What are you doing?
The question was always the same, but the voice who asked it changed and fluctuated to -- what could it be, mood? Whim? Whatever it was, it was above all unwelcome. It may have explained the drink in her hand: some frozen concoction an unnatural shade of blue and violet which had been, at one point, set aflame by the small miqo'te who had grudgingly brought it out to her. It was just the fourth one in... probably so many bells? Probably. The sun was still somewhere overhead so she could not worry too much of that. Its placement was, as it stood, of no importance.
Delial sipped and nursed, helping along the never-quite-strong-enough haze of casual inebriation. The beach stretched wide on either side of her, broad spans of pristine white sand mostly untouched but for a the few faint tracks of those who came and went. Specifically: Â herself, and the lighter patter of that miqo'te waiter. There were probably others, too, but as she could not see them nor the creatures who left them behind, she cared not to think on them too hard. Out of sight was out of mind and Delial, for once, was happier for it.
Yes, yes. But what are you doing?
Father asked her once when he first caught wind of the witch. Then he asked his dear wife, the flame of his life, the mother of his children. The woman could only smile, of course, and nod away his worries. There was naught to fear, of course, and little to worry about. The Gods were always kind to those devoted and little Delial would be no different.
Brother, too, had found the question on their tongues, both of them: Westor with rage in his eyes, Harvard with terror. What are you doing? Can't you see? What do you hope to achieve? She thought on it more and more as the days passed, fighting the feeling of being adrift with every onze of strength she could muster. Indignation curled her lip and she silently snarled at the sea as to prove something, but the waves would carry on, carry off, wash away everything they touched.
The question was always the same, but the voice who asked it changed and fluctuated to -- what could it be, mood? Whim? Whatever it was, it was above all unwelcome. It may have explained the drink in her hand: some frozen concoction an unnatural shade of blue and violet which had been, at one point, set aflame by the small miqo'te who had grudgingly brought it out to her. It was just the fourth one in... probably so many bells? Probably. The sun was still somewhere overhead so she could not worry too much of that. Its placement was, as it stood, of no importance.
Delial sipped and nursed, helping along the never-quite-strong-enough haze of casual inebriation. The beach stretched wide on either side of her, broad spans of pristine white sand mostly untouched but for a the few faint tracks of those who came and went. Specifically: Â herself, and the lighter patter of that miqo'te waiter. There were probably others, too, but as she could not see them nor the creatures who left them behind, she cared not to think on them too hard. Out of sight was out of mind and Delial, for once, was happier for it.
Yes, yes. But what are you doing?
Father asked her once when he first caught wind of the witch. Then he asked his dear wife, the flame of his life, the mother of his children. The woman could only smile, of course, and nod away his worries. There was naught to fear, of course, and little to worry about. The Gods were always kind to those devoted and little Delial would be no different.
Brother, too, had found the question on their tongues, both of them: Westor with rage in his eyes, Harvard with terror. What are you doing? Can't you see? What do you hope to achieve? She thought on it more and more as the days passed, fighting the feeling of being adrift with every onze of strength she could muster. Indignation curled her lip and she silently snarled at the sea as to prove something, but the waves would carry on, carry off, wash away everything they touched.