Oh no, you never know who you'll meet, especially not here.
The Valley has been quiet of late, but its reputation precedes it. And Aletheia is a child of that reputation. Has not the family of Carnage – and Carnage himself – precipitated some of the most notorious doings in the history of the Valley? This land, known to some to be wild like a viper, to strike like a snake without a head, to bite even the hand that would feed it, is wild and beautiful and terrible all at once.
But now, it is nothing so much as it is quiet.
So quiet, in fact, that Aletheia spends most of her time in the field. Sometimes she thinks she lives there, not here in the Valley. But she doesn't mind the work; she has her mother's work ethic, although she had never known her mother. Librette had also never known her – Aletheia was more formed than born, created by Carnage in some mystical otherworld that could be space or could be nothing or could be anything. She had Librette's blood, that was sure enough, but her mother was entirely unaware of her existence. Not that Aletheia knows this, or particularly cares about it: she simply knows that there was space and there were others, and then suddenly, there wasn't anymore. She was here, in the meadow, and knew only four things: her father was Carnage, her mother Librette, her home the Valley, and her name Aletheia.
She's on her way to the field when she spots something out of the ordinary. A boy, buckskin, whom she does not recognize. The Valley is more or less just Aletheia and Thorrun, she's come to learn, so a stranger here is quite a rarity indeed. But her face does not betray her surprise; she's either gifted or cursed with a face that tends to mostly express no emotions whatsoever. Cold and closed, her face is a blank canvas. But that's not to say she's uninterested – she just might look it.
She changes her course to approach the boy. He appears to be roughly her age, perhaps a touch older – she's still quite bad at judging these things, as time is still something of an oddity to her. Where she'd been before, she doesn't think they'd had it. But they might have. Here they definitely do, and the way it ebbs and flows is just surreal to the girl.
Reaching him, she nods her head gently. She's a pretty thing, with a waifish kind of beauty. Her frame seems carved from ivory, white and dainty. As she stands, the grass at her feet starts to slowly curl away and wilt, as though trying to run from where it touches her. This is always how it is for her; perhaps the world is allergic to her, or perhaps she pulls some kind of sustenance from the life around her. But wherever she goes, the wilting goes with her. It makes it damned difficult to tend to the Valley's tree, that's for sure.
"Hello." she offers. Her voice is quiet, haunting, but not unfriendly. Her ice eyes watch him neither warily nor with great interest. Her face is perfectly neutral.
"Can I help you?"
but rises again
Aletheia
harder and stronger
