in tenebris est veritas.
Calloused fingers, already clenched around whatever rope or edge she could find as a handhold, tighten further as she witnesses his change. Whatever words she had to reply are lost with the puff of white air that sighs from her mouth, somehow both incredulous and impressed. The hairs on the back of her neck rise with the electricity of anticipation and she offers a glance to Belial, as if to confirm what she is seeing.
Reverence is the word for it. Chaele has her own misguided views about the gods and their worth, but she cannot deny the allure of the wilderness, the sharp smell of the snow, the surge of teeth bared down and ropes pulled taut. The land itself seems to whistle in her ears like so many hymns, her eyes running wildly over the rushing world in earnest prayer.
“Will we make it in time?” She cries over the gale, though whether he heard her or could even reply is a question on her mind. Her chin rises as she raises her voice, which causes her mask to slip, its antlers buffeted by the winds that stream harshly in the hound’s wake. Chaele catches it and attempts to hold it for a time, but the need to secure herself onto the sled is too great; she is forced to remove it and stow it quickly away. Her braided hair is then free to fly out behind her, clattering with so many herbs and stones and teeth, while her face is exposed to the elements for the first time in a long time. Whatever ritual modesty the mask upholds will surely be honored by Deimos’s forward-facing task-- perhaps he will not see how the runes on her arms and throat continue up her face, a deep split in her lip stretched pink with a thrilled grin.
Reverence is the word for it. Chaele has her own misguided views about the gods and their worth, but she cannot deny the allure of the wilderness, the sharp smell of the snow, the surge of teeth bared down and ropes pulled taut. The land itself seems to whistle in her ears like so many hymns, her eyes running wildly over the rushing world in earnest prayer.
“Will we make it in time?” She cries over the gale, though whether he heard her or could even reply is a question on her mind. Her chin rises as she raises her voice, which causes her mask to slip, its antlers buffeted by the winds that stream harshly in the hound’s wake. Chaele catches it and attempts to hold it for a time, but the need to secure herself onto the sled is too great; she is forced to remove it and stow it quickly away. Her braided hair is then free to fly out behind her, clattering with so many herbs and stones and teeth, while her face is exposed to the elements for the first time in a long time. Whatever ritual modesty the mask upholds will surely be honored by Deimos’s forward-facing task-- perhaps he will not see how the runes on her arms and throat continue up her face, a deep split in her lip stretched pink with a thrilled grin.
