in tenebris est veritas.
The past tense strides between his words like an extra pair of footprints on a trail, hinting at untold regrets and unforgotten people. Her own stride falters faintly as curiosity weighs in her feet, but she does not press him. A face such as his, hard and guarded and astute, did not come from a life of ease. On the other hand, Chaele had known what it was to be sheltered, cherished, defended-- complacent, if only in the beginning. This life of scars and survival is one she had chosen over that one, not something that required any sacrifice except the grief of the family she left behind. Nothing had been thrust upon her, nothing undeserved.
“I am familiar with the divination rites of tarot and palm, of bone and flame. But I am most practiced with intestines,” she explains, head dipping downward in examination of Belial’s latest hunt. Blithe fangs sink into scaled flesh as beady little eyes fade from panic to the nothingness of a quick death. “It is said that a hunter imparts a piece of themself into each kill, which is imprinted on bones and viscera alike. I look for symbols in the veining, patterns in moisture, the texture of the contents, and such.” It is messy business, both in the manipulation of cold, slick innards and in the reading of vague, cryptic fortunes. But Chaele speaks without pretense or caution, supposing that it was hardly the bloodiest activity Deimos had heard of.
She steps toward the discarded crow then, watching Belial to see if he would object to her reaching for the bloody carcass. The haruspex intends only that it not be left behind, knowing little about the companion’s practical sense of stewardship. Lacking the strength in her injured arm to hoist it over her shoulder however, she would begin to drag it behind. She continues, “I do not meet with the divine if I can help it, but I have heard the name before. I imagine her divinations are more accurate than mine, but...” She looses a breath that resembles a laugh, or maybe she is simply growing weary from the walk. “We all start somewhere.”
“I am familiar with the divination rites of tarot and palm, of bone and flame. But I am most practiced with intestines,” she explains, head dipping downward in examination of Belial’s latest hunt. Blithe fangs sink into scaled flesh as beady little eyes fade from panic to the nothingness of a quick death. “It is said that a hunter imparts a piece of themself into each kill, which is imprinted on bones and viscera alike. I look for symbols in the veining, patterns in moisture, the texture of the contents, and such.” It is messy business, both in the manipulation of cold, slick innards and in the reading of vague, cryptic fortunes. But Chaele speaks without pretense or caution, supposing that it was hardly the bloodiest activity Deimos had heard of.
She steps toward the discarded crow then, watching Belial to see if he would object to her reaching for the bloody carcass. The haruspex intends only that it not be left behind, knowing little about the companion’s practical sense of stewardship. Lacking the strength in her injured arm to hoist it over her shoulder however, she would begin to drag it behind. She continues, “I do not meet with the divine if I can help it, but I have heard the name before. I imagine her divinations are more accurate than mine, but...” She looses a breath that resembles a laugh, or maybe she is simply growing weary from the walk. “We all start somewhere.”
