Her basket is laden with foodstuffs and other sundries, each item carefully wrapped and assorted by size and weight. The people of Kresk take pride in self-sufficiency, and Vasilka understands the value of those items given to her. She must ensure that these precious supplies make it safely back to the abbey, for the mountain path is steep and treacherous, and she is travelling alone.
Vasilka, absorbed in her own thoughts, is completely unaware of the woman who approaches from behind until she speaks.
What are you?
Not who, as might be the proper way of referencing another person, but what, as though she were a mere object.
The question gives Vasilka pause. She pivots silently on her heel, turning to face the one who addressed her. She recognizes the woman from the market: her jeweled cuffs and outlandish attire are certainly unusual, and Vasilka has rarely encountered outsiders before.
Vasilka stares at the woman with pale blue, glassy eyes. Her skin is powdered white as to resemble fine porcelain, but it is easy to discern the careful lines of stitches that bisect her face and circle her throat.
The silence stretches thin between them as Vasilka turns over various responses in her mind. She stands there with unnerving stillness, like a statue carved from flesh.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, she answers: "I am... an acolyte in service to the Morninglord." Her voice is soft, demure. "Are you, perhaps, a petitioner seeking guidance from the Abbot?"
She blinks slowly, remembering that it is something she is supposed to do, because humans blink at intervals during conversation. Unfortunately, she has forgotten that she is supposed to breathe, even when she isn't speaking. It's something that constantly slips her mind in moments such as these.
no subject
Vasilka, absorbed in her own thoughts, is completely unaware of the woman who approaches from behind until she speaks.
What are you?
Not who, as might be the proper way of referencing another person, but what, as though she were a mere object.
The question gives Vasilka pause. She pivots silently on her heel, turning to face the one who addressed her. She recognizes the woman from the market: her jeweled cuffs and outlandish attire are certainly unusual, and Vasilka has rarely encountered outsiders before.
Vasilka stares at the woman with pale blue, glassy eyes. Her skin is powdered white as to resemble fine porcelain, but it is easy to discern the careful lines of stitches that bisect her face and circle her throat.
The silence stretches thin between them as Vasilka turns over various responses in her mind. She stands there with unnerving stillness, like a statue carved from flesh.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, she answers: "I am... an acolyte in service to the Morninglord." Her voice is soft, demure. "Are you, perhaps, a petitioner seeking guidance from the Abbot?"
She blinks slowly, remembering that it is something she is supposed to do, because humans blink at intervals during conversation. Unfortunately, she has forgotten that she is supposed to breathe, even when she isn't speaking. It's something that constantly slips her mind in moments such as these.