RHOSWEN,
Rhoswen had lost track of all time upon the hour her solitude was desecrated; she might have been shrouded in the cathedral's darkness for moments or days, who was she to say. Almost reluctantly she had made the journey skyward with gritted teeth and the taste of chagrin slapped against the roof of her mouth, but she had journeyed all the same, if only to cease the incessant memory of her father's voice ringing like a broken record. "To forsake your Priestess is to forsake oneself, Rhoswen" Iscariot had always been a scrupulously devout man, and part of her had admired him for such devotion - yet still the other, stronger, part of her had declared him foolish. Doubt had gnawed at the silver-skinned girl from a young age: had these proposed Gods and Goddesses truly existed, all those thousands of years ago? And even so, were they benevolent and receptive to prayer? After years of thought, Rhoswen still had not arrived at any definitive conclusion, and perhaps it was time to accept that she never would. Regardless, her return to Novus and her abandonment of the Court she had been born into, for another, had left her feeling... uncomfortable? It was an itch she could not seem to scratch.
And so Rhoswen she had made her first pilgrimage to the Holy grounds of Veneror Peak in search of atonement, elucidation, acknowledgement, something. She had stood - fists clenched, damp auburn curls cast astray - waiting in the cool of this house of hallowed stone for anything close to enlightenment. It never came.
What did, however, was a man dressed in red and marred by horn. So entombed in his own thought, he did not seem to notice the smoke-eyed figure hidden also within the shadows; watching as he seem to empty his very soul into the air with every delicately whispered syllable. Rhoswen felt as though she were intruding on something private, something sacred, and she supposed she was. Had she been a different girl, gentle and saccharine, Rhos might have stayed hidden so as to guard this stranger's privacy. But, she was not. She was carved from sharpened steel, carrying stolen jewels between her teeth; a shark, a wolf, a blade. "She is not listening," the words dripped from her tongue like honeyed arsenic as she emerged into the light, a smile threatening to break loose, "but I am."
And so Rhoswen she had made her first pilgrimage to the Holy grounds of Veneror Peak in search of atonement, elucidation, acknowledgement, something. She had stood - fists clenched, damp auburn curls cast astray - waiting in the cool of this house of hallowed stone for anything close to enlightenment. It never came.
What did, however, was a man dressed in red and marred by horn. So entombed in his own thought, he did not seem to notice the smoke-eyed figure hidden also within the shadows; watching as he seem to empty his very soul into the air with every delicately whispered syllable. Rhoswen felt as though she were intruding on something private, something sacred, and she supposed she was. Had she been a different girl, gentle and saccharine, Rhos might have stayed hidden so as to guard this stranger's privacy. But, she was not. She was carved from sharpened steel, carrying stolen jewels between her teeth; a shark, a wolf, a blade. "She is not listening," the words dripped from her tongue like honeyed arsenic as she emerged into the light, a smile threatening to break loose, "but I am."
@camdis hey!!
