Savis Maren didn't need to identify a reason to hate the Ethaefal. The race in general tore illusory shivers of disdain down the plane of her back. They ruled over Lhavit, the crown jewel of Kalea with their dazzling, shining fists. They brandished their impeccable beauty and flawless horns for all to see... so arrogant, so devoid of struggle. Savis, after all, did not understand the Ethaefal. So consumed she was by what she saw that she had little option but to hate them entirely. Mauriel's retort was not missed, the chuckle set upon her lips momentarily bringing red that overwhelmed the Nuit's sight. How she despised those who saw thsmselves as more, so ingrained it was into her that she found such rage difficult to banish. And yet, a breath pulled into her lungs. She felt her worries slip aside as she whipped her astral limb forth.
Savis' control over the astral forearm was similar to that of the hand by iself. The hand that remained limp at her waist was held shut in a fist, her inability to move a single muscle encouraging it to remain perfectly in position. Within her palm, the Glyph withered away, her use for it wrought with the continued manipulation of her astral body. She toyed with the Ethaefal before her, letting fingers weave into the tresses of the woman's hair before Mauriel resumed her position with no clear intention to leave. Savis Maren, when one got to know her, was a generous and friendly woman, but her prejudices for the Ethaefal in particular made it so easy to despise one that lacked the power to dissuade her from such a notion.
Mauriel? The Nuit didn't know how yet to feel about the stunning Ethaefal, but her questions brought an easy chuckle to her lips. She nodded as she withdrew her projected hand. She manipulated her djed a final time, pulling forth at the reserve. She took her time in re-connecting her astral body and arm together. Once it was done, she returned her gaze towards Mauriel and told her,
"I will not. I'll tell you now and listen to your story later, darling. It's only fair, for my treatment of you has been... less than satisfactory." The Nuit put her actions in a curt description, her apologies nowhere to be seen now that she had what she wanted.
"While you are but a season old, Mauriel, I have seen the turn of a century, the whims of Tanroa's passage burgeoning with misery and ill will. Once, as I suppose you were as well, I was mortal. My mortal flesh failed me and I was offered to a powerful mage to 'fix' me. He did not. He transformed me into something like him, a being told at campfire stories, one who seeps into corpses and manipulates them like a ventriloquist's toy. In exchange for such a... privilege... I was made a servant. Decades later, I'd become such a servant to another master. Magic itself is not the culprit of the life I have experienced. Instead, the fault is with the mages themselves. The soul changes with the manipulation of djed. It stems from that soul, it is, in essence, the person we are meant to become. Magic reveals the teeth unseen beneath the surface," she mused. The Nuit did not need to breathe, and her words came in a flurry, her eyes closing in the moment of her telling for so it wounded her to divulge such knowledge. Savis Maren was, behind the shell of a corpse and the boundless perfume she wore, the helpless human dying with no one to help her.
"As for the inability to see... My first experience with Lhavit was not the best. The practice of magic was polluted by... something... last season. Something I cannot, and will not, understand. Something I don't care to understand. It robbed me of my sight, my voice. I stumbled through both blind and dumb with no assurances of my survival." If tears could fall from the Nuit's cheeks, they would, so burned the utter rage that fell upon her once she emerged from that sightless hell.
WC: 695