"Yes", Niamh thinks. "The Goddess would forgive me this". Her knife rises from your belt and moves to stab at the hand. The feeling of grafted plant matter giving way and piercing through flesh and bone is always such a soothing sensation, an insult properly avenged, as it should be.
But in that moment, something changes--the blow strikes home--and it is the Eldar's hand that bursts into agony. She shrieks, stumbling back at the lancing waves of pain emerging from her hand! A fatal blow! A wound like this would be beyond healing! The arts are lost and the powers are at bay! It is only a moment later that she understands what was going on--her wound was untouched.
And the wraithbone dagger impaling the Chosen's hand barely slows her as she takes a sip.
"You don't have a monopoly on pain" Dana speaks, and she knows her words as Truth. "You aren't the only ones who can be hurt, and a helping hand doesn't need to be slapped away from petty pride." She casually withdraws the knife, her own blood still adorning it as she neatly sets it aside.
"You and your people need help" The Priestess of the Verdant Maiden decreed--and the Chieftess felt her heart--and knew it to be true.
She clambered back to her seat, shrinking back.
"... what must we do" she whispered, in Gothic--and Dana smiled.
You smile in your slumber, you think it'll be okay from there.
