Never regret thy fall,
O Icarus of the fearless flight
For the greatest tragedy of them all
Is never to feel the burning light.
O Icarus of the fearless flight
For the greatest tragedy of them all
Is never to feel the burning light.
Ianthe flinches at the laugh, as subtly as she can manage. It’s a scathing thing, stone against stone, grinding and terrible. She wonders how the woman’s mouth isn’t dripping blood, producing sounds like that. But then, it’s hardly any of her business so long as Bexley keeps on keeping all her grime to herself, she’s hardly a healer after all, and if this was the sort she’d have to deal with then excuse her if she wasn’t going to rush out to fill that particular occupation.
And yet, as Bexley accepts her remark with what might be dry humour, as Bexley comes to her side and she turns to face the city, she can’t help the strange softening in her. “South.” She says, equally dry. South, as Aion had led her so she could be pieced together again. Perhaps that is it. Ianthe is a broken creature, mending slowly and beholden both to gods and a single mortal woman. Bexley is a broken creature too.
How terrible. She’s connecting with yet another heretic.
Rolling her eyes at herself, she swears to wash her hands of this entire mess the second she gets the chance. She is not going to go about getting attached or any silly little thing like that. It’s not like she can bring a wingless creature ho-… Well. She will be leaving eventually, and it’s better she not pollute herself with these heretics any more than she absolutely must for her duty. So, she’ll see Bexley to Moira and hopefully that’ll be the end of it.
She shakes herself. “We’ll make a detour to the lake, get some food and water in you before you collapse.” Itinerary thus set out, she tosses her head and eyes the band of gold fastened tight around Bexley’s neck. It’s glinting prettily enough in the dawn, but it hardly looks comfortable, and Ianthe does not understand it. “What’s the purpose of the gold?” She asks after a seconds too long silence. “I’d not seen a wink of any such ornaments before landing here, and now there’s a whole lot of you with shiny bits and bobs attached.” Honestly, the woman’s throat is struggling enough, the external pressure can not be helping. The entirety of it makes no logical sense.
And yet, as Bexley accepts her remark with what might be dry humour, as Bexley comes to her side and she turns to face the city, she can’t help the strange softening in her. “South.” She says, equally dry. South, as Aion had led her so she could be pieced together again. Perhaps that is it. Ianthe is a broken creature, mending slowly and beholden both to gods and a single mortal woman. Bexley is a broken creature too.
How terrible. She’s connecting with yet another heretic.
Rolling her eyes at herself, she swears to wash her hands of this entire mess the second she gets the chance. She is not going to go about getting attached or any silly little thing like that. It’s not like she can bring a wingless creature ho-… Well. She will be leaving eventually, and it’s better she not pollute herself with these heretics any more than she absolutely must for her duty. So, she’ll see Bexley to Moira and hopefully that’ll be the end of it.
She shakes herself. “We’ll make a detour to the lake, get some food and water in you before you collapse.” Itinerary thus set out, she tosses her head and eyes the band of gold fastened tight around Bexley’s neck. It’s glinting prettily enough in the dawn, but it hardly looks comfortable, and Ianthe does not understand it. “What’s the purpose of the gold?” She asks after a seconds too long silence. “I’d not seen a wink of any such ornaments before landing here, and now there’s a whole lot of you with shiny bits and bobs attached.” Honestly, the woman’s throat is struggling enough, the external pressure can not be helping. The entirety of it makes no logical sense.
@Bexley - i'm sorry for taking so long!
