A sick thought can devour the body's flesh more than fever or consumption.
The wind is always howling here.
A low, earthy groan rattles the small copse of trees to her left, and Phasus simpers, recalling the magician and the way their magic tangled together the last time like writhing, naked bodies. If it were of her own choosing she might still be beside him, breathing in the matted odor of sweat and potential. In a vague effort to create the impression of an alliance that isn’t clouded with collusion, however, she has distanced herself from him as unwilling as she is.
Let them think nothing is happening.
Let them think they have won.
But the resistance is growing.
So, Jesper will find her in the southernmost corner of the isle today, standing across the cottongrass with the sun on her back and outstretched wings in one of many futile attempts that she has made to keep her slight body warm here. Without an audience set before her she is almost approachable, with her nose buried in a patch of arctic willow and an almost comical expression of disgust evidently running through every line that composes her pretty face as every-so-often she pulls at the white tufts of the cottongrass while she wonders how on earth anyone can consider them a food source.
As it turns out, springtime yields few changes in the frozen isle.
Purple saxifrage blooms above the snow in clumps here and there, but most of the ground is still laden with ice and snow. She still loathes it, exponentially so, and especially as she considers the gruesomely thick winter coat that’s replaced what once was sleek and made it bulky. The truth is that with Set standing beside her she doesn’t need this isle anymore, not desperately so in any case. The situation for her had become survivable, albeit not the lavish, effortless one she might prefer.
And it would still please Him, wouldn’t it, to see his blood at the top again?
So, when he finds her, when he tells her his name and how he yearns for diplomacy between their warring parties she does her best to look small and harmless; a wolf in sheep’s clothing. “Jesper,” she muses allowed, a curling smile creeping across her lips that holds within it no more than she is willing to betray about herself.
“My name is Phasus.” There is something familiar that she’ll find in the planes of his face, something not entirely unlike her own, as she lifts her head to meet his gaze squarely.
“I’ll openly admit I didn’t expect to hear from anyone seeking a diplomatic conclusion to all of this. Tell me, Jesper, what do you think the answer is?”
phasus
@[Jesper]