We just came back from Felfri. That's proof enough that the Fog's hold on us isn't absolute, that what she's done to us isn't permanent. That there's already power enough against her to make it as if she never existed.
[ Most days, Rafe is able to keep his temper in check. Keeps it buried deep and tucked away save for a glint in the eyes, the sharpness of his smile, a brusque chill to freeze lesser people in his tracks. But here, now— It roils beneath the eerie black leather he's forced to live in again, barely restrained and ready to erupt. It's been building every goddamn day that he wakes to see this weathered husk in the mirror, with every patch of skin he'd watched wither and die and slough away.
Before Felfri, he'd thought that he was somewhat acclimating. Accepting what he's transformed into — as a temporary feature, always temporary, always with the mind towards when he was himself again. But the Fourth had brought him back to life. Fixed him. Made him remember his pulse sounding in his ears, his lungs expanding in his chest...and made the silence he lives in now all the starker in comparison and he hates it. Hates the deific wannabe bitch that had the gall to pluck him up and throw him here and expected him to just lay down and accept it. Lay down and die.
The temperature drops steadily the longer he stares Fenris down, daring him to prove him wrong as frost begins to spread in a slow radius from where Rafe stands. ]
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We just came back from Felfri. That's proof enough that the Fog's hold on us isn't absolute, that what she's done to us isn't permanent. That there's already power enough against her to make it as if she never existed.
[ Most days, Rafe is able to keep his temper in check. Keeps it buried deep and tucked away save for a glint in the eyes, the sharpness of his smile, a brusque chill to freeze lesser people in his tracks. But here, now— It roils beneath the eerie black leather he's forced to live in again, barely restrained and ready to erupt. It's been building every goddamn day that he wakes to see this weathered husk in the mirror, with every patch of skin he'd watched wither and die and slough away.
Before Felfri, he'd thought that he was somewhat acclimating. Accepting what he's transformed into — as a temporary feature, always temporary, always with the mind towards when he was himself again. But the Fourth had brought him back to life. Fixed him. Made him remember his pulse sounding in his ears, his lungs expanding in his chest...and made the silence he lives in now all the starker in comparison and he hates it. Hates the deific wannabe bitch that had the gall to pluck him up and throw him here and expected him to just lay down and accept it. Lay down and die.
The temperature drops steadily the longer he stares Fenris down, daring him to prove him wrong as frost begins to spread in a slow radius from where Rafe stands. ]