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6/14/2025, 9:49:12 PM
>>6258235
“Are you comparing me to a mere power-hungry climber from the Throne?” She stands, walking on her small legs towards him. He is already kneeling, and yet she seems to grow to the ceiling, looming over him. She points her bandaged finger towards him. “Do you think I am doing this for an advantage of mine? For temporal power, for satisfying any of your petty arrogance and illusions of control! Ah!” She slaps him, leaving a stark reddish line against his pale cheek.
Guarnieri blinks, but does not react past that, bearing the humiliation.
“You grow overbold, dog,” she hisses. “You and your Anthilian ilk think too highly of your ancient blood. Ah, the embers of the great fire that was Rasena! Ah, the last droplets of the old blood of the King! Ah, the stone ships, leaning on the marble shores! You have been gnawing on the same bone for all these centuries, even after it has all turned to dust and memories and now think I am doing the same!” She heaves, her breath growing laboured, then she stands upright again, turning to give him her shoulder. “And yet— I find your grovelling amusing. Humility ranks high among the virtues of a follower of Ansàrra, does it not? Then perhaps yours can make up for others, who certainly seem lacking in it,” she adds, tossing another of her blind gazes to Ibardo, who lets it flow over him and past like a mild summer wave crashing upon a rock.
“If it is begging you wish to see from me,” Guarnieri adds, pulling out the golden bands that cover his fingers and setting them before himself as he bows, touching the cold pavement with his forehead, “then I have brought scores of it.”
Astoria’s fingers twitch towards the rings, then withdraw.
“I can see that. But you are lucky I am most magnanimous, and that the Sun-Birther doe—”
“I would not put in Her mouth words shaped by a forked tongue,” interrupts Ibardo, his voice smooth as silk. It falls in the empty room like a veil of crystal snow. “It might be— overbold.”
[cont.]
“Are you comparing me to a mere power-hungry climber from the Throne?” She stands, walking on her small legs towards him. He is already kneeling, and yet she seems to grow to the ceiling, looming over him. She points her bandaged finger towards him. “Do you think I am doing this for an advantage of mine? For temporal power, for satisfying any of your petty arrogance and illusions of control! Ah!” She slaps him, leaving a stark reddish line against his pale cheek.
Guarnieri blinks, but does not react past that, bearing the humiliation.
“You grow overbold, dog,” she hisses. “You and your Anthilian ilk think too highly of your ancient blood. Ah, the embers of the great fire that was Rasena! Ah, the last droplets of the old blood of the King! Ah, the stone ships, leaning on the marble shores! You have been gnawing on the same bone for all these centuries, even after it has all turned to dust and memories and now think I am doing the same!” She heaves, her breath growing laboured, then she stands upright again, turning to give him her shoulder. “And yet— I find your grovelling amusing. Humility ranks high among the virtues of a follower of Ansàrra, does it not? Then perhaps yours can make up for others, who certainly seem lacking in it,” she adds, tossing another of her blind gazes to Ibardo, who lets it flow over him and past like a mild summer wave crashing upon a rock.
“If it is begging you wish to see from me,” Guarnieri adds, pulling out the golden bands that cover his fingers and setting them before himself as he bows, touching the cold pavement with his forehead, “then I have brought scores of it.”
Astoria’s fingers twitch towards the rings, then withdraw.
“I can see that. But you are lucky I am most magnanimous, and that the Sun-Birther doe—”
“I would not put in Her mouth words shaped by a forked tongue,” interrupts Ibardo, his voice smooth as silk. It falls in the empty room like a veil of crystal snow. “It might be— overbold.”
[cont.]
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