It's Lord of the Flies in my mind tonight
Stepping away will give the Wraith a moment to properly clear her head, so she nods and takes Aurelia’s glass and heads back up towards the bar, mulling over last question she’s heard.
How do they bridge the gap?
Another round of the same, and it isn’t long before she brings the two glasses back to the table, the thunk of glass against wood feeling like some kind of restart button in her head. Stop. Go. Rewind. Pause. Aurelia’s own confession of loyalty still sits uneasy in her stomach and she knows she should take the warning for what it is: when people tell you who they are, believe them. Aurelia will turn to Safrin and the Old Gods and the only thing she can do is mitigate future damage.
Stormy around the edges, the queen offers the bottom rim of her glass up for a gentle clink before taking a sip again. “I don’t think anyone has a tried and true answer for it yet. Knowing the reality helps. Maybe promises, but then the pessimist in me thinks promises are too easily broken. The Ascended are fighting our their - our - lives. If the Voice is defeated, we’ll die because we rely on her fluid to replenish ourselves. Biting people isn’t the same.” It can do in a pinch, but it doesn’t have the same qualities. Death or shutting down would be the inevitable outcome.
“So - not to put you on the spot, but what would it take for you to fight?” A simple command from Safrin? A threat of something - real or imagined - brought by silken tongues and manipulative fingers?
How do they bridge the gap?
Another round of the same, and it isn’t long before she brings the two glasses back to the table, the thunk of glass against wood feeling like some kind of restart button in her head. Stop. Go. Rewind. Pause. Aurelia’s own confession of loyalty still sits uneasy in her stomach and she knows she should take the warning for what it is: when people tell you who they are, believe them. Aurelia will turn to Safrin and the Old Gods and the only thing she can do is mitigate future damage.
Stormy around the edges, the queen offers the bottom rim of her glass up for a gentle clink before taking a sip again. “I don’t think anyone has a tried and true answer for it yet. Knowing the reality helps. Maybe promises, but then the pessimist in me thinks promises are too easily broken. The Ascended are fighting our their - our - lives. If the Voice is defeated, we’ll die because we rely on her fluid to replenish ourselves. Biting people isn’t the same.” It can do in a pinch, but it doesn’t have the same qualities. Death or shutting down would be the inevitable outcome.
“So - not to put you on the spot, but what would it take for you to fight?” A simple command from Safrin? A threat of something - real or imagined - brought by silken tongues and manipulative fingers?
