in tenebris est veritas.
Already the memory of freedom fades, the realities of gravity and pain and survival sinking in the pit of Chaele’s stomach. The snow has a different texture when it is still, she notices, as her hand slips away from her mask and touches the soft blanket of sled-tossed ice. Like the cloud that assures the storm.
Having her own adjustments to make-- from movement to stillness, from honest to masked, from formless flight to heavy form-- the shaman gives herself a moment to tip her feet off of the sled and find her balance. Her injured arm, its muscles strained from the persistent demands of holding onto the sled, does throb somewhat with the aftershocks of release; her opposite and rises to touch the wound, testing for its warmth and wetness.
The now familiar curve of his brow gives her pause, but ultimately she is pleased at his reticence as she stands.
“I have the elderbush leaf,” she reminds him, more a simple fact than a reassurance. Then she glances toward the south east, as well as the first dark hues of a rising dusk. Her tilting gaze searches for a particular cluster of trees, above which happen to be rising a view circling vultures. “And a stash of herbs not far from here.”
She seems to face the Citadel then, though her mask forces her gaze sideward toward Deimos as she fumbles with the ropes to free the one gore crow from its bindings. “There is time yet to light a fire, if I go there now. I am grateful for all the help you have given; I am in your debt.”
Having her own adjustments to make-- from movement to stillness, from honest to masked, from formless flight to heavy form-- the shaman gives herself a moment to tip her feet off of the sled and find her balance. Her injured arm, its muscles strained from the persistent demands of holding onto the sled, does throb somewhat with the aftershocks of release; her opposite and rises to touch the wound, testing for its warmth and wetness.
The now familiar curve of his brow gives her pause, but ultimately she is pleased at his reticence as she stands.
“I have the elderbush leaf,” she reminds him, more a simple fact than a reassurance. Then she glances toward the south east, as well as the first dark hues of a rising dusk. Her tilting gaze searches for a particular cluster of trees, above which happen to be rising a view circling vultures. “And a stash of herbs not far from here.”
She seems to face the Citadel then, though her mask forces her gaze sideward toward Deimos as she fumbles with the ropes to free the one gore crow from its bindings. “There is time yet to light a fire, if I go there now. I am grateful for all the help you have given; I am in your debt.”
