DELPHIA
Meandering, as Delphia was wont to do, she found herself eventually at the temple of the hollowed grounds. Curiosity struck, wondering how those who had been trapped for three hundred years celebrated the gods, and namely the Heralds that had stewarded their word for all those centuries. But upon arriving, she saw a painting of a woman she did not recognize. It was certainly not Safrin, nor was it one half of Rae. Her brows furrowed as she found a notice.
The Voice.
Delphia looked up at it again, tilting her head slightly. So, that was what she looked like? She barely looked an adult (not that she was one to speak, for her own stick straight frame only carried off the impression of maturity thanks to her height). Haunted grey eyes glanced over to a man, one she assumed to be the artist. ”Why would you hang a painting of the soul-stealer?” she asked, curious why she was being revered when she tortured the dead of her own people.
The Voice.
Delphia looked up at it again, tilting her head slightly. So, that was what she looked like? She barely looked an adult (not that she was one to speak, for her own stick straight frame only carried off the impression of maturity thanks to her height). Haunted grey eyes glanced over to a man, one she assumed to be the artist. ”Why would you hang a painting of the soul-stealer?” she asked, curious why she was being revered when she tortured the dead of her own people.
Here in the forest dark and deep
I offer you
Eternal Sleep
