#martel01

@loveswake

The manna here feels... well, it’s not sparse, but Pronyma feels unable to use much of it. The very thought makes her scowl; if she has been brought to back to life as part of an experiment performed by some humans, she’d rather not suffer the indignity of such weakness. 

At the very least, humans here do not spare her much notice. Now is not the time to emphasize her superiority, so she’d rather avoid a fight; right now, she needs information. She huffs and begins walking in an attempt to look like she knows where she’s going, but the sight of a certain woman brings her to a halt.

Long green hair. A face that looks strikingly like that foolish Chosen. And her mana signature...

“Martel Yggdrasill! I cannot believe this -- that you are here before me, my Lady!”

She drops to her knees. While a small part of her will never forgive Martel for the pain she caused Lord Yggdrasill, Pronyma knows that her Lord would want her to show deference to his beloved sister. She knows not how she appeared here -- did Lord Yggdrasill’s plans work, after all those years? (But why would she be alive, and at the hands of humans, no less?) 

—-[♕] She catches his attention as she glides through the market, soft smile upon her face. Her basket sits in the crook of her arm, stacked high with chocolates, spinach, noodles, and an assortment of other groceries. He does not know why he grants this woman a second glance. Perhaps there is a certain familiarity about her.

But she disappears from his sight soon after he notices her, and he does not spare her another thought until a slender fingers brush against his as both reach towards the last tomato for sale. He swiftly retracts his hand and turns to her. 

@martelisms

The cityscape hints at advanced magitechnology, but this has apparently come at the sacrifice of vibrant hues. Grey smoke unfurls from soot-tinged factory buildings, and the frozen sky contains no trace of the azure which cloaked Sylverant. But were it not for this monochrome backdrop, perhaps he would not have noticed that flash of green.

War-sharpened eyes fixate on a woman wearing strangely familiar attire. He does not trust his initial conclusion, however, until a glimpse of her face reveals that she must be, indeed, the one whom his mind first recalled. 

...It can’t be.

Long strides carry the ex-soldier to her side. ...Had Mithos succeeded? He folds his arms across his chest and focuses his gaze downward, as if this goddess’s light might render him blind.