Ill-Made Martyr [Open]

MaeA Oh. She had misunderstood, and rambled on at length for no reason. Maea blushed and have a half-hearted shrug; sure, there were always people like that, who enjoyed placing themselves on a pedistal over everyone else. But... "I don't know that any race think of themselves that way" she said. "If they do, they're quiet about it, because in the end such an attitude would not get them anywhere. As long as we're all trapped in here together it matters very little if you're Accepted, Attuned, Ascended or Abandoned. If no one does anything, we all die." A simple, harsh truth, yet she said it with quiet acceptance, having known no other way of living. The quick gesture Peter did with his hand caught her eye, and Maea breathed in deeply as she saw the dagger resting on his palm. Staring at it, she recoiled almost imperceptibly, unsure what his intent was. The only knives she was familiar with belonged in the kitchen and the barn, meant to secure food and thus life... Somehow, she got the feeling that this blade was meant for something else entirely. How had he gotten it out so quickly? And from where? "What...?" But the question died halfway off her tongue, because the girl did not know what she even wanted to ask. you're so cold, but you feel alive.