08-13-2015, 03:30 AM
I wanted to leave something besides a blood trail,
besides prayers growing stale on my tongue.
Like a good dog, Cellar comes when she is called. She lifts her head when the queen's call reaches her and her legs do not hesitate to begin their movements. The distance is covered at a reasonable pace as thoughts drift through the serpent's mind. The gray girl's tail lashes behind her as she grows curious as to why they are all needed. Of course, a kingdom and its meetings are all foreign matters to her, but is an obedient thing.
Her eyes drift across the others as she settles near the back of the group in order to observe them with greater ease. All but few are strange to her. Cellar's attention is snatched away as Straia begins to speak. Those almost white ears turn to catch each word about the tree, about protecting the little sapling. She does not understand but she does not question the sort of magic that makes it so important to them. All that matters is guarding the fragile thing. The words 'blood' and 'sacrifice' intrigue her and so she tucks them away for later, when she may need them again.
Then there are names and titles, gifts she does not understand. They seem to be of little importance to her and so she patiently waits for more. Cellar has no idea what she would do with wings or horns, let alone abilities. Her simple burden is more than enough, she thinks.
She turns her head to the first stranger who offers up a question and then their name. Kushiel. The flames along his back briefly catch her eye before he's speaking again. A brief frown forms across her lips as he speaks of taking children from their homes. The memories of her stolen childhood are not so distant from her mind but she is quick to swallow such fear or apprehension. Still, she feels those barbs across her skin bristle nervously at the thought for a while longer.
"A stolen child will dream of home," she says in her usual soft tones, though each word is tinged with solemn memories. "I would prefer to take their females, make our own. Break their will and their bodies. Raise the children and tell them how weak their mothers were, how we saved them from that same weakness."
Her eyes drift to the queen as she finishes with a shrug of her shoulder. It does not occur to Cellar that this is a horrible thing to accomplish or even conceive. But they want strength and they want numbers, and she seeks to fulfill those wants.
Cbesides prayers growing stale on my tongue.
Like a good dog, Cellar comes when she is called. She lifts her head when the queen's call reaches her and her legs do not hesitate to begin their movements. The distance is covered at a reasonable pace as thoughts drift through the serpent's mind. The gray girl's tail lashes behind her as she grows curious as to why they are all needed. Of course, a kingdom and its meetings are all foreign matters to her, but is an obedient thing.
Her eyes drift across the others as she settles near the back of the group in order to observe them with greater ease. All but few are strange to her. Cellar's attention is snatched away as Straia begins to speak. Those almost white ears turn to catch each word about the tree, about protecting the little sapling. She does not understand but she does not question the sort of magic that makes it so important to them. All that matters is guarding the fragile thing. The words 'blood' and 'sacrifice' intrigue her and so she tucks them away for later, when she may need them again.
Then there are names and titles, gifts she does not understand. They seem to be of little importance to her and so she patiently waits for more. Cellar has no idea what she would do with wings or horns, let alone abilities. Her simple burden is more than enough, she thinks.
She turns her head to the first stranger who offers up a question and then their name. Kushiel. The flames along his back briefly catch her eye before he's speaking again. A brief frown forms across her lips as he speaks of taking children from their homes. The memories of her stolen childhood are not so distant from her mind but she is quick to swallow such fear or apprehension. Still, she feels those barbs across her skin bristle nervously at the thought for a while longer.
"A stolen child will dream of home," she says in her usual soft tones, though each word is tinged with solemn memories. "I would prefer to take their females, make our own. Break their will and their bodies. Raise the children and tell them how weak their mothers were, how we saved them from that same weakness."
Her eyes drift to the queen as she finishes with a shrug of her shoulder. It does not occur to Cellar that this is a horrible thing to accomplish or even conceive. But they want strength and they want numbers, and she seeks to fulfill those wants.
I could give you my body, my flesh,
offer it up like a sacrifice, like a banquet.
offer it up like a sacrifice, like a banquet.
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