gwilym: (6)
sir godfrey (lathander's specialest little boy) ([personal profile] gwilym) wrote2023-08-12 05:07 pm
radiatingsoul: (03)

[personal profile] radiatingsoul 2023-10-22 02:34 am (UTC)(link)
Our betters are ever eager to trade lives for some amorphous idea of a greater good. Personally, I have no illusions. But good on you, I'll take conviction over dawdling.

[ Her proposal is informed by expedience before ethics; she belongs to neither of the aforementioned schools of thought and whether that makes her a person of low character is somebody else's business. ]

Praise be! I'd petition you to carry me before braving another rolling hill, seeing how brazenly uninconvenienced you are by physical labour.

[ The young woman is really gaunt and short of breath and yet surprisingly tenacious despite her difficulty keeping up, as if propelled forwards by her spite. As they set camp Samarie walks the perimeter, tracing a circle around their refuge with a crooked stick while muttering indiscernible grievances to herself. ]
radiatingsoul: (01)

[personal profile] radiatingsoul 2023-10-25 12:28 am (UTC)(link)
[ His solitary attendance to the physical labours of establishing a camp would be par for the course were she a woman of status in the company of her knight, but from Samarie's standpoint, she is no different from the spawn of "cow shit," to use the verbiage of the gentry in reference to peasants, and therefore she ought to contribute like a dirty little peasant girl should. Well, she'd probably fumble the pitching of the tent and his pre-emptive intervention in the matter spares her the indignity of asking, but she is in fact playing her part in securing their sleep. The seemingly aimless scribble the dark priest etches into the dirt is in service of thwarting an ambush, a necessary precaution in enemy territory.

Godfrey is cutting carrots when, apropos of nothing, Samarie suddenly explodes: ]


Kaa! Do you think I'm some feckless rube? I studied sorcery at Fiend Petr's Basilica!

[ Before he can so much as part his lips, the young woman whips out a blade and opens her outstretched forearm with the end of the knife. Blood runs hot from the gash and speckles the grass and soil at her feet. A burst of flame casts shadows upon the their faces as fire travels the circumference of their camp like the lit fuse of a dynamite before vanishing into the darkness from which it came, leaving a ring of evaporating smoke about the camp. The tell-tale signature of blood magic: self-mutilation. ]

N-no need to trade shifts... Gro-goroth will protect us.

[ Samarie sits on an incline and stares pointedly into the heart of the fire. The blood on her arm has yet to clot and slithers from the cut. It's not fatal, but there. The worked up sorcerer pays no heed to the wound. ]