The principality continues to be infuriatingly disapproving and Illyria shoots it an equally disapproving look. It has little right to judge. A rebirth to this world, bound to this shell, would never have been this god's choice.
"A disciple raised me," she tells the little thing icily. "Many ages had passed since the time of the Primordials. One by one, many of us fell." The darkest period of her past, in which all she was had crumbled and been compartmentalized into a coffin in a hole in the center of the world. "This body was marked for my resurrection. I had little choice in the matter, and now it is mine."
She raises a hand in this tiny shell and flexes it, studying the complex workings of skin and bone and muscle with cold disinterest.
"I find it to be a fragile substitute. Were it possible, I would seek another." Illyria is loathe to admit weakness in any context, even to something so small and mortal that could do a god no harm. "Compacting such cosmic energy within such an insubstantial shell has left my power - reduced."
no subject
"A disciple raised me," she tells the little thing icily. "Many ages had passed since the time of the Primordials. One by one, many of us fell." The darkest period of her past, in which all she was had crumbled and been compartmentalized into a coffin in a hole in the center of the world. "This body was marked for my resurrection. I had little choice in the matter, and now it is mine."
She raises a hand in this tiny shell and flexes it, studying the complex workings of skin and bone and muscle with cold disinterest.
"I find it to be a fragile substitute. Were it possible, I would seek another." Illyria is loathe to admit weakness in any context, even to something so small and mortal that could do a god no harm. "Compacting such cosmic energy within such an insubstantial shell has left my power - reduced."