The assassin resisted the woman's attempt to make her kneel before a ruler she did not recognise. Admittedly, she staggered, but she hoped that at least she had staggered gracefully. Pulling her arm harshly from the servant's grip, she straightened, despite her back's ache from the abrupt movement. The Throne Hall -she imagined it was that- was quite grand. Not in the same imposing, primal way of the stony, firy hot pathways she had been led through, but in a much earthier way, luxurious in the human sense. Oddly, she received that as a comfort.
The laughter rang in her ears ruggedly. Malformed. Her head snapped sharply and she took them all in, standing upright, in their polished armour, protecting both their Overseer and their dignity. Alas, they were not as well protected as they all thought. Mirth came easily to them now. Now.
Iaira stepped forward, broke the line. Broke free from the woman's grip -she was still bound, either way. She broke free and walked towards Weyellin's towering figure, a sudden ray of heat on the back of her head, one that she welcomed. Knowing the frustration it would cause, she deliberately slowed her pace until she was standing on the man's opposite, separated only by a few yards.
Her voice would have to be high.
'Rot,' Iaira said. Her voice a whisper, but it was carried through the hall. These are things a seductress learns. 'You all believe you are serving some sort of higher cause. A righteous cause, burning in holy fire, destined to purge the sinners. Sinners by your standards. Let me say one thing, to you all,' she turned to face them, then. 'You're rotten. Each and every one of you. In some, there is the seed of doubt. In others, there is the flicker of distaste. But in those who blindly follow justice just as blind and depraved, there is only a singular truth: you fear. And in that horrid quest to cleanse the world, not once have you been allowed pause to ponder whether your crimes do not outweigh the ones you are attempting to punish.'
An idle, casual gesture to the grey woman.
'She showed me around, you see. Told me of your stories and your history- to me, almost identical, those two. I have this to say, to you, all. All that you do in your god’s name is at its core profoundly godless.'
Now Iaira was facing Weyellin again, weighing his gaze in her eyes. 'And you, you're the highest, most respected non-believer of them all. You revere in devotion to Propienne, Godsbane, the existence of dragons, for Hood's sake! Yet you hunt down magic and sorcerers like animals. You torture, you drive them to their knees like dogs, when your very object of worship is buried in magic.'
One step closer, yet another. She hoped his guards would not interfere. It would very much make her scene all the less effective. She was planning to position herself at a breath's distance. So that he might realise.
"All life is sorcery. In its very essence, the soul is magical, and each process of chemistry, of obeisance and cooperation, of surrender and struggle – at every scale conceivable – is a consort of sorcery. Destroy magic and you destroy life.'