It wasn't quite Shaelen Stormchild but it was close enough. Delial never claimed to have an artistic hand, and if some features had been exaggerated (not necessarily on purpose) to encapsulate the Essence of Stormchild As Interpreted by Grimsong then the skittish man assigned to keep the damned thing firmly sat upon its stump dared not say a thing of it. It was really just a popoto sack full of sand, after all, and the Highlander was the one with the gun.
BANG. From the stump came the short gasp sucked in through teeth but she heard nothing more. Breathing out, she lowered the firearm - a fine weapon, Lady Primrose assured her - and carefully set about reloading it. It had taken her half a sun to figure out how to do even that and she was no faster for it now than she was the first time. Such weapons were not foreign to her, not completely, but it clicked and clacked and felt unlike anything she had ever held before. Primrose spared her no teasing (“The end with the hole is the bad one!â€) but there was a weight she found comforting despite what the metal meant. It was a weapon first and foremost and weapons were meant to kill.
“I met him,†Primrose also confessed. “The man who claims to have let Gharen die.â€
BANG. “Whew!â€
The thought had always been there with her, pressed deep down beneath the feet of the great stony walls she kept up around herself. Too many moons with too few signs, and the few that had been found spelled nothing inspiring. Gharen would not give up his private belongings so easily. Gharen would not forsake his sister, no matter what. Gharen would not.
Nor would Gharen Wolfsong would not be put down so easily, and yet there they were. Between sword and lance and axe and gun, they would surely make something of Wolfsong’s killer.
Another cartridge clicked into the chamber. Delial scowled and raised the firearm again, sighting her target over the barrel. Shaelen, with her chaotic red hair and her exceedingly large nose, remained moderately slumped and infuriatingly bullet-free.
The memory of it held strong in her mind, of Roen Deneith in the cold, thin air in the heights of Ishgard moons before. She had tried, Delial mused, to take the iciness around them into herself, to become hard and rigid and indomitable. But her voice had cracked and her eyes, grey and weary, took shelter beneath her hand. “Please get him back,†she had pleaded, her voice a hoarse murmur, and then she was ice once more.
Delial would need to give her something.
BANG.
BANG. From the stump came the short gasp sucked in through teeth but she heard nothing more. Breathing out, she lowered the firearm - a fine weapon, Lady Primrose assured her - and carefully set about reloading it. It had taken her half a sun to figure out how to do even that and she was no faster for it now than she was the first time. Such weapons were not foreign to her, not completely, but it clicked and clacked and felt unlike anything she had ever held before. Primrose spared her no teasing (“The end with the hole is the bad one!â€) but there was a weight she found comforting despite what the metal meant. It was a weapon first and foremost and weapons were meant to kill.
“I met him,†Primrose also confessed. “The man who claims to have let Gharen die.â€
BANG. “Whew!â€
The thought had always been there with her, pressed deep down beneath the feet of the great stony walls she kept up around herself. Too many moons with too few signs, and the few that had been found spelled nothing inspiring. Gharen would not give up his private belongings so easily. Gharen would not forsake his sister, no matter what. Gharen would not.
Nor would Gharen Wolfsong would not be put down so easily, and yet there they were. Between sword and lance and axe and gun, they would surely make something of Wolfsong’s killer.
Another cartridge clicked into the chamber. Delial scowled and raised the firearm again, sighting her target over the barrel. Shaelen, with her chaotic red hair and her exceedingly large nose, remained moderately slumped and infuriatingly bullet-free.
The memory of it held strong in her mind, of Roen Deneith in the cold, thin air in the heights of Ishgard moons before. She had tried, Delial mused, to take the iciness around them into herself, to become hard and rigid and indomitable. But her voice had cracked and her eyes, grey and weary, took shelter beneath her hand. “Please get him back,†she had pleaded, her voice a hoarse murmur, and then she was ice once more.
Delial would need to give her something.
BANG.
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