(no subject)
Lady Marsa was awesome and terrible, but above all, confusing. Small, silver-haired, almost frail, with perfectly ordinary brown eyes and wrinkled, sun-darkened skin, she somehow managed to convey a sense of power unlike any other the Hands had ever seen. Dwarfed by her tall, statuesque mage-partner Neren, it astonished them how such a picture of elderly, lovable granny could be so unnerving. Every moment spent in her presence was a moment fraught with anxious uncertainty.
Rumours flew through the ranks of the Right Hands like buzzing hornets, lighting on the ears of the women with the sharp sting of fear and wonder. Rumours of where this strange woman had come from, appearing out of nowhere with a God-given mandate to rule them. Rumours of what she must have done to the former First Hand, Lady Clea, for the woman to hand over said rule with nary a murmur or doubt. Rumours of cunning and guile, of unimaginable powers, even lurid speculations as to this new First Hand's bedroom peculiarities, particularly after she had summoned all the Second Hands into an inner chamber, where they remained for nearly three days before emerging once more, close-lipped and smiling that same mysterious smile that Lady Marsa herself wore. They revealed nothing of what had been said or done, infuriatingly answering all questions with not yet or soon.
The rumours and uncertainty began to taper off, however, when no drastic changes were made. Lady Marsa sat in her fluffy chair next to the Sister's throne, dispensing advice and direction to the Hands with that soft, low voice, and things gradually returned to normal. But underneath that veneer of normality, a subconscious feeling was building in the hearts of the Right Hands, from the Seconds all the way down the ranks to the acolytes who assisted with the evening ceremonies. A feeling of anticipation.
Lady Marsa just kept smiling that inscrutable smile, her age-spotted hands resting quietly in her lap. Soon.
{{For this.}}