in tenebris est veritas.
Chaele’s eyes are not as keen as some, but they do not need more than starlight to make out enough of the figure beside them. It is the cold that bothers them more, absent their usual cloak and buffeted by broad ocean breezes. Their rune-carved arms shake occasionally as they meet the shadowed gaze opposite, neither truly seeing the obscured eyes of the other.
“My travels have only just begun,” she answers quietly, not quite successful in the attempt to seem more humble than inexperienced. “But I have collected much, mostly herbs and stones and bones. Attempted to decipher the energies they contain. What seems mundane is not always so.”
Like the seashell, its power to protect set aside to greet those who would lay anchor after a hard voyage. Or the driftwood, its old life dried to a husk as it wanders in search of a new one. There were surely more valuable, more potent things in the world, but how could one comprehend them if they did not start with the rest?
“Memory is the truest power there is. That which is passed from one soul to another... skills and stories and truths and traditions. It is our understanding of the world that harnesses it.”
As the lantern is lifted, Chaele can almost see the weight of grief in the gently swaying strings. She is curious as to the rest of the story, but does not have the words to say so. “So too is it a curse, sometimes.”
“My travels have only just begun,” she answers quietly, not quite successful in the attempt to seem more humble than inexperienced. “But I have collected much, mostly herbs and stones and bones. Attempted to decipher the energies they contain. What seems mundane is not always so.”
Like the seashell, its power to protect set aside to greet those who would lay anchor after a hard voyage. Or the driftwood, its old life dried to a husk as it wanders in search of a new one. There were surely more valuable, more potent things in the world, but how could one comprehend them if they did not start with the rest?
“Memory is the truest power there is. That which is passed from one soul to another... skills and stories and truths and traditions. It is our understanding of the world that harnesses it.”
As the lantern is lifted, Chaele can almost see the weight of grief in the gently swaying strings. She is curious as to the rest of the story, but does not have the words to say so. “So too is it a curse, sometimes.”
