And not out of some highly-held idealism, some moral compunction against taking what she might need. She sees those weapons, and she is not so poised against thievery that she abstains from imagining their uses in her skilled hands. But few understand how seldom the dead of this land rest better than the invisible force creeping over the snow-crust toward that desiccated body, light as a cat, trodding carefully atop the hardening layer of snow.
No, the figure existing beneath an arcane shimmer of invisibility is no opportunistic scavenger today. She is not made desperate by the gates shut to her. They have been shut all through Ezmerelda's life.
Invisibly, she holds her hatchet low, both eyes fixed on the withered figure slumped over his own lap. Everything she does is done with intent; her breathing, slow and careful, for Invisibility does nothing for careless clouds of white vapour. Her stance, holding her weight on careful tip-toe. Her every step, shallow and short.
She's heard something of the legend gathering around this creature, like dust stirring in the wake of thundering hooves. She's also heard enough to know not to trust any of it. It's an exsiccated saint in one tale, and an agent of Ravenloft in the next. There is only one conclusion worthy of arriving at - it can be allowed no further rampage down the Svalich.
Well - there is also another, and that is that she must move soon. She is well cloaked, but only for so long.
She pivots, carefully, turns her hips toward him and begins taking her steps over the snow, less measured, making quick work of the distance. Her breath clouds white. She cannot know what it is she's looking at, but knows just enough to make a safe bet.
As she progresses, Ezmerelda thrusts her hand into her jacket. It returns clutching the components - a patch of mangy fur, cut from the corpse of a dog on the road, and a slender rod of glass. Her boot punches into the snow-crust as she draws to a stop.
She thrusts the components toward the sky and feels them evaporate from her hand, crackling with magical lightning, the whole of her focused on the slumped creature as it fizzes and sparks behind her eyes.
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And not out of some highly-held idealism, some moral compunction against taking what she might need. She sees those weapons, and she is not so poised against thievery that she abstains from imagining their uses in her skilled hands. But few understand how seldom the dead of this land rest better than the invisible force creeping over the snow-crust toward that desiccated body, light as a cat, trodding carefully atop the hardening layer of snow.
No, the figure existing beneath an arcane shimmer of invisibility is no opportunistic scavenger today. She is not made desperate by the gates shut to her. They have been shut all through Ezmerelda's life.
Invisibly, she holds her hatchet low, both eyes fixed on the withered figure slumped over his own lap. Everything she does is done with intent; her breathing, slow and careful, for Invisibility does nothing for careless clouds of white vapour. Her stance, holding her weight on careful tip-toe. Her every step, shallow and short.
She's heard something of the legend gathering around this creature, like dust stirring in the wake of thundering hooves. She's also heard enough to know not to trust any of it. It's an exsiccated saint in one tale, and an agent of Ravenloft in the next. There is only one conclusion worthy of arriving at - it can be allowed no further rampage down the Svalich.
Well - there is also another, and that is that she must move soon. She is well cloaked, but only for so long.
She pivots, carefully, turns her hips toward him and begins taking her steps over the snow, less measured, making quick work of the distance. Her breath clouds white. She cannot know what it is she's looking at, but knows just enough to make a safe bet.
As she progresses, Ezmerelda thrusts her hand into her jacket. It returns clutching the components - a patch of mangy fur, cut from the corpse of a dog on the road, and a slender rod of glass. Her boot punches into the snow-crust as she draws to a stop.
She thrusts the components toward the sky and feels them evaporate from her hand, crackling with magical lightning, the whole of her focused on the slumped creature as it fizzes and sparks behind her eyes.