in tenebris est veritas.
It is not easy to hide in this white wasteland, which glows into the black sky like a beacon of suffering and survival. Every shadow is a dark mark, every breath a bright cloud in this world of contrast without secrecy. Maybe there is comfort in the conspicuity, in the knowing that any creature that might take notice could just as easily be noticed in turn. But so too is it too easy to be complacent, as the insidious cold is a predator of its own.
Chaele had followed the deep footprints in the snow until it waned into the sea's hard ice, if only out of curiosity. It is not often that they find evidence of a lone traveler, without a companion or caravan to shelter with. Their instinct is to hunt, to practice tracking and hiding and stalking. Their cloak is made of snow hares which are strung together in a matting of camouflage behind an ivory skull mask, its stripped antlers the only prominence that might reveal them.
But when they finally spot their quarry, they pause.
The hunt is over. They had never intended to kill anyone, but the apparent fragility in the object of the hunt reminds them keenly that their idle exercise was no trifling matter. Her dark shadow of hair, her lithe neck stretched toward the heavens above, the warmth of her southern body against the melting ice beneath-- she is so entirely, intriguingly, and perhaps deceivingly human.
With a soft scraping of boots against ice they announce their presence, offering no other greeting as they sit cross-legged about a dozen feet away. Their gaze follows Maeve’s curiously toward the stars.
Chaele had followed the deep footprints in the snow until it waned into the sea's hard ice, if only out of curiosity. It is not often that they find evidence of a lone traveler, without a companion or caravan to shelter with. Their instinct is to hunt, to practice tracking and hiding and stalking. Their cloak is made of snow hares which are strung together in a matting of camouflage behind an ivory skull mask, its stripped antlers the only prominence that might reveal them.
But when they finally spot their quarry, they pause.
The hunt is over. They had never intended to kill anyone, but the apparent fragility in the object of the hunt reminds them keenly that their idle exercise was no trifling matter. Her dark shadow of hair, her lithe neck stretched toward the heavens above, the warmth of her southern body against the melting ice beneath-- she is so entirely, intriguingly, and perhaps deceivingly human.
With a soft scraping of boots against ice they announce their presence, offering no other greeting as they sit cross-legged about a dozen feet away. Their gaze follows Maeve’s curiously toward the stars.
