[Instinctively, Hayame tries to deny that she is... grappling, something that sounds like a polite way to phrase struggling, to denote weakness. But she's on her belly in a field of flowers, forgiven but not feeling absolved by herself, dirt between her fingers.]
How do they suffer a demon such as that-
[Her hands have nothing to hold anymore. She has no blade, but more importantly, no bow. No arrows. No quiver. No... no nothing. Hayame had never owned a single thing in her life. The few articles of clothing she'd worn had been given to her by a master's hands, and the weapons she'd been furnished with were the same. In Horos, for the first time, she had- Those things had been hers, for all that place had tormented her. And she'd even had a book, the sort of things scholars and learned men had, not jinba born in a breeding stable who could only be battle fodder, mounts, broodmares, or warriors in servitude.
Sometimes, she'd taken it out and flipped through the pages, even though she couldn't read a word. She let her eyes travel over shapes that must become words to those who were educated, moved her fingers over the paper, and- And then she'd shut it, and put it back in her satchel, because warriors had no use for playing pretend like a foolish filly.
And now she's been... uprooted. Again. She has nothing. Again. And that demon was just fine, flourishing and smiling and making jokes and not dying when she killed him-
He'd asked her to raise her head, but she can't... She doesn't want him to see how much she hates that demon for what he'd done to her, what he'd made of her. She doesn't want him to see how close she feels to total despair. A hand moves to her face, half covering it. She tries to pass it off as an ache, reacting to the pain throbbing deep in her skull beneath the makeshift bandage on her face, but-]
... Where will you go?
[They don't stand at a crossroads in the stars, with one path light and warm and the other cold and dark. It's not "simple" any longer.]
no subject
[Instinctively, Hayame tries to deny that she is... grappling, something that sounds like a polite way to phrase struggling, to denote weakness. But she's on her belly in a field of flowers, forgiven but not feeling absolved by herself, dirt between her fingers.]
How do they suffer a demon such as that-
[Her hands have nothing to hold anymore. She has no blade, but more importantly, no bow. No arrows. No quiver. No... no nothing. Hayame had never owned a single thing in her life. The few articles of clothing she'd worn had been given to her by a master's hands, and the weapons she'd been furnished with were the same. In Horos, for the first time, she had- Those things had been hers, for all that place had tormented her. And she'd even had a book, the sort of things scholars and learned men had, not jinba born in a breeding stable who could only be battle fodder, mounts, broodmares, or warriors in servitude.
Sometimes, she'd taken it out and flipped through the pages, even though she couldn't read a word. She let her eyes travel over shapes that must become words to those who were educated, moved her fingers over the paper, and- And then she'd shut it, and put it back in her satchel, because warriors had no use for playing pretend like a foolish filly.
And now she's been... uprooted. Again. She has nothing. Again. And that demon was just fine, flourishing and smiling and making jokes and not dying when she killed him-
He'd asked her to raise her head, but she can't... She doesn't want him to see how much she hates that demon for what he'd done to her, what he'd made of her. She doesn't want him to see how close she feels to total despair. A hand moves to her face, half covering it. She tries to pass it off as an ache, reacting to the pain throbbing deep in her skull beneath the makeshift bandage on her face, but-]
... Where will you go?
[They don't stand at a crossroads in the stars, with one path light and warm and the other cold and dark. It's not "simple" any longer.]