[ To him, Ruby's obedience is not out of the ordinary. She does not alarm him with her fawning or following, for that is the nature of humans where he comes from; they are kine to him, however sorrowful his wife's voice had been when she instructed him that he was wrong to think so. It was the gods who guided the humans, who urged them to grow until they no longer needed their divine shepherds. It was not the humans who served at the gods's pleasure. This was not the world of the gods, but that of men and women. It is a matter he is unready to consider, a haunting statement that flows within the curse he bears -- Nephthys's harmony, as she seeks to keep him safe even apart as they are.
He misses her. The soft gold of her hair and the slender length of her fingers, the warm press of her mouth over his eye as she'd nudge his headdress free and bare his face to her -- smiling. He catches the gleam of Ruby's hair, and it startles him. Her task is complete, her posture doubled-over. He crosses the room then, the back of his hand nudging at her ribs, urging her towards one of the seats that she has dutifully unfrozen.
Permission, he grants her, to sit. Such is the order of things between them, isn't it? ( Isn't it correct? Ruby wants this. ) ]
You ask a sensible question. A plague would require a vector, such as vermin, to pass it on. A curse would require a single, powerful wish.
[ Removing his glove, he holds up his right hand to her; the dark, pretty lines of what is -- it's not a tattoo. It's not even the mark of an aspect. It is, horrendous to look upon. It evokes a miasma so bleak and wretched, that it seeks to bleed out from his pores and poison the world around him. The brief sound of screaming fills the air, before he fills the hand with papers, and all seems righted. ]
I am of the belief that this is the latter. I know curses. I know how they take on a life of their own, so powerful and pristine. To overtake this many people? Someone must have been furious. Or perhaps, in mourning.
no subject
He misses her. The soft gold of her hair and the slender length of her fingers, the warm press of her mouth over his eye as she'd nudge his headdress free and bare his face to her -- smiling. He catches the gleam of Ruby's hair, and it startles him. Her task is complete, her posture doubled-over. He crosses the room then, the back of his hand nudging at her ribs, urging her towards one of the seats that she has dutifully unfrozen.
Permission, he grants her, to sit. Such is the order of things between them, isn't it? ( Isn't it correct? Ruby wants this. ) ]
You ask a sensible question. A plague would require a vector, such as vermin, to pass it on. A curse would require a single, powerful wish.
[ Removing his glove, he holds up his right hand to her; the dark, pretty lines of what is -- it's not a tattoo. It's not even the mark of an aspect. It is, horrendous to look upon. It evokes a miasma so bleak and wretched, that it seeks to bleed out from his pores and poison the world around him. The brief sound of screaming fills the air, before he fills the hand with papers, and all seems righted. ]
I am of the belief that this is the latter. I know curses. I know how they take on a life of their own, so powerful and pristine. To overtake this many people? Someone must have been furious. Or perhaps, in mourning.