(--)
Ithiel is by me!
The dark-furred hybrid was more than a little taken aback with her words. Private viewing? She wasn't making any sense, and the dusky-furred coyote had only so much patience. As the silver-highlighted woman continued to speak, however, his ears pricked up forward again. He recognized some of these words, and they held deep meaning: crucified, heretics, blasphemers. The Duplicarius's dark-hued muzzle did not break into a smile, but he stared down at the cross adorning her neck, then looked back up toward her face.
You follow the book, he said, still flatly. I understand. Or, at least, he thought he understood part of it. Surely, their beliefs did not precisely mirror each others. The skulls aren't meant in that way, nor the bodies. They have a different meaning. This is a place of heretics -- only some even know of the book and the way, and some of those disregard it. He shrugged. Ithiel was not one to evangelize and proclaim his beliefs for all to hear -- faith was a private thing to him, and it was therefore quite alright to live amongst blasphemers, at least in Ithiel's eyes. He could no more save them than he could move the mountains and divert the rivers.
Where do you come from? he inquired, again appraising the contraption about her leg. His eyes lingered there, and he spoke again, as if it was an afterthought. Is that penance?
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