in tenebris est veritas.
In the quiet moment after his last pausing step, Chaele's hands disappear again beneath her robes. Her defensive stance is more practice than experience, her scars are more meticulous than hardened. Perhaps her hands are familiar with the blood of an animal, but her feet have never stepped over a body on a battlefield; her eyes have never witnessed a soul escape through a final breath. This mask, this cloak, these armors that were not armor were equal parts reality and aspiration-- something that may or may not be observed by eyes that seek to see it.
“I…” she begins, before realizing that she did not precisely know the answer to his question. It was not the first time she had been lost for losing’s sake, allowing her well-worn feet to guide her to places of instinct and power. She had not found what she was looking for, but neither was she suicidal. “I am Chaele,” they say instead, their watchful gaze remaining on him as they dip their head in greeting.
But as the mists roll through, the sharp nose of her mask points in the direction of the laughter-- and away from Deimos for the first time since they met. “Perhaps in pursuit of the spirit…” she muses, though her attention returns to him hastily enough. She would likely never admit that it was more than caution that minded him, that she was drawn to his quiet ferocity-- perhaps to the magic in him that she did not yet know existed, or even to the subtle savagery invoked by his scars and the severity with which he wore them. If she were to truly seek out the source of this laughter, she thought, it would surely be without him.
“Halo,” she corrects. “Perhaps I will stay longer, but not without knowing the way out.”
“I…” she begins, before realizing that she did not precisely know the answer to his question. It was not the first time she had been lost for losing’s sake, allowing her well-worn feet to guide her to places of instinct and power. She had not found what she was looking for, but neither was she suicidal. “I am Chaele,” they say instead, their watchful gaze remaining on him as they dip their head in greeting.
But as the mists roll through, the sharp nose of her mask points in the direction of the laughter-- and away from Deimos for the first time since they met. “Perhaps in pursuit of the spirit…” she muses, though her attention returns to him hastily enough. She would likely never admit that it was more than caution that minded him, that she was drawn to his quiet ferocity-- perhaps to the magic in him that she did not yet know existed, or even to the subtle savagery invoked by his scars and the severity with which he wore them. If she were to truly seek out the source of this laughter, she thought, it would surely be without him.
“Halo,” she corrects. “Perhaps I will stay longer, but not without knowing the way out.”
