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Sophia the Thunder Mistress · 08-01-2003, 04:08 AM

Khasia listened to Jasara's first exchange with the priestess. The expression on her face was skeptical, as was her usual habit when anything was new or strange. Best they think she was bored. Khasia knew better than to show fear. Her dark eyes lingered on the Priestesses' faces-- the one proud and self contained, the other finely sculpted and beatiful-- then wandered across that of the Priest, Naramarth. But they finally came back to rest on Sevora's face. The woman was powerful and it radiated from her, nearly palpable in the small tent. Her face fascinated Khasia, from the opacity of her eyes to the sneer on her lips.

Jasara's introduction of her was brief and dismissive. Khasia reacted with a swift kick to her sister's leg. Jasara's obvious embarrassment pleased her, and she smirked to herself as Uri was taken struggling from the tent. When the women were alone again Jasara spoke quietly. "It is not enough to simply succeed." Sevora nodded, her movements slow and considered, the twisted crown of wire on her head catching Khasia's eye again. The girl straightened her white tunic, conscious of the humility of her clothing.

In Sevora's bearing and voice Khasia caught a glimpse of the vision her sister followed. The malice and dignity of the Eye she served, and the power. Power such as Khasia had never tasted of or dreamed. This Priestess weilded the power of life and death over everyone in the camp. Khasia licked her lips. Such a life was beyond her, beyond her training and her reach. Yet Jasara's Eye had sent her an opportunity, and opportunity was not to be wasted. The Priestess Dristi caught her eye, a slow ironic smile twisted her lips, almost a sneer.

Jasara continued to speak, their strength, their numbers, the hatred that fueled them. Her words drifted over Khasia with little effect; her mind was racing, fascinated with the morbid splendour of the Priestesses' garb, with the indifference in their eyes and their easy self-possession. One thought repeated itself louder and louder in the back of Khasia's mind. Displace Jasara. Make her power your own.

[ August 04, 2003: Message edited by: Sophia the Thunder Mistress ]

08-01-2003, 04:08 AM	#130
Sophia the Thunder Mistress Scent of Simbelmynë Join Date: Apr 2002 Location: Aboard Highwind, bound for Traverse Town Posts: 1,780	Khasia listened to Jasara's first exchange with the priestess. The expression on her face was skeptical, as was her usual habit when anything was new or strange. Best they think she was bored. Khasia knew better than to show fear. Her dark eyes lingered on the Priestesses' faces-- the one proud and self contained, the other finely sculpted and beatiful-- then wandered across that of the Priest, Naramarth. But they finally came back to rest on Sevora's face. The woman was powerful and it radiated from her, nearly palpable in the small tent. Her face fascinated Khasia, from the opacity of her eyes to the sneer on her lips. Jasara's introduction of her was brief and dismissive. Khasia reacted with a swift kick to her sister's leg. Jasara's obvious embarrassment pleased her, and she smirked to herself as Uri was taken struggling from the tent. When the women were alone again Jasara spoke quietly. "It is not enough to simply succeed." Sevora nodded, her movements slow and considered, the twisted crown of wire on her head catching Khasia's eye again. The girl straightened her white tunic, conscious of the humility of her clothing. In Sevora's bearing and voice Khasia caught a glimpse of the vision her sister followed. The malice and dignity of the Eye she served, and the power. Power such as Khasia had never tasted of or dreamed. This Priestess weilded the power of life and death over everyone in the camp. Khasia licked her lips. Such a life was beyond her, beyond her training and her reach. Yet Jasara's Eye had sent her an opportunity, and opportunity was not to be wasted. The Priestess Dristi caught her eye, a slow ironic smile twisted her lips, almost a sneer. Jasara continued to speak, their strength, their numbers, the hatred that fueled them. Her words drifted over Khasia with little effect; her mind was racing, fascinated with the morbid splendour of the Priestesses' garb, with the indifference in their eyes and their easy self-possession. One thought repeated itself louder and louder in the back of Khasia's mind. Displace Jasara. Make her power your own. [ August 04, 2003: Message edited by: Sophia the Thunder Mistress ] __________________ The seasons fall like silver swords, the years rush ever onward; and soon I sail, to leave this world, these lands where I have wander'd. O Elbereth! O Queen who dwells beyond the Western Seas, spare me yet a little time 'ere white ships come for me!