1.6 : Mockery

It wasn't just the agitation with Chael's selective reveals that had driven Shaen past the moment of receptivity. The Misshapen had not protected his thoughts as well as he had thought, presuming that her failure of shields meant total failure of control. It was good to know that she had not lost her sense for people. Chael had a tendency to get rather arrogant in her absences...but that thought was almost too much. She had chosen him, not for any great loyalty, but more for his broadcasting ability. Now, again, she saw the fault in this, the deja vu of the situation giving her reason to believe that it wasn't the first time she had questioned her choice in Chael.

Staring at the Misshapen as the whirlwind of memories entered into her mental catalogs, transferring the files neatly into the binders that she had prepared while ripping the feather out of his skull. The debilitating pain he suffered from now was by design...after all, that she needed to aggressively persuade him at all spoke plenty of why the memory would have to be extracted by force. Her features clearly showed her disappointment as she reviewed the sections that he had highlighted, growling at each encounter with the Council.

Scorn fell from her lips, the temptation to dismiss him matching the force of her anger as she elaborated upon all the ways that he had been a poor choice in the first place. Her tirade lasted the entirety of his immobilization, as if by design as well, and ended with her dismissing the notion of punishment. There were no others with his ability, and though she could contact any Misshapen within the City, it was a costly process for her, while for him, it was something simple. If she had been thinking ahead at the time, she would've never only given the ability to one of them.

As the silver-crested male sat himself, she watched from the standing position she hardly recalled moving into. So absorbed in her anger, the minutes had passed without her noticing. "I am sorry Mistress. I will not think such thoughts again." The words were, of course, unnecessary. It was a lie, but it was one that placated her none the less. If he admitted to his failure, that was all that mattered. Composing the message for broadcast, the Mistress of the Misshapen began to dictate, pressing her fingers onto her knuckles absently.

When she had completed, Chael began the dance of sending, the words still fresh in the air around them. Between her vocalization of the call and the tapping across her fingers, they were easy enough to latch onto that this particular sending would take seconds rather than minutes. The steps were quiet on the luxurious wooden floor, but the words shifting from their normal form into the traveling form made the sound of warmth. It was the sound of sunlight, the whispers of the snow melting, the crush of autumn's remainder; the utterances became more than that and latched onto the claws of the creature, winding around them as they were spun.

The web of sound was inaudible to Shaen, to all humans. But to Chael it was a delicate thing that was crafted into perfection and sent along with winds that only his sibs would feel and hear. On the zephyr of emotions it would travel until all had heard and understood.

Mistress was back. It was Time.