The violence of birth and predation.” Then she hoists the bundle up by its bindings with one hand, clutching the scruff of the rat in the other. “So too is a quarry used for more than its meat. Tonight, I will glimpse its connections to the land that bore it.”
Her gaze lingers on the pack which holds the box which holds the bottle, curiosity stifled by hesitation. It would not be the first time she saw a strange thing gathered for an abstract purpose, but this indelicate creature did not strike her as the ritualistic type. “Your advice is noted,” they say in response to a number of things, turning toward the narrow wildlife path to resume their onward trudging. Their attention swings around them: over their shoulder toward Talyson, toward his feet in search of the still absent companion, through the trees to scout for a proper location to rest, and ever vigilant for the return of the fickle mists.
“What properties does the mud have?”
