in tenebris est veritas.
A frown twists over their cracked lips, perhaps visible despite the low light from Maea’s upward view of their face beneath the mask. They are neither fond of heralds nor festivals, preferring solitude to worship. But the lock has been set on their circumstance, the pomegranate seeds eaten, the tower door sealed. Chaele is stuck in this place, unless they can convince this stranger to take pity. They take a step toward her, then lower themself into the sand.
“No,” is the wary reply, with hands crossed into the folds of so many skirts. As soon as the denial is made, a distant memory occurs to them-- made of sweets and lights and ghost stories-- but it is too vague to be of any use. Eyes behind holes in bone tilt toward the project between pale hands. “What purpose does it serve?”
“No,” is the wary reply, with hands crossed into the folds of so many skirts. As soon as the denial is made, a distant memory occurs to them-- made of sweets and lights and ghost stories-- but it is too vague to be of any use. Eyes behind holes in bone tilt toward the project between pale hands. “What purpose does it serve?”
