Those in the room that were left standing, in freedom, spoke among themselves but always in deference to the black-swathed man that sat upon the largest of eagles among the motionless flock that filled the shop. Their words meant nothing to her, voices flowing over her ears in the strange language of the Father-led tribes of Rome, and she hated it. Their language was hard, interspersed with sussurations that made them sound like serpents, were it not a denigration to those cthonic creatures to make such a comparison.<br/><br/>In her own language, she glanced side-long at the other woman forced to kneel - and her posture was strange. Her head was bowed beneath one man's stroking fingers, a sight that boiled up Atnorsa's own rage anew, and though she did not know the woman's name, she felt faint recognition at the sight of her face - she snarled,<em><strong>"Why do you bow your head like a farmer? Have their words more power than the pride of serving the great Mother?"</strong></em>