(no subject)
Her knitting has been set aside this evening, but the woman known to some as Blodwen Rowlands remains busy nonetheless. The sound of metal grinding on metal is distinctive and grating-- were there anyone to hear it, here in the security of her new room in the House of Arch.
Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. She works diligently, filing down the rough edges of the metal. There is no trace to lead back to her, even though both file and iron scraps have been stolen. She had simply waited, a snowy owl watching from a nearby tree, until the dwarf had gone inside, and had then swooped into the forge. A moment to shift her form, another's work to seize the things she needed and bundle them into a packet, and then a more burdened "Galatea" had flown unsteadily back through the portrait.
Blodwen taps the file over white silk and then continues her task. Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. It all comes down to pressure, really-- apply the bit of force here, just so, and watch the pieces fall scattered and broken, lying ready to her hand.
It works the same way with power, she'd learned uncountable years ago. And as it works with metal and magic, so also with people. Even the Wild Magic can be predicted, if not easily controlled.
The reactions to her very presence-- so-predictable anger and rage, hatred and despair and helpless fury-- were just the beginning. Coyote's death may have closed certain doors, she thinks, but the stores of rage and revenge that now resonate among so many, fueled by her continuing actions and purposeful antagonism, are rich and open to her; sources of her own new and growing strength, even in this green season.
Scrape.
She sets the file aside and gathers up her work, wrapping it carefully in white silk and concealing it within a pocket of her white cloak.
And oh, but she is smiling.
Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. She works diligently, filing down the rough edges of the metal. There is no trace to lead back to her, even though both file and iron scraps have been stolen. She had simply waited, a snowy owl watching from a nearby tree, until the dwarf had gone inside, and had then swooped into the forge. A moment to shift her form, another's work to seize the things she needed and bundle them into a packet, and then a more burdened "Galatea" had flown unsteadily back through the portrait.
Blodwen taps the file over white silk and then continues her task. Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. It all comes down to pressure, really-- apply the bit of force here, just so, and watch the pieces fall scattered and broken, lying ready to her hand.
It works the same way with power, she'd learned uncountable years ago. And as it works with metal and magic, so also with people. Even the Wild Magic can be predicted, if not easily controlled.
The reactions to her very presence-- so-predictable anger and rage, hatred and despair and helpless fury-- were just the beginning. Coyote's death may have closed certain doors, she thinks, but the stores of rage and revenge that now resonate among so many, fueled by her continuing actions and purposeful antagonism, are rich and open to her; sources of her own new and growing strength, even in this green season.
Scrape.
She sets the file aside and gathers up her work, wrapping it carefully in white silk and concealing it within a pocket of her white cloak.
And oh, but she is smiling.