It's not an answer. Yet perhaps, the only true answer he — (it?) — can give.
Nails curl into her palms, tiny half-moons of presence, of focus. If this isn't real, then perhaps she can end it, bring herself forth. It it is, all the more reason to force her head clear.
She doesn't remember a Cole, perhaps a skimmed name some name on a manifest, not one of hers. An apostate? It would explain the cells, but,
But not one of hers. As though that were any excuse. Finally, she seems to find her feet under her, snarls,
"You're a murderer," Called the pot to the kettle, but Maker, if anything had helped raise the Spire's tensions to a boil— "And you will not harm than any further."
As though she could do a damn thing about it. How many apprentices have fled to the shelter of the Inquisition's ranks? How precious few would trust her for any kind of warning?
no subject
Nails curl into her palms, tiny half-moons of presence, of focus. If this isn't real, then perhaps she can end it, bring herself forth. It it is, all the more reason to force her head clear.
She doesn't remember a Cole, perhaps a skimmed name some name on a manifest, not one of hers. An apostate? It would explain the cells, but,
But not one of hers. As though that were any excuse. Finally, she seems to find her feet under her, snarls,
"You're a murderer," Called the pot to the kettle, but Maker, if anything had helped raise the Spire's tensions to a boil— "And you will not harm than any further."
As though she could do a damn thing about it. How many apprentices have fled to the shelter of the Inquisition's ranks? How precious few would trust her for any kind of warning?