in tenebris est veritas.
The blade stills, the blood pools, the shaman’s hands hang limp as the story goes on. The little illusory dancer captivates their attention, and not just with its beauty. It is rare to see such magic, the honest and present sort that defies reality with its uncanny truths. Chaele eagerly entertains the notion that Zamara was drawn to this place not only because of her instinct to flee an unfortunate circumstance, but because perhaps she felt the ley lines, the threads of power that cross this realm. It is the burden of their kind, to sense them.
They find no words to respond to her story otherwise, pieces of it drifting through the shaman’s understanding with somber sympathy. Their own story had not been so dire, but it is all the more reason to rescue Zamara from hers; cursing their instinct for charity, Chaele is eager to make use of it as the final question is spoken. They gesture to the carcass with their blade, resuming the project of disassembling it.
“It is easier with every iteration, as all things are. The skin is attached to the meat by only a thin filament, see--” They slice carefully at the inside of the animal, holding the fur up to better show Zamara the technique. There is a line around the neck and ankles where the fur remains. “Though it is more complex around the head and feet. Those will require further attention, which I can show you after we eat.”
Once the skin is adequately removed, it is used as a sort of blanket to protect the meat from the ground. Chaele glances toward the ashes in their fire circle with a small sigh, as she supposes that the illusionist probably has little skill in lighting a fire. Luckily there are some cut logs and kindling stashed nearby, which the wild woman begins to arrange within the little circle of stones. “It is said that true family are the people we choose,” she mentions after a few moments of thoughtful work. Smoke begins to rise from the leaves and twigs as they add, “I like to think that home is just the same. It is not a single place, but rather something chosen. Something built.”
They find no words to respond to her story otherwise, pieces of it drifting through the shaman’s understanding with somber sympathy. Their own story had not been so dire, but it is all the more reason to rescue Zamara from hers; cursing their instinct for charity, Chaele is eager to make use of it as the final question is spoken. They gesture to the carcass with their blade, resuming the project of disassembling it.
“It is easier with every iteration, as all things are. The skin is attached to the meat by only a thin filament, see--” They slice carefully at the inside of the animal, holding the fur up to better show Zamara the technique. There is a line around the neck and ankles where the fur remains. “Though it is more complex around the head and feet. Those will require further attention, which I can show you after we eat.”
Once the skin is adequately removed, it is used as a sort of blanket to protect the meat from the ground. Chaele glances toward the ashes in their fire circle with a small sigh, as she supposes that the illusionist probably has little skill in lighting a fire. Luckily there are some cut logs and kindling stashed nearby, which the wild woman begins to arrange within the little circle of stones. “It is said that true family are the people we choose,” she mentions after a few moments of thoughtful work. Smoke begins to rise from the leaves and twigs as they add, “I like to think that home is just the same. It is not a single place, but rather something chosen. Something built.”
