MABEL
She fidgeted and squirmed under the semblance of the “joke”, discomfort evident in the reel of her wrinkled nose; destroyed plans, perhaps. “I didn’t have much practice with them before,” she admitted, eyes on the ground, one of her hands desperate to toy restlessly with the knife hidden on her form. She didn’t, but the thought was still there all the same.
Nor did Mabel have anything to say about the “gifts” of the Old Gods, of the Attuned natures, considering she’d recently used one, and appreciated the semblance in the same breath. Maybe all of them had their place in the world, and Henry had found his, and she wandered along the outside, looking in, glancing towards those already well-fitted and orchestrated to their means, to their measures.
She only lifted her eyes from the wisps of greenery, or the lonely chorus bee settling for one last piece of pollen on a flower, at his semblances of asking Frey or the Voice. A sterner edge settled upon her jaw, as if she fought along the realm of defiance, curiosity, or something lodged in between. Her parents had begged and pleaded to each and every Old God for their success, for their crops to rise, for the bounty to be plentiful and nourishing, and Mabel had watched as year after year after year, nothing much came to fruition. Her farmhouse still stood, but the rest of its world was barren. But what would an Old God worshipper do at the shrine of their Brightened goddess? “And what will you ask?” A question, rather than the act of bitterness and sedition threatening to spoil across her tongue. It likely would’ve ruined the next statement anyway.
Every proportion of her body stilled, gaze widening slightly. “Yes,” she claimed with no hesitation, no uncertainty.
Nor did Mabel have anything to say about the “gifts” of the Old Gods, of the Attuned natures, considering she’d recently used one, and appreciated the semblance in the same breath. Maybe all of them had their place in the world, and Henry had found his, and she wandered along the outside, looking in, glancing towards those already well-fitted and orchestrated to their means, to their measures.
She only lifted her eyes from the wisps of greenery, or the lonely chorus bee settling for one last piece of pollen on a flower, at his semblances of asking Frey or the Voice. A sterner edge settled upon her jaw, as if she fought along the realm of defiance, curiosity, or something lodged in between. Her parents had begged and pleaded to each and every Old God for their success, for their crops to rise, for the bounty to be plentiful and nourishing, and Mabel had watched as year after year after year, nothing much came to fruition. Her farmhouse still stood, but the rest of its world was barren. But what would an Old God worshipper do at the shrine of their Brightened goddess? “And what will you ask?” A question, rather than the act of bitterness and sedition threatening to spoil across her tongue. It likely would’ve ruined the next statement anyway.
Every proportion of her body stilled, gaze widening slightly. “Yes,” she claimed with no hesitation, no uncertainty.
Let's go to war to make peace
Let's be cold to create heat
Let's be cold to create heat
