(that's a novel expression of the psyche, to have an animal companion reflecting your inner and outer character. voryn is glad he's without one, as it would tell the world too many things too quickly about his own nature. all of this turmoil expressed externally would create something twisted and foul, a poisoned abomination unlike this proud, regal creature.
she is beautiful.)
Stelmaria makes a salient point. But any outlander unfamiliar with this concept might add that arguing with your own soul is a form of self-flagellation. (the lack of bite in this suggests it's a joke, a barbless barb issued to both the snow leopard and the man. if it showed in his expression as it was uttered, it's gone now when he turns his head to face asriel.
with stelmaria gone into the roots, they follow at a slower pace, which allows them to speak with each other.)
I would've rather have been born with a sword in hand than the clothes on my backβ (voryn, sticky and dirty and struggling with a step up into some underbrush, grunts as the hem of his outermost robe is caught by greedy brambles. he staggers inelegantly, taking a knee in the earth. no complaint is uttered, but it's obvious he's unhappy.) But fate shall rarely ask for permission. And while I agree with your point to some extent, assuming the will of the gods is a dangerous game to play.
(this is an elf unused to dense forests, preferring the open, rocky plains of the ashlands. at least there are no complaints from him.)
no subject
she is beautiful.)
Stelmaria makes a salient point. But any outlander unfamiliar with this concept might add that arguing with your own soul is a form of self-flagellation. (the lack of bite in this suggests it's a joke, a barbless barb issued to both the snow leopard and the man. if it showed in his expression as it was uttered, it's gone now when he turns his head to face asriel.
with stelmaria gone into the roots, they follow at a slower pace, which allows them to speak with each other.)
I would've rather have been born with a sword in hand than the clothes on my backβ (voryn, sticky and dirty and struggling with a step up into some underbrush, grunts as the hem of his outermost robe is caught by greedy brambles. he staggers inelegantly, taking a knee in the earth. no complaint is uttered, but it's obvious he's unhappy.) But fate shall rarely ask for permission. And while I agree with your point to some extent, assuming the will of the gods is a dangerous game to play.
(this is an elf unused to dense forests, preferring the open, rocky plains of the ashlands. at least there are no complaints from him.)
What is your name?