She waits for him to stop with the patience that has carried her through all of this.
“I spoke of possibilities regarding my aunt. She is blood of my blood. She was most beloved by a man dear to my heart and I take no joy in questioning what became of her, but it is not beyond reproach to wonder when all accounts I have heard are so conflicting. You say that there was hardly any deaths, others have said that the very city was burning and that violence spilled from the Gallows into the street. You speak of possibility and change and claim that I love to be imprisoned, but to many of us the Circles were the first places where we knew we would be fed, and clothed, and where fate held more potential to us then dying forgotten in a gutter, or murdered by those to whom we were the first inconvenience. We did not walk free of our own choice. Our homes were torn down about our very ears.”
Still, she has not raised her voice, and still her tone remains calm, as it has thoughout. Can condescension seep into a tone that seeks so hard to be without bias? Perhaps she is not so well schooled in control as she had hoped. The coals burning into her skin were testimony enough, but when others notice as well it is all to unfortunate. He asks her not to speak with condescension, but she doubts he has taken even a moment to listen to his own tone.
Herian looks back to the tent, and sighs. “Cerise matters more than our grievances. Whatever judgments you would make of me can wait.”
There is nothing to be done for the dead, mage or Templar, human or elven. It is not done, this, and she knows it well, but there is a living woman who has been left waiting alone, and Herian will not leave her overlong; she turns, and returns through the tent flap.
no subject
“I spoke of possibilities regarding my aunt. She is blood of my blood. She was most beloved by a man dear to my heart and I take no joy in questioning what became of her, but it is not beyond reproach to wonder when all accounts I have heard are so conflicting. You say that there was hardly any deaths, others have said that the very city was burning and that violence spilled from the Gallows into the street. You speak of possibility and change and claim that I love to be imprisoned, but to many of us the Circles were the first places where we knew we would be fed, and clothed, and where fate held more potential to us then dying forgotten in a gutter, or murdered by those to whom we were the first inconvenience. We did not walk free of our own choice. Our homes were torn down about our very ears.”
Still, she has not raised her voice, and still her tone remains calm, as it has thoughout. Can condescension seep into a tone that seeks so hard to be without bias? Perhaps she is not so well schooled in control as she had hoped. The coals burning into her skin were testimony enough, but when others notice as well it is all to unfortunate. He asks her not to speak with condescension, but she doubts he has taken even a moment to listen to his own tone.
Herian looks back to the tent, and sighs. “Cerise matters more than our grievances. Whatever judgments you would make of me can wait.”
There is nothing to be done for the dead, mage or Templar, human or elven. It is not done, this, and she knows it well, but there is a living woman who has been left waiting alone, and Herian will not leave her overlong; she turns, and returns through the tent flap.