#matrixstreasuryofmuses

“Thanks, kid. How old are you?” The copper teifling shot the little druid a tired but sharp toothed smile. It was a hell of a day. Timon’s armor was off to the side, plated dulled bronze. He’d take it to get polished up... and undented at some point. That took coin he didn’t really have...

He looked down to the wound of his arm, flexing his fingers over it... but he had nothing for now. Not even a little bit. He sighed, leaning back, but looked over the kid’s handy work.

“You might have a future in the divine art of fixin’ up.”

give them an item.

It could be a powerful tool. In the right hands, the potion could remove several obstacles. It's a shame that the hands holding it belong to her.

caught in a blizzard.

If her fingers would just work, then Cassia wouldn’t have to struggle against the wind. The joins are stiff, though. The words needed for basic incantations slip from her mind – blame shifts from the frigid storm to her own carelessness and, for the third time since they’ve found shelter, the cleric curses.

After a lifetime in the valley, she ought to know the signs of an approaching storm. 

Eventually there’s a spark, and Florence watches as Cassia feeds the growing flame. “ We should have made it to town, ” Florence mutters, pulling both the cloak and the woolen blanket tight. “ We should have kept going. ”

tell us about. . .

“ You speak as if I’m made of glass. ” 

The stranger is ushered towards the door. Beyond its faded, old wood lies darkness, and Florence doesn’t bother to offer them a lantern. “ I’m not, and I won’t shatter because of a mistake – a potential mistake – made out of kindness. ” 

make them feel loved.

For once, Florence is thankful for the changing seasons. Dropping temperatures call for thicker clothing and layers of clothes, and the hooded cloak she wears obscures all expressions. It's a small blessing.

( make ozus feel loved. || accepting! )

　　　　　　　　　*

ask my muse about their relationships.

“ No. ”

With the final candle lit, Florence turns to face the ( unfortunately bold ) stranger. She doesn’t recognize their face, and she decides she doesn’t care. “ Cassia hasn’t dug into my past, and I won’t dig into hers. If she wishes to speak, she will. ”

There are several things in the stranger’s rant that sink in her stomach. The easiest one to focus on is their use of an unwanted title. This is where Florence channels her frustration, lifting a hand and guiding them towards the door ( the grip is strong, the push just shy of forceful ).

ask my muse about their relationships.

Morninglord, Watcher of the Dawn, Lord of Life, grant me your beacon of holy sun and turn these wretched abominations from your light. The chant repeats itself. Once, twice, and a third time before it’s silenced by the creaking of floorboards.

“ I know nothing of this, ” Florence says, lighting the candles, “ and I feel obligated to give Cassia the benefit of the doubt. How do you know this isn’t her face ? How do you know her past ? ”