in tenebris est veritas.
The spaces between his words stand like mountains in a clear sky-- looming, distant, and alien. Chaele feels her head nod as if she understands what he means, but in truth she cannot. She has outwitted a predator, but never known the wrath of an intelligent enemy; her fingers have been sticky with blood, but never that of an ally. Her hands are for bone macerations and haruspicies, her tongue for ritual mantras, her etched skin for channeling that which was borne not of instinct but of intention. Despite their differences, it is not difficult to recognize the suffering that unites their evocations, these wellsprings of magic.
“My rites are more than magic,” she explains, her fingertips rising absently toward the arm that bears her quarry. They trip gently over the lace of runes around her elbow, lingering on one which seems to have some private meaning. She continues slowly, in fact speaking these words aloud for the first time. “They are communions with the land and its bounty. Promises to protect that which nourishes me, and shares its secrets. This power of mine is only one of its many gifts.”
Her attention rises to him then, as if she had almost forgotten he was there. Her hand drops to her side. “But perhaps I do not need to explain to you what it is to endure. To be grateful.”
Then the point of her mask turns toward the corridor behind him, back the way they came. Though she carries a fraction of the weight he does, she is eager not to carry it for long; she begins to step toward Deimos, in the direction that he had claimed was Halo. “I have not learned the power of healing,” she notes, apparently unaware of the divine choice she had already made. “So I learned to use Elm bark. Efas stem. Ramphire down. It depends on what is available. If I can find my way out of here, I expect I will find something growing in the volcanic soil.”
“My rites are more than magic,” she explains, her fingertips rising absently toward the arm that bears her quarry. They trip gently over the lace of runes around her elbow, lingering on one which seems to have some private meaning. She continues slowly, in fact speaking these words aloud for the first time. “They are communions with the land and its bounty. Promises to protect that which nourishes me, and shares its secrets. This power of mine is only one of its many gifts.”
Her attention rises to him then, as if she had almost forgotten he was there. Her hand drops to her side. “But perhaps I do not need to explain to you what it is to endure. To be grateful.”
Then the point of her mask turns toward the corridor behind him, back the way they came. Though she carries a fraction of the weight he does, she is eager not to carry it for long; she begins to step toward Deimos, in the direction that he had claimed was Halo. “I have not learned the power of healing,” she notes, apparently unaware of the divine choice she had already made. “So I learned to use Elm bark. Efas stem. Ramphire down. It depends on what is available. If I can find my way out of here, I expect I will find something growing in the volcanic soil.”
