Let it be known that Hotaru is a study of conflict. Conflict of interests, conflict of spirit and mind, conflict of faith and loyalty. Morality was a grey, washed out realm that expanded far beyond her vision, a horizon of possibilities. But Hotaru was not as impenetrable as she had always tried to be. 

Standing there with Alice, eyes locked onto midnight hide, she quaked. She quaked and trembled and shuddered beneath the magnitude of her own emotions. She'd never loved her family. But hadn't she? But the Goddess had killed them nonetheless. Had sent Hotaru to retrieve items from their bodies, defile them, for the sake of her quest. She had killed Hotaru's parents and purposefully made her find and desecrate their bodies. It made her tremble with emotion she'd attempted to burn out, nerves shot and scarred to useless tissue beneath the fires of her own contempt. Hotaru had never really loved her parents. If she had, it had been at a time when she was young and delicate, with a hopeful outlook on life. But they had still been her family. 

On the other hand...

Nearly all of Hotaru's magic was in some way tied to the Goddess, and she had a huge gift from the Goddess after the slaughters. And it was never said that Hotaru was not in some ways shallow. 

She stood off a bit from Ophelia and Ktulu, eyes sharp and deadened, remembering those old Foothills leads and the scorn of her leaving. Ancient but still weary in her chest. Ophelia, she had sworn herself to the pale maiden, attempted to find her after her awkward ascension to the throne, but had only ever seemed to be in her presence in times of danger. Her words were thick and eternally unspoken on her tongue, branded into the caverns of her throat. A thousand things she wanted to ask, to be reassured of. But Ophelia was so far away, so distant and untouchable, and Hotaru was still beneath her in so many ways despite her rank. 

So she and Alice stood, conflicted, bristling. Hatred and agony and confusion. Waiting for the final hammer to come down. For their decision to be made. Stella's dying, mournful cry still echoing in her ears. Her mother's and father's twisted, loving forms painted crimson on the snow. 

Until a newcomer of royal paintings similar to herself turned and hissed towards - was her  name Ranjiri? Yes, the one whose father she'd inevitably killed, somehow. Turning to stride towards him, head held aloft over his younger but still imposing frame. "Because our other God just killed one of yours. What does that say about power? But trust when I say that tonight, if there is battle, the outcome may be different. Think in terms of numbers, stranger. We do not attack because we need a viable ally. Each other, another god, something." But if it came...

"Is this even your land? Are you of the dark place beyond these borders?" Did the fool even know what he spoke of? Ah, but he was intriguing if nothing else.