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her vantage nearly a foot above Phosyne.
the Constant Lady does not have a saint for her, no Vengeful Saint or Starving Saint.
Girl strikes her deeper even than the thought of Phosyne fumbling about with a man’s remains.
“You are mine to care for,” she says, too quickly.
Very Gideon of her
And then the saints arrive.
“I have never in all my years,” the prioress says at last, voice grudging, pained, “seen any indication that the Lady or Her attendants give a single shit what happens to Her worshippers. And I can’t believe She would choose to start here, now, with us.”
She pushes herself up off the ground (When did she kneel? When did she fall?) and nearly vomits, but keeps whatever bile is left to her down.
Very Harrow of her
These saints are here by her hand, and she doesn’t know how she did it.
This reminds me of the Resurrection Beasts
You’d spear yourself on the blade and keep walking,
A miracle so profound may be indistinguishable from horror. Phosyne certainly feels horrified.
Every step away from her faith and toward an understanding of the unseen world has done a little more damage.
She just chews and chews and chews, and then she bends down and presses her lips to Phosyne’s.
Very Ianthe of her
Phosyne isn’t really surprised to realize she’s enjoying this. That her body sings when Ser Voyne squeezes a little tighter,
It looked like he was planting a fingernail. But that can’t be right. It grew like all the rest of them.
“A little transubstantiation.
“They hate iron,”
fairies??
“Give me your name, little mouse,”
