Once, she might have been fearful of him. She was like that, for a long time – quick to jump at shadows, unendingly wary of strangers. Of everyone, really. That is wont to happen, of course, when you spend so long running with a dark god’s hellhounds at your heels, never quite catching – perhaps by design – certainly by design – but there, hot chuffing breaths in the dark.
But that was a long, long time ago. Their baying has long since quieted, and she has learned that strangers – most of them, at least – are harmless, and even those who aren’t tend to become so with a jolt of lightning to their bones.
She watches him coolly, this new stranger, and feels as if there’s something familiar in his movements. Perhaps after enough years, they all move the same way, these immortals – bodies reborn or preserved in youth, but not forgetting, and instinct changing the gait almost imperceptibly. She notes the frost on his skin, and feels something more emanating from him, though she cannot say exactly what it is, not yet.
“Hello,” she replies, and her own voice is soft and low, for she mostly speaks to herself, these days.
“Did the change bring you back, too?” she asks, wondering how many of them there were, Beqanna’s remnants rising again, returning to these haunting grounds.
She does not let herself think of Spyndle, of the remnant she most aches for. Hope – at least on this one topic - would be far too vicious a thing to allow back into her chest. Some things are best kept buried.
I’ll touch you all and make damn sure
Cordis
that no one touches me