"Sharon is Alessa, Luz. We're one and the same," she sighs, finally turning her attention fully to the young witch, "It's been that way since we got here."
We. Sharon has always had trouble choosing what pronouns to use when she spoke of Alessa but now, in this form, she's chosen: a plural. They are one. They are a we and have always been that way. It's how it was meant to be. Like this, it feels right even though everything else feels wrong.
The wood of the church begins to crackle as the fire begins to spread. It eats its way up the outer frame, spitting and sparking. A plume of smoke coils up into the air, dark and inky. She raises one pale hand and the fire reacts, dancing for her, as she forces it to become more wild and violent.
"No one will ever worship Riteior again."
Not in that building, at least. A window shatters and sprays glass shards and bloodstones their direction. Some land at their feet. Others fly too close for comfort. One cuts through Sharon's cheek and the blood that begins to drip down is inhumanly black.
no subject
We. Sharon has always had trouble choosing what pronouns to use when she spoke of Alessa but now, in this form, she's chosen: a plural. They are one. They are a we and have always been that way. It's how it was meant to be. Like this, it feels right even though everything else feels wrong.
The wood of the church begins to crackle as the fire begins to spread. It eats its way up the outer frame, spitting and sparking. A plume of smoke coils up into the air, dark and inky. She raises one pale hand and the fire reacts, dancing for her, as she forces it to become more wild and violent.
"No one will ever worship Riteior again."
Not in that building, at least. A window shatters and sprays glass shards and bloodstones their direction. Some land at their feet. Others fly too close for comfort. One cuts through Sharon's cheek and the blood that begins to drip down is inhumanly black.