no one mourns the wicked; any

[Straia]

i am the violence in the pouring rain

i am a hurricane

There is no such phrase as I can’t. There is only I will and I won’t. There are no limitations to what one can do, not really. Not when you set your mind too it. And so Straia would never understand a love story that begins and ends with can’t. Or heartbreak, for that matter. She has no heart to break. No really, anyway. Yes, it is still inside her chest unlike Atrox, but it simply keeps her alive.

But always, always, she believe the only phrase is I can. Because any other attitude on life and you end up worthless, end up accomplishing nothing. End up like Cordis, lost and uncertain and drowning in a power and a darkness that could be harnessed for so much more.

The ravens pull toward the silver mare then, unnaturally drawn to her. Not because Straia can feel Cordis’s magic itself, but she can feel the tug on the raven’s minds. They are linked to her, after all. She doesn’t try to stop it (doesn’t know if she could, even), but rather watches curiously as the birds stop moving just as quickly as they started. That tug, that desire to be near Cordis, disappears from them.

The mare speaks honestly, and Straia listens, appreciating the answer. Not that she necessarily likes the answer. The bay and white mare wants to know. Knowledge is power. But of course, she cannot blame Cordis for not knowing, and so she simply nods. And then she mentions Evrae, and magic.

Oh. Well isn’t that just juicy.

“What makes you so sure that she was lying?” Because Straia doesn’t think it was a lie. There’s no reason Evrae would lie about something like that. At least, not based on the stories that Straia has ever heard about the mostly absent magician. A raven takes flight, hovering slightly away from them at eye level. “Try turning that one into ice,” she suggests, nodding to the bird. They were terribly willing subjects for experimentation, after all.

straia

the raven queen of the chamber