As the dancer raised her eyes to look at her, a chill ran up Ingrid's spine. Something was off with her gaze; she couldn't point to what, but it was unsettling regardless. Her words were cryptic, almost insensible, spoken almost as if in song. She felt a soft touch roll down her arm; she didn't look, transfixed as she was by the woman's odd stare, but she knew it was her. Before she could even pull away from her touch, the woman rose and addressed her former audience, still speaking in that same singsong tone. Her words remained mystical and strange... at least until she grabbed a young man from the disturbed crowd.
What... what is she doing?
When she spoke to him, she maintained her lyrical tone and riddlelike speech, but her meaning was far more clear. What she said... it didn't sound like a death threat, but Ingrid didn't know what else to call it. She rose at that point, intending to pull her away from the man.
In that moment, like a torch doused in water, whatever had taken the dancer to act this way went out.
Within seconds of her bizarre fit ending, the crowd's distress had turned to anger. Two men approached, intent on taking her away. She offered a flustered apology, as if she'd merely spilled a drink on someone. Another man came out from the crowd, to the dancer's defense. He claimed to be her brother, that the girl was mad, that he was taking her to Ostia. All well told, truthfully, but Ingrid wasn't sure she believed him. At the very least, what the dancer had done was no mere fit of madness. She didn't know what to call it, but what Ingrid had seen was something more than mundane.
She did not intervene on the woman's behalf. The man who'd stepped forth may be a good liar, but she herself was not. She merely observed from where she stood, waiting to see if the soldier's bought the line.
What... what is she doing?
When she spoke to him, she maintained her lyrical tone and riddlelike speech, but her meaning was far more clear. What she said... it didn't sound like a death threat, but Ingrid didn't know what else to call it. She rose at that point, intending to pull her away from the man.
In that moment, like a torch doused in water, whatever had taken the dancer to act this way went out.
Within seconds of her bizarre fit ending, the crowd's distress had turned to anger. Two men approached, intent on taking her away. She offered a flustered apology, as if she'd merely spilled a drink on someone. Another man came out from the crowd, to the dancer's defense. He claimed to be her brother, that the girl was mad, that he was taking her to Ostia. All well told, truthfully, but Ingrid wasn't sure she believed him. At the very least, what the dancer had done was no mere fit of madness. She didn't know what to call it, but what Ingrid had seen was something more than mundane.
She did not intervene on the woman's behalf. The man who'd stepped forth may be a good liar, but she herself was not. She merely observed from where she stood, waiting to see if the soldier's bought the line.