chaele
worship like a dog
Their gaze follows his toward the games, attention caught by tossed rings and spun wheels before it can find any semblance of required errands. A private grin, and not an entirely condescending one, pushes at the corners of their eyes as they slide into the seat across from Deimos. Setting the mug beside their fresh plate, Chaele tugs off their gloves in consideration of the funnel cake.
“In Torchline they would put honey on something like this,” they mention idly, presuming to pinch a piece of pastry from the plate. The twisted shape is pulled taut, snowing cinnamon and sugar onto the smaller plate between their elbows. Inevitably it breaks in two, and Chaele finally slides one piece beneath their mask.
Of course it is delicious, in a way that makes their dark eyes roll with incredulity. Such luxuries are easy temptations, reminders of the complacencies and comforts that the shaman has worked so hard to set aside. It is almost a relief to talk of war, to concede the weakness of revelry by undermining it with something that feels important. “I can presume to be nothing but an ant,” they chat, dipping the other piece of cake into some cocoa. “I have sworn to help with the so-called neutral area, though I will not stay in it. I want nothing to do with bickering gods, even if violence may find me as easily as any flood.”
Thumbing the mask up, they pop the wetted strand between their molars. “And where will you stand?”
“In Torchline they would put honey on something like this,” they mention idly, presuming to pinch a piece of pastry from the plate. The twisted shape is pulled taut, snowing cinnamon and sugar onto the smaller plate between their elbows. Inevitably it breaks in two, and Chaele finally slides one piece beneath their mask.
Of course it is delicious, in a way that makes their dark eyes roll with incredulity. Such luxuries are easy temptations, reminders of the complacencies and comforts that the shaman has worked so hard to set aside. It is almost a relief to talk of war, to concede the weakness of revelry by undermining it with something that feels important. “I can presume to be nothing but an ant,” they chat, dipping the other piece of cake into some cocoa. “I have sworn to help with the so-called neutral area, though I will not stay in it. I want nothing to do with bickering gods, even if violence may find me as easily as any flood.”
Thumbing the mask up, they pop the wetted strand between their molars. “And where will you stand?”
at the shrine of my lies
