[In Ryuunosuke‘s defense… he certainly isn’t the only one who hasn’t introduced himself to the one centaur among their numbers. Hayame can count on her fingers how many people she has seen fit to give her name to… and she doesn’t need a full hand to list those she’d actually enjoyed speaking with.
Sometimes you don’t need black sludge to be forced down your throat to despair beyond measure. To be consumed with desperate anger that threatens to burn you from within. In this world she never asked to wake up in, where even proper death was denied them because of spirit forms and shards… Hayame could not bring herself to walk among the Pleroma like most do. Even if her hooves and heavier body were better equipped to travel the treetop walkways of Greentruth, even if her obviously inhuman body attracted stares and untoward attention in Godsblood… She would still be here in this place when all she wanted was to be in her own world. All she wanted was to leap into the arms of the man she had wronged and let the torch in her hand ignite the gunpowder strung round his neck.
But she’s here, she’s been encouraged by one of the only people she half-trusted to join this… rescue venture, but really… Hayame is here in the hopes that the Kenoma will discover their activities. That she will attract them this way, and shoot them down in the streets of Venera to pay for what she had to head in that courtroom of shadows spilling from the Regent’s lips.
She’s already had an engagement of two, lost several arrows to attempts to hunt her magically powdered enemies… and so now her elegant, bowstring calloused fingers slide along the shafts of the arrows that remain, inspecting them for warps or cracks before she can put them back in the quiver or set them aside.
When the human man (“Ryuunosuke”, at least his name made sense) approaches her, she listens to what he says. So Rand Al Thor, to whom she owed a debt, was… teaching people things. Alright. Out of consideration for the other man… She tempers her response, looking down (quite a ways down) to look her fellow safehouse dweller in the eye.]
And you think I need an amateur touching my arrows?
[… That’s tempered. She doesn’t even look like she’s caught a whiff of dung. Just maybe… a slightly unpleasant herb or something.]
no subject
Sometimes you don’t need black sludge to be forced down your throat to despair beyond measure. To be consumed with desperate anger that threatens to burn you from within. In this world she never asked to wake up in, where even proper death was denied them because of spirit forms and shards… Hayame could not bring herself to walk among the Pleroma like most do. Even if her hooves and heavier body were better equipped to travel the treetop walkways of Greentruth, even if her obviously inhuman body attracted stares and untoward attention in Godsblood… She would still be here in this place when all she wanted was to be in her own world. All she wanted was to leap into the arms of the man she had wronged and let the torch in her hand ignite the gunpowder strung round his neck.
But she’s here, she’s been encouraged by one of the only people she half-trusted to join this… rescue venture, but really… Hayame is here in the hopes that the Kenoma will discover their activities. That she will attract them this way, and shoot them down in the streets of Venera to pay for what she had to head in that courtroom of shadows spilling from the Regent’s lips.
She’s already had an engagement of two, lost several arrows to attempts to hunt her magically powdered enemies… and so now her elegant, bowstring calloused fingers slide along the shafts of the arrows that remain, inspecting them for warps or cracks before she can put them back in the quiver or set them aside.
When the human man (“Ryuunosuke”, at least his name made sense) approaches her, she listens to what he says. So Rand Al Thor, to whom she owed a debt, was… teaching people things. Alright. Out of consideration for the other man… She tempers her response, looking down (quite a ways down) to look her fellow safehouse dweller in the eye.]
And you think I need an amateur touching my arrows?
[… That’s tempered. She doesn’t even look like she’s caught a whiff of dung. Just maybe… a slightly unpleasant herb or something.]