chaele
worship like a dog
Chaele shakes her head, a mild protest against the attempt to sympathize with those who would see the Ascended extinct. Her opinion of the Old Gods is low, as is her bloodright, and her instinct for self-preservation manifests in words that almost sound like she is taking a side.
“No one can be faulted for trying to free themselves from a cage.” Like the Voice. “Nor for achieving the most they can with what they have.” Like the Acquired.
Seeming to realize the weight in her scales, she begins to add, “Nor for--” but she is interrupted by the cry. Instinctively her empty hand reaches rightward, toward the source of the close sound. Inky black shadows seep out between her glove and sleeve as draining magic coalesces in the direction of the squirrel. Its mischievous eyes droop with a sudden exhaustion, its grip falters on the narrow hedge branches, and it plunges onto the ground.
But as Chaele draws her hunting knife and looks down in preparation of her next meal, she sees the herb beneath Maea’s heel.
Beneath the snow. Obviously.
The failing torch is pressed into the ice, where it sizzles and extinguishes, and the knife is slipped back into its sheath. Then Chaele falls to her knees and tugs the Efas free, leaving the squirrel to scurry off unless Maea chooses to delay it. Shoulders rising and falling in the wake of her exertion, she lifts the little plant upward with an exasperated chuckle.
“No one can be faulted for trying to free themselves from a cage.” Like the Voice. “Nor for achieving the most they can with what they have.” Like the Acquired.
Seeming to realize the weight in her scales, she begins to add, “Nor for--” but she is interrupted by the cry. Instinctively her empty hand reaches rightward, toward the source of the close sound. Inky black shadows seep out between her glove and sleeve as draining magic coalesces in the direction of the squirrel. Its mischievous eyes droop with a sudden exhaustion, its grip falters on the narrow hedge branches, and it plunges onto the ground.
But as Chaele draws her hunting knife and looks down in preparation of her next meal, she sees the herb beneath Maea’s heel.
Beneath the snow. Obviously.
The failing torch is pressed into the ice, where it sizzles and extinguishes, and the knife is slipped back into its sheath. Then Chaele falls to her knees and tugs the Efas free, leaving the squirrel to scurry off unless Maea chooses to delay it. Shoulders rising and falling in the wake of her exertion, she lifts the little plant upward with an exasperated chuckle.
at the shrine of my lies
