her arm twitches, once practiced hand now so unsteady - a consequence of the changeling's knives; the litany of jagged wounds that had yet to heal creating patterns and webs across her skin. though the night warden is blessed by the generous aid and comfort of the absolute and her light, above all else, the body keeps score; and her body is exhausted. prone. trembling as she grits her teeth - were it not for the gift that writhes in ecstasy behind her eye, the night warden would still be screaming.
briefly, the true soul attempts to steel herself - stop the tremors as her fingers clumsily grip a blade that once was second nature to her; rapt with attention as she looks upon @murdershaped, hanging on to every word and motion the absolute's chosen makes. in her name. and oh, what a glorious name - absolute. absolute love. absolute acceptance. absolute power. the power to cut and slice and think but a word and see those beneath her tremble and grovel. it is a power she has yet to harness; but minthara knows she is blessed beyond all belief, to stand here in such love and not be made to kneel like so many others. no, they would bow to her - love her, entirely - just as the true soul loves the absolute. as she knows she loves her chosen.
is love not found in the edge of a blade? is it not the purest form of connection? red and sinews and blood - life itself and it surrounds them; scents the air sweeter than honeyed wine; mottled flesh and greying rot that alights her eyes until she seems to be burning. she'd been afraid, had she not? this place had been a horror - FORGET -- AND -- BE -- ABSOLUTE. her expression twitches - her grip on the blade loosening, for but a moment - but the glory returns; the ecstasy of it all, and the true soul straightens; red eyes glancing to the body, still breathing, on the slab of flesh between them.
the blade was a hard lesson to learn. all true souls once ran from it, after all - a hard lesson even the night warden had not been spared from. he would learn, or he was not worthy - and heretics had no place in their new world, except to rot within a mass grave of all those they would crush underfoot. oh, how he struggles against his bonds - that cocoon of flesh that had kept her safe while she learned, before her gift - his own red eyes meeting hers. vel'bol ph'dos xundus?! qualla, inbal ka'lith! comes his cries, his pleas. her head tilts - and within the fog that has covered her shattered mind, minthara thinks that she knows him - knew him. no; more than that -- they had come here together, hadn't they? NOT -- PART OF -- US -- REMOVE -- DESTROY -- SACRIFICE. instead, she looks to her chosen - and stills her blade.
" where? " comes her voice; still raw and hoarse - cracking and croaking with the effort of speaking. her tongue feels like sandpaper; all she can taste is blood. a part of her is thrilled by it. " where do i begin? "
