Recent content by Saella

Curiosity crooked the better of her, deterred her from engendering the caution of passive thought; she reached out and plucked the thread dangling from that wall of shimmering scale. Reality bled, ruptured the glass fiction that bound her to their meadowed plane. The octopus writhed, drew...

An answer found her before she managed to process the question: "Both," she said, and the word tripped from her tongue as realization of its weight dawned on her. She clawed for it back, teeth slamming shut and tongue clicking as she again averted her gaze from the Pursuant. No. She said it...

She saw it now, at the fringe of perception; the hazy edges of the amalgamous thing conjured before her. It flowed with the Pursuant's voice, riding the ebbs and eddying her trepidation. She managed to breathe, and reached out a hand. Gingerly at first, she sought to challenge the conjuration...

Dwarfed by that wicked grin, Saella shrank within herself. She watched, mute and small as words transmuted fiction to reality; she blinked, and the image flickered within the Loch. The shifting murk, the longing, haunting friction of it hummed along the concave of her chest. She shuddered to...

"The fish?" Equilibrium escaped her. It shifted in the murk, disrupting the easy calm she had adopted. "The octopus?" Frenetically, she searched for commonality and found none. Her eyes shot open with a skew that fell over her brow; countenance scrunched, she forced a breath for composure...

Thoughts crystalized, water from the mid-winter falls; an ebbing flow that forced Saella to consider the Pursuant's words from angles yet foreign to her. Consternation narrowed her gaze, left her lips pursed as she worked over the question. She approached it in silence, letting it breathe...

She caught the skeins of thought in the furrows of her brow. The abstract nature of it eluded her, and she felt her head swim with the implications; each word demanded weight, forced her to measure what might otherwise spill haplessly from her lips. Frustrating, really. It radiated from her...

The pauses drew Saella into herself, into contemplation. A reverie that mirrored the evershifting tide welling from the font of knowledge within. She felt the stir against her. That cacophonous amalgamation of noise shifting across the monastery's glade. Her eyes shot open. Her fingers...

She thought to meet the Pursuant in his stride, breathing matched to the waning pulse of wind that stirred their gentle grove. It held her rapt, the cadence drawing her into repose. Atop a mantle of calm, she sat, letting sensation act the part of guide through the tenor of Bebin's voice...

In the silence, Saella squirmed. Breath upon breath it stretched as she waited for him to continue. Nothing came. "Well," she said, still on the cusp of hesitancy. "The more I try to understand, the further I feel from the truth." Frustration trickled into her voice. Where the Pursuant sat...

She blanched. "The Ley," she said, reaching for some solid description, "lays about us? All around, just beyond sight." Each syllable drew confidence about her, a mantle of experience she drew upon. The faint ghost of a smile fell over her, and her eyes cast far beyond the Pursuant. She...

Saella smiled, chin turned down. Mollified. "Yes, Syr Theros," she said in bashful intonation. It was foolish, to linger here in the sanctity of safety. Where others ventured forth, drawn to the maws of danger. Set foot after determined foot into the quenching salt of battle. To cling...

"Yes," she replied, automatically, a frown settling upon her brow. Hesitation found perch within her, however. She paused, rolling it over her tongue, hands clutching the binding of her book. "No." The admission came with a measured reluctance, with eyes averted from the Pursuant. The drills...

Saella set the book aside, folding her hands about her lap. "Well," she said, tasting each word before putting it to air. She nodded to the cover of her book, the leather emblazoned with bronze lettering that read 'Filaments on Fitness.' "Reading. The scripts of Mistress Anayellan are...

Saella sat cross-legged in the gardens, a book propped over her ankles on its spine. She sighed in tandem with the breeze, shoulders rolling against a tension nestled deep in the crook of her back. Early winter held a chill to the air, and she bundled against it: wool-lined coat and trousers...