Zhi lifted her hands in order to rest her forehead on them. Her wet shirt had settled into the crevasse left by the upward push of her shoulderblades. If Zhi could have seen herself in that moment, she would have labeled the sight pathetic; lack of meat on the bones proclaimed incompetence. At least, that's how it was on the streets. You were underfed, you were poor. Gutterborn. She'd tried to leave that life behind her years ago.
Arcanist.
Arcanist.
Something in her wavered.
"Huh," she muttered, closing her eyes against the backs of her hands. "Tell me. . .tell me how ye became an arcanist."
Arcanist.
Arcanist.
Something in her wavered.
"Huh," she muttered, closing her eyes against the backs of her hands. "Tell me. . .tell me how ye became an arcanist."
