I can give you freedom from your guilt with a flick of my wrist
Nephele is not bound to a singular place any longer, freed of both title and responsibility. The war bears down closer and closer, and still she writhes and burns with the need to do more. Ever since she lost her twin she has been unmoored, lost in this world, dancing along the thin line of fate that will someday deliver her to Mort’s arms. Even the Draig had refused to take her. And so she has lived, angry and resentful, barely living at all. Trying to take down as many of her enemies as she can before she is inevitably culled herself. And only then will she be at peace.
Mourn is an appropriate place when she misses her sister. What she isn’t expecting is company - much less one intent on destroying the blossoms spread about the grounds. Frowning and descending, dark rags fluttering, Nephele lands with a soft thump on the grass near the woman. “I do not believe those blossoms are for harvesting for the graves,” her prim and pointedly disappointed voice rises to deliver the words, wings settling at her back.
Mourn is an appropriate place when she misses her sister. What she isn’t expecting is company - much less one intent on destroying the blossoms spread about the grounds. Frowning and descending, dark rags fluttering, Nephele lands with a soft thump on the grass near the woman. “I do not believe those blossoms are for harvesting for the graves,” her prim and pointedly disappointed voice rises to deliver the words, wings settling at her back.
I can give you death with the look upon my face
