![[Image: 8iEbknAyT.png]](http://cliparts.co/cliparts/8iE/bkn/8iEbknAyT.png)
Hands
The depths of ocean hues that were the highlander’s aquamarine gaze weaved in a downward fashion to her hands, turning them over in the waning light of the flickering candle. It was a common occurrence that her attention would linger thereupon, and more so on eve’s like this when it was simply she and the bottle that kept her company by hearth’s warmth. Perhaps it was that her hands has always given her answers, for better or worse.
Bronzed digits bore the brunt of her necessary sin, the faint threading of blade-thin tracks weaving their way upward toward her knuckles where deeper gashes marked their territory. Most of them were resultant of fighting for one’s life with never before seen duelists blade, and the painful repercussions of lessons learnt.
Scarred fingers still curled around the bottle in hand lifted from their perch to trace over the diagonal cut that tracked across her palm before setting the beverage aside altogether. A similar scar claimed opposite palm, each of them speaking a tale of recent months. One; a consequential blood bond she’d accepted despite suspicions, the cut itself drawn over an older mark long since scarred and near-lost. The second; a reminder of the life she’d attempted to save by parting with her own aether and shaving a few years off her life in the process.
A golden pad of the highlander’s slender index finger traced them both upward, one after the other, toward her delicate wrists. Here, the faint traces of rope burn imprinted more savagely than the faded traces of a seafarer’s lifestyle upon the remainder of her hands. These were the marks of imprisonment. Yet, even still, none of these marks, be them from lute, or blade or fate’s taunt, bothered her.
When she looked at her hands, all Odette saw was the weight of her decisions; past, present and future.
Bronzed digits bore the brunt of her necessary sin, the faint threading of blade-thin tracks weaving their way upward toward her knuckles where deeper gashes marked their territory. Most of them were resultant of fighting for one’s life with never before seen duelists blade, and the painful repercussions of lessons learnt.
Scarred fingers still curled around the bottle in hand lifted from their perch to trace over the diagonal cut that tracked across her palm before setting the beverage aside altogether. A similar scar claimed opposite palm, each of them speaking a tale of recent months. One; a consequential blood bond she’d accepted despite suspicions, the cut itself drawn over an older mark long since scarred and near-lost. The second; a reminder of the life she’d attempted to save by parting with her own aether and shaving a few years off her life in the process.
A golden pad of the highlander’s slender index finger traced them both upward, one after the other, toward her delicate wrists. Here, the faint traces of rope burn imprinted more savagely than the faded traces of a seafarer’s lifestyle upon the remainder of her hands. These were the marks of imprisonment. Yet, even still, none of these marks, be them from lute, or blade or fate’s taunt, bothered her.
When she looked at her hands, all Odette saw was the weight of her decisions; past, present and future.
![[Image: m5dwAw.png]](http://imageshack.com/a/img633/5660/m5dwAw.png)
"When a man is denied the right to live the life he believes in, he has no choice but to become an outlaw."
-|| Odette Saoirse | Femme Fatale | Balmung | Wikiâ†Leave rumors! | The Hands of Edelweiss ||-
-|| Odette Saoirse | Femme Fatale | Balmung | Wikiâ†Leave rumors! | The Hands of Edelweiss ||-
