in tenebris est veritas.
Chaele has never considered the possibility of augmenting one’s power in such a way; animal forms have always seemed a bit like the poor man’s magic. As his neck straightens for the pride of it, hers bends in contemplation. She does not know the desperate circumstances of his blessing, so she takes him for ambitious. A good ally to have.
Even though the winds and cold were present to herald their new beginning, her hand rises to shield her eyes from the blinding white of the world beyond. The sun is high, the sky clear, and the tundra collecting silvery snow in the late days of Leafchange. As Deimos moves forward, Chaele pauses to breathe in the brisk air, to plan her next moves. “Perhaps,” is the honest answer to both questions. “First I must make camp and dress the bird. I cannot carry it much farther.”
A hand jumps up to catch a feather from Belial’s toy as it dances toward her, its pitch blackness glinting iridescent in the fresh light. The shaman pulls it beneath her mask, sniffing it with occult purpose, then tucks it away in her pack. With the same hand she begins to tug free a folded cloak, then tips her own crow to the ground to better fasten the tattered wool around her shoulders.
“I might head east after that,” she contemplates, for hers is rarely a known destination. “Though this may be my last opportunity for a while, to explore the western reaches.” Sunlight reflects from the bright terrain and shines directly into the orbital holes of her mask as she squints northward, as if daring her to explore it.
Even though the winds and cold were present to herald their new beginning, her hand rises to shield her eyes from the blinding white of the world beyond. The sun is high, the sky clear, and the tundra collecting silvery snow in the late days of Leafchange. As Deimos moves forward, Chaele pauses to breathe in the brisk air, to plan her next moves. “Perhaps,” is the honest answer to both questions. “First I must make camp and dress the bird. I cannot carry it much farther.”
A hand jumps up to catch a feather from Belial’s toy as it dances toward her, its pitch blackness glinting iridescent in the fresh light. The shaman pulls it beneath her mask, sniffing it with occult purpose, then tucks it away in her pack. With the same hand she begins to tug free a folded cloak, then tips her own crow to the ground to better fasten the tattered wool around her shoulders.
“I might head east after that,” she contemplates, for hers is rarely a known destination. “Though this may be my last opportunity for a while, to explore the western reaches.” Sunlight reflects from the bright terrain and shines directly into the orbital holes of her mask as she squints northward, as if daring her to explore it.
