[IC/OOC] Fade Rift Inbox & Contact

[faithlikeaseed]

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Comments

[swordproof]

I see.

[ Six isn't sure how she feels about the idea of people being trapped and unable to hear the voice of the God they are so devout to. Sarenrae guides, Sarenrae is gentle and soft and good, but the idea of being stopped and lost and not being able to feel any of that guidance...

She can empathise. It is what being in Thedas is like.

There's some uncertainty to her and it's obvious that she wishes that Sarenrae was here, or at least some essence of the woman, something that makes her feel less alone, something that might give her a real anchor. There's knots in her stomach and she has to force herself to breathe and calm down, to focus on this. She is praying for Adalia - for her sister, for the only family she has left.

(The only family she believes in.)

Relaxing, Six rests her hands on her lap. ]

I have some, for her, but not any that might be appropriate for a situation with no death or mercies. [ There's a frown on her face. ] But... If it is not an offence, I would use yours.

guess who remember this existed AND LOVES IT

[faithlikeaseed]

[It's not a thing Myr likes any better--there were those he loved among the dead that might now be wandering the Void; Sina's face comes most easily to mind. (As does Sina vanishing through that honeysuckled arch after he'd bid her good rest and a tiny halla bounding across the fields beyond it; a reminder that perhaps all the Chant said of death might not be complete. Might have room for something kinder in it.)

But the Adalia who lived back on Toril was not dead and wandering the Fade, though who knew exactly what became of rifters upon their disappearance from Thedas--what became of the spirits who'd been given life and form drawn from another of the Maker's worlds and set loose on this one--and since that Adalia was the one concerning them... He breathes out and considers.]

It isn't; rather, an honor, I think. Let me see-- [It's not that he needs to pick up his copy of the Chant and read from it to find the verses he wants, the prayers; he has much of it memorized, for how else could he have contemplated it when blind? But flipping through the pages and seeing the words before his eyes--seeing his own careful annotations, not all of which he'd memorized--helps him decide.]

Here, [he says, laying the book open to the prayer he's chosen,] This will suit, I think; it's for those who've left us without our certainty of their death. Those who might come back. [Usually used for lost sailors at sea or those vanished into the far northern jungles in the pursuit of the qunari heathen (or anciently the Dales, after elves)--or more often in the Circles, with an irony their friends didn't understand, for apprentices lost to Harrowing. (No one was supposed to know where you went if you failed, but the light off a templar's sword when you struggled up from under the weight of the Fade told you exactly where they'd have sent you.)

He offers it to her for her approval. Redeeming Lady, it begins, who smiles on the lost...

There are places, here and there, where it would be easy to substitute one name for another, one epithet for its counterpart. Speaking of mercy and guidance on the road home as the prayer does, it's not far off what Myr knows of Sarenrae.]

its just GOOD

[swordproof]

[ It's clear that Six is struggling with this. She is out of her depth entirely, unsure what to do with herself, not sure how to manage or handle what has happened to her and what will happen in the future; there is no temple of Sarenrae to guide her here. No, instead she has a weight to her, something that makes her feel as though she might settle in knots, as though she might twist herself inside out, a longing for something that will never be present.

The tiny shrine in her room is not enough.

She wishes for the book of prayer she had with her once. She might have read them to Adalia, to offer her goddess to her lost sister once more, to give her a place. (To avoid the topic of their father, to dance around their heritage, to hide her shame). ]

Thank you. [ Her voice is, perhaps, too soft and too quiet now, not sure what to do or say. This is not her religion, this is not her path, and she accepts it because she thinks that is what she ought to do. Not even her own prayer can guide her here; loss is a loss and she will wear the mantle. There will be no pause.

Reaching out, she touches the page. ]

This... Thank you, Myr.