chaele
worship like a dog
His assumptions about their predilections are entirely correct: the tendencies for solitude and survivorship and open spaces. And while the bulk of their agitation is hidden behind the mask, still the fidgeting in their hands remains, and the alert turning of their head, and the wavering volumes of their voice. Chaele does not belong here.
The wild woman looks down at the unfinished effigy in their hand, the vague shape of a headless body made of knotted red thread. It is the most obvious answer to his reciprocating question, though perhaps not one that is best spoken among the ears of so many strangers. “It is a place of power,” is the answer that comes after a moment’s deliberation. “Though I could not say precisely what kind.”
At some point they had taken a place in line beside him, heedless of the grumbling protests behind. His levity has a steadying influence, inspiring their wandering gaze to slow toward the sweet smell that wafts from their destination. “Hot cocoa,” Chaele echoes curiously, looking up and down the gathered line. “It must be quite a commodity.”
The wild woman looks down at the unfinished effigy in their hand, the vague shape of a headless body made of knotted red thread. It is the most obvious answer to his reciprocating question, though perhaps not one that is best spoken among the ears of so many strangers. “It is a place of power,” is the answer that comes after a moment’s deliberation. “Though I could not say precisely what kind.”
At some point they had taken a place in line beside him, heedless of the grumbling protests behind. His levity has a steadying influence, inspiring their wandering gaze to slow toward the sweet smell that wafts from their destination. “Hot cocoa,” Chaele echoes curiously, looking up and down the gathered line. “It must be quite a commodity.”
at the shrine of my lies
