our love upon a tasteless altar

Rella shudders to think what will happen when the Sanctifex closes its cold, calm clutches around Louis; when this task he's been handed becomes too great for even his most zealous, determined, and inrebellious of minds. To bear arms as the Driver of the Seeker Archetype, when the Prince Archetype had gone so woefully rogue, and elevated itself to a peerless King...

She also shudders to stand in the wind of the moor, alone, without him, but she can bear up with a sterner mind than one that would be defeated by merely that. There are worse troubles to be had in Euchronia, in other recesses of Oceana as well as in the comparatively idyllic Port Brilehaven, at this time.

It's easy to be a well-liked, even full-adored ishkia without worry for discrimination (even if it's a lie, rotten lie). Not so easy, surely, to be a spurious clemar, half or something else an elda, or a common ("common") paripus.

Louis and Basilio lean on each other perpetually. If they didn't have each other to support, Rella's shudder would only redouble, her wings wrapped around her woefully concave chest in self-suffection.

Rella waits for her partners to return just as Sanctor Forden waits for Louis to make the same mistake he did, and become so ambitious that the Archetype he's been assigned overtakes him as well. In this way, the Sanctor can prove that loss of control of the Archetype he'd Awakened was due in no part to him and due entirely to the fact of its status as a relic of power from The Old World that the Almighty had purposely discarded.

How foolish and cunning of Forden, to be able to sway the rest of the Church to let him repeat such a mistake. How wiley he must be, to avoid persecution and instead be able to pass blame off onto another; curry favor, endless favor.

But it's not as if Rella knows nothing about that.