in tenebris est veritas.
Her gaze does not stray from the hypnotic fire. Not only is it an easy distraction from the uncanny beauty of the entity opposite, but it is the promise of a worthy challenge in the face of a fear that must be fully contemplated. Whereas the Demigod appears younger than he is, veiled as he is in illusion and divinity, the Abandoned is hunched with the burdens of mortality and trepidation. When she speaks, it is to the blaze.
“Is death not supposed to be painful? Are not such horrors as pain and death said to be a part of life?” She argues mostly for arguing’s sake, a pretense of potency serving as a poor mask for her stalling words. “I will thank you not to spare me such suffering, when my time comes. I am prepared for the end.”
She steps back then, a single long stride that seems to test the distance she will have to run before a leap. “I will also thank you for not lowering the flames. If this thing is to be done, then let it be done fully.”
Her hand rises to her the clasp on her cloak and it drops to the soft grass around her feet. Her arms are covered in scars that upon closer inspection are revealed to take the shape of carved runes, twisting gently atop flexing muscles as her fingers ball into fists. She takes another preparatory step back... but something stops her. Perhaps it is something other than fear, like the gaze of the laughing Lullaby or the shock of what could have been a warning vision. Or perhaps her nerves really have gotten the best of her. One need not see her face to detect the dubious frown in her posture.
“Is death not supposed to be painful? Are not such horrors as pain and death said to be a part of life?” She argues mostly for arguing’s sake, a pretense of potency serving as a poor mask for her stalling words. “I will thank you not to spare me such suffering, when my time comes. I am prepared for the end.”
She steps back then, a single long stride that seems to test the distance she will have to run before a leap. “I will also thank you for not lowering the flames. If this thing is to be done, then let it be done fully.”
Her hand rises to her the clasp on her cloak and it drops to the soft grass around her feet. Her arms are covered in scars that upon closer inspection are revealed to take the shape of carved runes, twisting gently atop flexing muscles as her fingers ball into fists. She takes another preparatory step back... but something stops her. Perhaps it is something other than fear, like the gaze of the laughing Lullaby or the shock of what could have been a warning vision. Or perhaps her nerves really have gotten the best of her. One need not see her face to detect the dubious frown in her posture.
