defeat in your mind is defeat on the battlefield. // for orla!
assorted memes // accepting // @lostinquisitor
Orla cannot stop herself from snorting.
Brown eyes glance towards the Inquisitor; there was some level of significance there, that there were two Inquisitor's running around but Orla didn't really know enough to understand it. In any case, his voice made it sound like this was important, that she should pay attention.
"I once had a master, who really enjoyed to use the cane."
She twirls the cane. That same cane. But she doesn't say that.
"He would tell me," Rook leans forward, brown eyes narrowing into slits and voice dropping into conspiracy "you mess up once more."
Hand holding the back of her head, short hair bobs against the scars on her cheeks. The zipping of a blade as it cuts through the air but doesn't land quite yet. The threat hands in the air and she doesn't flinch. She instead looks up through a world filled with vague shapes and tears in one's eyes.
"So much as breathe out of the sync, blink the wrong way," her lips curl into an ill fitting smile "look at me like an animal about to bite—"
A different time she had snarled when the threat had come up. Her sides were bruised and purple and blood pooled in the back of her t throat. She had coughed but it had come out as a snarl.
"I'll knock your teeth out," another twirl of the cane, the woman looks to the worn metal. The destroyed little pommel at the top. It had once been a raven "one by one."
He had once broken the wings off the bird that was mid flight when he broke her jaw for the first time. One of them had been lodged on the side of her jaw. She still had the scar. Those little metallic wings had been pulled from her body, taken to the magister, but they had never made their way back to the cane. It worked better without them.
"Each time I looked at him, I would imagine myself holding that cane, having my hand full of teeth like seeds."
They had not felt like sees in her hands. More like oddly shaped coins. And they had not came easily. The cane was a blunt tool. He did not look like himself by the time she was finished. Nothing did. Even her own shape had been blurred as if a towel had been passed over a still wet oil painting. Smudged beyond recognition. It had been good.
They had felt good in her hands.
"My mind is fine. My mind is clear." the dread wolf wasn't the first one that thought she could be pushed around, if her mind was pressed hard enough that she would comply. She hated that she could see it, the twisted way that his logic worked and how she could understand why folks would stop to listen.
And yet, even in the chasm they often found themselves talking in. Orla sometimes still heard the zipping of a cane being twirled - and so she had no other choice but to make sure her teeth were still bared.
A constant reminder that he still stood atop the hill, looking down at her.
Orla gives Ameridan a small smile. The walking cane is finally dropped between her tights and she grabs it once more, humming to herself. Twirling it between dark leather gloves she allows her smile grow, hoping it would give the other some level of comfort to the older elf "Don't worry! I'm working on it."
