Mira couldn’t stop her smug little smirk from widening, just a little—not match for the god’s own, of course, but getting close. “I’m sure she did,” she replied blandly as she brushed passed the table where he lay, referring to the old woman’s passing. Then, softer and a little more genuine, “I’m glad.”
And she was. Though Ifamira Blighte had mostly studied necromancy during her academic years in an effort to piss off her parents, she’d be lying if she said she hadn’t gained an affinity for the magic. Not for raising and controlling the dead, goodness no. But speaking with them? Learning? Teaching? Helping them move on to a final rest?
That, she enjoyed.
At Tvaldis’s joke she paused, one hand already clutching her privacy curtain, and looked back over her shoulder. A myriad of emotions played over her face: surprise, indignation, curiosity, annoyance. Then her expression settled into something like bland disinterest.
She forced her voice to be even and cool as she responded, “Is that even a thing you can do, husband mine?”
It was something she’d thought about more than once, she had to admit. Not for any real reason other than her own curiosity, of course. But...well, it was rather odd, wasn’t it? A funny way to go about initiating a High Priestess—calling her a “bride”, saying that the deity she now served was her husband... Once she’d gotten some distance between herself and that cult, she’d actually started to grow curious about it.
Not that she’d ever really admit it to Tvaldis, of course.
With a wave of her hand, she added, “You’re rather...insubstantial, are you not? I wouldn’t think you’d have any interest in such things.”
