Nymeria

- the raven casts the longest shadow -

Nymeria was rapidly beginning to think Isopia was hard-wired with curiosity. It was impossible for her to know, after all, that Isopia had good reason to be interested in Volterra: instead, she was forced to think that these questions, this banter, was either simple curiosity or polite interest. Nym leaned towards the former. It wasn’t that Isopia was rude, but she didn’t have the same affable friendliness of the common expression—the conversation, while not difficult, was not wholly natural. What she said, what she chose to say (Nym and Isopia both) was done with the sort of care one gave to a project close to their hearts.

In this she was thankful. It was good to have such pleasant company, company that didn’t rush into errant responses but instead reciprocated Nymeria’s efforts. (And Isopia never pushed, never prodded—she waited, patient with her gold and ethereal eyes.)

Will he? The hybrid’s voice was soft, musing; Nymeria’s ears had to strain to catch it. There was note of ostentatious irony to her voice, the sort that made Nym wonder just how well Isopia knew her brother. Well… her analysis of him was accurate. Painfully so. Does he come off that way to everyone? Did you need to be intelligent in order to decipher Volterra’s carnal nature, or was his arrogance—his promiscuity—as clear as day? Or, more importantly, did you have to know him to know him or was he as easy to understand as the sun setting and rising?

That troubled her. If he was knowable, if his actions could be predicted, then he would be an easy target to—to someone like her.

(I thought you didn’t care about him anymore.)

Thankfully tükör arca appears to recognize the compliment Nymeria delivered to her. She inclines her head, quadruple horns glistening at the edges: the sunlight streams in to bathe the other mare is glorious repose, dust motes glistening in the background. For a moment Nymeria is jealous of her beauty, of her intimidating size and her sheer strength. Then she reminds herself to be thankful for what she has. As pleasant as appearance could be to the eye, appearance did not matter as much as what was inside. (Think of Confutatis: ruinous and cruel, both within and without. Think of Själ: ash and snowfall, with a warm heart and passionate soul. And think of Volterra: handsome, with a face like hers, and yet more different than she’d ever imagined he could be.)

She is tiring of talking. Now, turning the conversation to Isopia, she is content to listen for a while yet. This is the first time she’s talked to someone else about Volterra in a less than flattering light; she is curious to hear what Isopia’s opinion might be. Normally she didn’t value anyone’s opinion as much as her own, but she is inclined to believe Isopia may be an exception to that rule.

(Nymeria is beginning to find that there might be a something between them, a something like a bond forged out of broken hearts alike souls. What better way was there to invest in this budding relationship than to value Isopia’s advice?)

As has been the case, there is no rush between them to respond. They idle together, each ensnared within their own thoughts. And how many thoughts they each have—glad memories and angry memories, memories of peace and memories of war. Both of them are thinking about Volterra: both of them think very much the same of Volterra.

It’s up to him are Isopia’s first words. Nymeria finds that perhaps it had been too much to ask for Isopia’s help on such a delicate subject; listening to and respecting Isopia is more difficult than she had expected. It’s… it’s hard for her to hear what she knows to be the truth—that he’ll leave many graves in his wake—that she shouldn’t be one of them. Maybe she could take it as a perverted compliment, a sign that her brother was on a path to greatness; they were tied together (were they? Weren’t they?) and her twin’s accomplishments (or future accomplishments) would in some way connect to her…

“Pragmatic of you,” Nym says drily. “I would hate to end up in the earth somewhere.” (A prophetic flash: worms writhing in her ribcage, flowers sprouting from her bones, her decaying womb fertilized by quick-growing fungus. She shakes the imagery away.)

You are different as well. Is it her imagination, or does she hear appreciation? (What a change in pace.) “You flatter me,” Nymeria proffers cordially. “I doubt I deserve such praise...” For a moment she hovers, wondering if she should offer compliments in turn; then she shifts, deciding against flattery. Isopia, she thinks (both intuitively and consciously based on what she’s seen so far) wouldn’t be easy prey to asskissing.

“If I may ask, friend…” and here a note of true wonder enters her voice, “what is it like, being a Storyteller? Being able to talk to the gods?”