The Ancient and Harrowhark Nonagesimus have an understanding, now.
This understanding, resultant of her meeting with the Oracle and showing her faith as about as pure as any faith could ever get around here, has essentially resulted in Harrow's shifting of her religious duties for the most part to the Ancient. Thus every new island and every new trial is a test, as they should be, and most of them she embraces them with the confidence and surety of a proper nunlet. Largely, this is downplayed to simple acquiescence to participate; occasionally she shows a genuine sign of enthusiasm for something.
A carnival has not won the genuine enthusiasm, but she hasn't been refusing to leave her sleeping quarters or anything of that nature,a nd has even forced herself into being willing to explore. That doesn't mean she's touching anything, because she knows the divine will lead her where it may, and so she will be drawn to something if it's terribly important--
Oh, and then there's this.
That specific shock of red hair isn't the most unique thing anymore, but it's unique enough, and if she catches sight of those golden eyes, more the better. Harrowhark pinches the bridge of her nose, closes her eyes, and slowly inhales. Then exhales just as slowly. That is most certainly a Gideon Nav she has seen before, wandering away from the spinning thing, or maybe having been trying to before she was startled by how everything looks, which Harrow can completely understand because it's not the Gideon Nav she was expecting.
"God help me," comes the sigh, and then she picks up the pace to catch her frightened sword-child. Not literally. Just to approach. "Gideon."
This is Harrow, for sure, but a Harrow at eighteen with face paint that includes red and blue and a little bit of purple, and she's wearing a black-and-white batik skirt with her black boots and black turtleneck. One of her black-painted nails is chipped. And she just looks tired.
Ⅲ.
This understanding, resultant of her meeting with the Oracle and showing her faith as about as pure as any faith could ever get around here, has essentially resulted in Harrow's shifting of her religious duties for the most part to the Ancient. Thus every new island and every new trial is a test, as they should be, and most of them she embraces them with the confidence and surety of a proper nunlet. Largely, this is downplayed to simple acquiescence to participate; occasionally she shows a genuine sign of enthusiasm for something.
A carnival has not won the genuine enthusiasm, but she hasn't been refusing to leave her sleeping quarters or anything of that nature,a nd has even forced herself into being willing to explore. That doesn't mean she's touching anything, because she knows the divine will lead her where it may, and so she will be drawn to something if it's terribly important--
Oh, and then there's this.
That specific shock of red hair isn't the most unique thing anymore, but it's unique enough, and if she catches sight of those golden eyes, more the better. Harrowhark pinches the bridge of her nose, closes her eyes, and slowly inhales. Then exhales just as slowly. That is most certainly a Gideon Nav she has seen before, wandering away from the spinning thing, or maybe having been trying to before she was startled by how everything looks, which Harrow can completely understand because it's not the Gideon Nav she was expecting.
"God help me," comes the sigh, and then she picks up the pace to catch her frightened sword-child. Not literally. Just to approach. "Gideon."
This is Harrow, for sure, but a Harrow at eighteen with face paint that includes red and blue and a little bit of purple, and she's wearing a black-and-white batik skirt with her black boots and black turtleneck. One of her black-painted nails is chipped. And she just looks tired.