in tenebris est veritas.
This must be what flying feels like. The biting air, the rushing world, the timeless moments that seem to both pass in an instant and stretch for an eternity. Chaele gives up the task of examining her surroundings and checking her periphery; she closes her eyes and lets her other senses take in the spectacle. For that short, breathless time there is nothing else except for the smell of frost in her nostrils and whipping chill on her skin and the rhythmic beating of paws against tundra. Bare, bright, and beholden to nothing.
Except, of course, for the steed who pulls her, who decides her path and so her fate. She knows, logically, that the palace spire will eventually rise up from behind some crag or hill and that, eventually, the walls will stand to greet them all. But she opens her eyes too late-- it is too sudden, too close for comfort. Immediately her hand scrambles for her mask and despite the trouble of the wind she dons it, holding its protection and solace hard against her forehead. Perhaps Belial is observant enough to detect the glint of fear in her exposed eyes before she covers them.
“Here,” she suggests, even as they remain about a half-mile from the gates. Her mind has returned to preparations and strategies, her head rocking from side to side in surveillance of their new location. The sky is clear, but the cold is persistent. Even if she could prepare the means to survive on the outside, it would take longer than the few hours left to spare. Still she searches for an excuse not to cross into that civilized domain. “This is close enough.”
Except, of course, for the steed who pulls her, who decides her path and so her fate. She knows, logically, that the palace spire will eventually rise up from behind some crag or hill and that, eventually, the walls will stand to greet them all. But she opens her eyes too late-- it is too sudden, too close for comfort. Immediately her hand scrambles for her mask and despite the trouble of the wind she dons it, holding its protection and solace hard against her forehead. Perhaps Belial is observant enough to detect the glint of fear in her exposed eyes before she covers them.
“Here,” she suggests, even as they remain about a half-mile from the gates. Her mind has returned to preparations and strategies, her head rocking from side to side in surveillance of their new location. The sky is clear, but the cold is persistent. Even if she could prepare the means to survive on the outside, it would take longer than the few hours left to spare. Still she searches for an excuse not to cross into that civilized domain. “This is close enough.”
