Before she can move, a throat's been split; the hiss of breath from her own, harsh and involuntary. Wren’s eyes slip shut — allows herself that, the brief ignorance to threat, contrary beside its waking, breathing presence. Amsel is capable. Thranduil is capable.
She mislikes that. What all here might be capable of.
Words wash, bells chime; the soft thump of something heavy at her feet, and she’s no further from an answer than before. The answer that has always been there, a parody of history and duty: Blood magic. Obvious, unrepentant blood magic. Maybe some day she’ll stop paying for this, for the mistakes of survival. Maybe.
But she doesn't think so. The huffs of strained breath are too familiar (Thranduil is capable, Thranduil is here). The tremors might be, if she bothered to look. She doesn’t. I am no mage —
It’s not as simple as that. Wren lifts a hand in gesture: Everyone. Shut up for a second.
"There is no saying that it could be done." Much shifts between dream and waking. "And it will not be."
Slips a glance open at last, skates over the whip, ignores the offer of a life. The promise is worthless, a foreign oath from a liar's tongue. There’s no true regard for their purpose, and no trust to be found in this; only the calculus of inevitable discovery.
Her eyes find Thranduil’s, narrow. This is poor company for secrets.
"You chose an audience for this."
Backed them into a corner, demanded an immediate decision. It's not what she'd classify good faith.
no subject
Before she can move, a throat's been split; the hiss of breath from her own, harsh and involuntary. Wren’s eyes slip shut — allows herself that, the brief ignorance to threat, contrary beside its waking, breathing presence. Amsel is capable. Thranduil is capable.
She mislikes that. What all here might be capable of.
Words wash, bells chime; the soft thump of something heavy at her feet, and she’s no further from an answer than before. The answer that has always been there, a parody of history and duty: Blood magic. Obvious, unrepentant blood magic. Maybe some day she’ll stop paying for this, for the mistakes of survival. Maybe.
But she doesn't think so. The huffs of strained breath are too familiar (Thranduil is capable, Thranduil is here). The tremors might be, if she bothered to look. She doesn’t. I am no mage —
It’s not as simple as that. Wren lifts a hand in gesture: Everyone. Shut up for a second.
"There is no saying that it could be done." Much shifts between dream and waking. "And it will not be."
Slips a glance open at last, skates over the whip, ignores the offer of a life. The promise is worthless, a foreign oath from a liar's tongue. There’s no true regard for their purpose, and no trust to be found in this; only the calculus of inevitable discovery.
Her eyes find Thranduil’s, narrow. This is poor company for secrets.
"You chose an audience for this."
Backed them into a corner, demanded an immediate decision. It's not what she'd classify good faith.