in tenebris est veritas.
Chaele bears no pity for the harvesting of anyone, Ascended or not, but she does pause to watch the minute changes in Wessex’s face as she seems to express a sort of muted resentment. Noting the offense, the shaman mutters mostly to herself, “I expect the same to be done to me, when the time comes.”
Then her attention is drawn to the elaborately bejeweled staff. It is clearly valuable beyond the wealth of its gems, something powerful in its smell or its aura that the wild woman cannot quite place. A part of her wants to keep it, to examine it, to hoard it away with the rest of her growing collection. But the moment demands diplomacy-- after all, how many others would have joined her in her harvest?
“I do not know, but you are welcome to it, Wessex. I am called Chaele.” She holds the staff out over the dismantled body. Her own dagger resting in the mud for now, Chaele flinches slightly as a single raindrop falls on her outstretched arm. “Most of the clothes are partially rotted, though the shoes might be salvageable. The shawl will need to be cleaned, but I removed it because it is strangely warm to the touch.”
Then her attention is drawn to the elaborately bejeweled staff. It is clearly valuable beyond the wealth of its gems, something powerful in its smell or its aura that the wild woman cannot quite place. A part of her wants to keep it, to examine it, to hoard it away with the rest of her growing collection. But the moment demands diplomacy-- after all, how many others would have joined her in her harvest?
“I do not know, but you are welcome to it, Wessex. I am called Chaele.” She holds the staff out over the dismantled body. Her own dagger resting in the mud for now, Chaele flinches slightly as a single raindrop falls on her outstretched arm. “Most of the clothes are partially rotted, though the shoes might be salvageable. The shawl will need to be cleaned, but I removed it because it is strangely warm to the touch.”
