Cassiopeia's View The hand of Gods

The concept of gods was not new to Ibis, but she did not fancy herself a believer. There was no mistaking the awesome power that now befell the mountain; whatever caused it, be it a force or a will or purely fate, did not remove the empathy she felt towards those who were losing their homes, families, or lives. The way the man spoke was almost clinical; Ibis' gaze shifted to his dark figure, looming as it did over her. Standing there like a reaper awaiting orders to gather those lost souls.

Go to them, then. He instructed with a motion. In that moment Ibis saw in the man a stallion-like regality, but it was those eyes that unnerved her. The tone of his voice too, with its gravid quality. I am not prepared. She utters, tucking her chin against the smallness of her clavicle.

A frown writhes across her face. She was thinking. To go to them now meant putting herself at risk but if she waited and let the rubble settle, it would be better. Some lives would be lost — but she could take the time to gather what she could, perhaps find assistance with the wolves of the fen, then return — the question then becomes one of deeper morality. Maybe Ibis should stay here, dive in alone and do her best. She could mend some things... More with assistance; was there time? Her mind was buzzing. Her heart felt heavy.

In silence she turns and begins to race away from the shadow-man, letting him lurk again in privacy. Her retreat would be temporary, she told herself — Wraen would know what to do. There were some small stores of herbs that could be fetched; help would come, but it would not be a god's will by any stretch.