MABEL
She dipped her head again, absorbing information about daggers and stilettos by advanced sight, no need for the moonlight, no need for the ember’s sway. Her fingers followed inscriptions, marks of etched, serrated blades, pondering how she could acquire some for herself. How satisfying it would be to slip it in between rib cages. To puncture and unravel a heart until it beat its last.
His answer was unimaginative and uninspiring, and she snorted, eyes only glancing back up to him again – feeling a collective urgency, nuance, to seethe and dismiss, to deliberately instigate. A mood, a predilection, an irritation leveled along her shoulder blades and down her spine, running rampant since she’d heard of her sister’s death. Since the verdict had slashed along her mind, lent her away from ghosts, and more to demons. “Maybe it wasn’t perfect, if so many wanted to come back.” Her parents hadn’t returned – worshippers they’d been, kneeling before their shrines for Frey, for Safrn, for Frey, for Vi, for Mort, for Rae – and they still ended up starving to death, wrapped up in sickness and infirmities, not a single herald listening to their pleas for more rain, for better soil, for a successful crop. Her jaw clenched, and she nearly sneered the last words – fangs glistening in the dapple and patches of luminary glows. “What have the Old Gods ever done for you?”
His answer was unimaginative and uninspiring, and she snorted, eyes only glancing back up to him again – feeling a collective urgency, nuance, to seethe and dismiss, to deliberately instigate. A mood, a predilection, an irritation leveled along her shoulder blades and down her spine, running rampant since she’d heard of her sister’s death. Since the verdict had slashed along her mind, lent her away from ghosts, and more to demons. “Maybe it wasn’t perfect, if so many wanted to come back.” Her parents hadn’t returned – worshippers they’d been, kneeling before their shrines for Frey, for Safrn, for Frey, for Vi, for Mort, for Rae – and they still ended up starving to death, wrapped up in sickness and infirmities, not a single herald listening to their pleas for more rain, for better soil, for a successful crop. Her jaw clenched, and she nearly sneered the last words – fangs glistening in the dapple and patches of luminary glows. “What have the Old Gods ever done for you?”
If you dig under my feet
You will find things that you don't want to see
You will find things that you don't want to see
