04-04-2022, 08:46 PM
(This post was last modified: 05-08-2022, 09:11 AM by Riannon. Edited 1 time in total.)
in the days that followed, the nightingale had not permitted herself the slow braille touch of her rose; instead coaxed away into her great misted hollow by the rare, sororal draw that bid her find their unconventional palantír. there had been much she had liked to speak of with her: the capture, the recovery thus far
— especially how that titan both known to them near went to his knees at only a scarce glimpse of her —
with all things of mind for frostchant that remained just as veiled as ever, whether by willing inattention or what had not yet been perceived from heavy godslight. and still there was her own chagrin, worrying at the edges of her worn waxen spirit like teethtips; guilt at letting herself become gravid, when she could have ( should have ) championed her spellsinger's freedom at the shoulders and sides of all in attendance, rather than allow her season to have attended to her.
but it has long since been done, she has been sown, and her womb remains weighed in the truth of her choice; and she finds her palantír, anyways, recently roused from one of her many reposes. did not go to her then, but goes to her now; pink nose whuffling in unforseen timidity at the shadowed spire of witch's shoulder:
"@Olive."
— especially how that titan both known to them near went to his knees at only a scarce glimpse of her —
with all things of mind for frostchant that remained just as veiled as ever, whether by willing inattention or what had not yet been perceived from heavy godslight. and still there was her own chagrin, worrying at the edges of her worn waxen spirit like teethtips; guilt at letting herself become gravid, when she could have ( should have ) championed her spellsinger's freedom at the shoulders and sides of all in attendance, rather than allow her season to have attended to her.
but it has long since been done, she has been sown, and her womb remains weighed in the truth of her choice; and she finds her palantír, anyways, recently roused from one of her many reposes. did not go to her then, but goes to her now; pink nose whuffling in unforseen timidity at the shadowed spire of witch's shoulder:
"@Olive."
the staff team luvs u