in tenebris est veritas.
Chaele is not graceless, her sweeping arms and rocking legs carrying the same habit of any Torcher who had learned to swim in the warm peninsular seas. But still she does not move with any intuition or fluidity, her limbs fighting the ocean current instead of swaying into it. Her neck is stiff with the instinct to keep her mouth and nose above water, submerging only to clear her braided hair out of her eyes.
Those same eyes downturn from the stars to view Hadama and his inquiry, then lower further to the bare arms she outstretches before her. Nodding in agreement with his first guess, she clarifies, “Each part of the body has a different meaning. These represent That Which I Give.” Her fingers trace over the scars on her left forearm, stylized shapes that resemble bones and cards and a shining crystal ball. “Fortune. And That Which I Carry.” She reaches up to her bicep, where the scars twist into a four-cornered symmetry of wind-like curls. “Freedom.”
Legs kicking within the tangle of her transparent underskirt, Chaele quickly moves her arms outward again to get a better tread in the water. With one crab-leg whisker already sagging from its wax fastening, she peers toward the refracted image of Hadama’s arms in the faint Arclight. “Everyone has such Intentions, even if they are not written in flesh. I wonder what you would write, if given the opportunity.”
Those same eyes downturn from the stars to view Hadama and his inquiry, then lower further to the bare arms she outstretches before her. Nodding in agreement with his first guess, she clarifies, “Each part of the body has a different meaning. These represent That Which I Give.” Her fingers trace over the scars on her left forearm, stylized shapes that resemble bones and cards and a shining crystal ball. “Fortune. And That Which I Carry.” She reaches up to her bicep, where the scars twist into a four-cornered symmetry of wind-like curls. “Freedom.”
Legs kicking within the tangle of her transparent underskirt, Chaele quickly moves her arms outward again to get a better tread in the water. With one crab-leg whisker already sagging from its wax fastening, she peers toward the refracted image of Hadama’s arms in the faint Arclight. “Everyone has such Intentions, even if they are not written in flesh. I wonder what you would write, if given the opportunity.”
