The voice she hears holds such darkness. She cannot help that it makes her shudder, separate from the chill that that slides through her robes. 'Interloper'. It is a title she has held so long it feels almost like a warm blanket around her shoulders. Even as her boots crunch through the snow and dark woods, her first thought is not 'where am I'? 'How did I get here?' 'Who was that?'
It is 'There is no way back'.
The words spur her onward. 'Interloper', that darkness calls her. Outside of 'nature's design'. She has seen the consequences of such designs. Indeed, she spent herself in defiance against it. Here, now, she will do the same: even as she hungers. Even as she shivers. Even as she feels weak and her lungs burn and her legs ache. The weakness is her due. The weakness makes sense. She had given her all to her warrior, to her champions.
Wherever she is now, whatever stands before her, she will keep walking. She will go until she finds others, find a way no matter what obstacles stand in front of her, ever moving towards the unknown.
When the settlement comes into view, she has probably fared better than most. While she had started in a frigid cave, she spent many many years as a traveler. The road is her friend, especially the unfamiliar ones, and she has borne the pain of existence for longer than most. Her white robes may be tattered from pulling branches and muddy from grimy snow, but her smudged and scratched face is calm and her steps are steady, if slow.
If you need help, she will move to try and help you. If you seem to know where you're going, she may approach simply to make conversation.
tea time
She has watched many old women over the years and this one seems no different from most; in some ways, the shadow of Matoya herself seems to hang over this woodswoman's features as she brews the tea for them. It's not a plant she's familiar with, which is no wonder in truth, and her adventurer's spirit delights in the idea of a new experience, even for as long as she has existed. She smiles as she's handed the tea and she sips it almost before it's cool enough not to burn.
It is warm enough to fill her insides happily, at least, and the sensation is pleasant enough that Venat doesn't even realize what's happened until she feels the faint sway of the tail wagging behind her.
"...oh my."
She might giggle. She very well might. This is delightful. You can tell by how the golden dog tail keeps going and the little golden ears that have replaced her own on the top of her head perk up through the white curls.
you lying next to me
It is she who fell in the water.
Unsurprising, really, given that she is still adjusting to the idea that she cannot float as she likes.
There is no real nervousness as she starts to remove her robes and her clothes, as she squeezes the water from her hair as fast as her freezing fingers can manage. She knows the dangers of the cold, the impact it can make on living creatures, how deadly the lack of warmth may be.
If she isn't the first one to suggest curling up for warmth, she will agree almost immediately nonetheless. She has never much had use for shame or the conventions of others in the face of practical need. She won't start now.
Venat | FFXIV
It is 'There is no way back'.
The words spur her onward. 'Interloper', that darkness calls her. Outside of 'nature's design'. She has seen the consequences of such designs. Indeed, she spent herself in defiance against it. Here, now, she will do the same: even as she hungers. Even as she shivers. Even as she feels weak and her lungs burn and her legs ache. The weakness is her due. The weakness makes sense. She had given her all to her warrior, to her champions.
Wherever she is now, whatever stands before her, she will keep walking. She will go until she finds others, find a way no matter what obstacles stand in front of her, ever moving towards the unknown.
When the settlement comes into view, she has probably fared better than most. While she had started in a frigid cave, she spent many many years as a traveler. The road is her friend, especially the unfamiliar ones, and she has borne the pain of existence for longer than most. Her white robes may be tattered from pulling branches and muddy from grimy snow, but her smudged and scratched face is calm and her steps are steady, if slow.
If you need help, she will move to try and help you. If you seem to know where you're going, she may approach simply to make conversation.
It is warm enough to fill her insides happily, at least, and the sensation is pleasant enough that Venat doesn't even realize what's happened until she feels the faint sway of the tail wagging behind her.
"...oh my."
She might giggle. She very well might. This is delightful. You can tell by how the golden dog tail keeps going and the little golden ears that have replaced her own on the top of her head perk up through the white curls.
Unsurprising, really, given that she is still adjusting to the idea that she cannot float as she likes.
There is no real nervousness as she starts to remove her robes and her clothes, as she squeezes the water from her hair as fast as her freezing fingers can manage. She knows the dangers of the cold, the impact it can make on living creatures, how deadly the lack of warmth may be.
If she isn't the first one to suggest curling up for warmth, she will agree almost immediately nonetheless. She has never much had use for shame or the conventions of others in the face of practical need. She won't start now.