He’d left exploring for other monumental efforts, for all the good it’d accomplished. In between the time he’d last dove headlong into curiosity, he’d been caught on fire twice, managed to miraculously not die amidst poisonous fumes and botched missions, and hundreds of other things scattered in between. He kept it all at bay for now, because the tendency to brood was starting to take form over his figure, and he had no inclination to wallow currently. There were many too many missions to accomplish.
For instance: wandering into the Underground at the behest of Rexanna’s letter, stuffed underneath his door that morning. His brow had arched, his inquiries had been rattled and unsettled, and he’d pondered over the length of it since he’d prepared himself for whatever lurked ahead: especially since they’d yet to discuss anything at length in quite a while, and he had scores of questions for her.
What had she been doing amidst the forum, close to the Merciless?
So it was another enigma reeling within his mind as he roamed further and further into the ruins, brushing past the fallen columns and the broken pillars, the morning sun casting the only heat within: the rest of Leafchange’s presence was firmly noted in the chilling breeze – he lifted his head to its glacial expanse and imagined mountains instead of decay and disintegration. The rest of his form moved in further accord, a predacious glare, newly stitched skin and lacerations hinting, begging, pleading, for slower maneuvers and motion. There was a brief hope, because he knew it didn’t do well to merely rest on laurels and pretend that faith would seam it back together, that Rexanna had not fallen back into old habits, that what he’d seen had been naught more than a show, a display, or perhaps a return of the Thief.
So the Reaper lingered near the entrance, lured by the breadth of darkness pulsing, pervading from its threshold – a Stygian canal, exactly what he yearned and craved in those devastating parallels. It’d be so easy to slip back into routines and habits, to conform into the sepulchers and catacombs. He took a step inward, glanced into the void, and waited.
For instance: wandering into the Underground at the behest of Rexanna’s letter, stuffed underneath his door that morning. His brow had arched, his inquiries had been rattled and unsettled, and he’d pondered over the length of it since he’d prepared himself for whatever lurked ahead: especially since they’d yet to discuss anything at length in quite a while, and he had scores of questions for her.
What had she been doing amidst the forum, close to the Merciless?
So it was another enigma reeling within his mind as he roamed further and further into the ruins, brushing past the fallen columns and the broken pillars, the morning sun casting the only heat within: the rest of Leafchange’s presence was firmly noted in the chilling breeze – he lifted his head to its glacial expanse and imagined mountains instead of decay and disintegration. The rest of his form moved in further accord, a predacious glare, newly stitched skin and lacerations hinting, begging, pleading, for slower maneuvers and motion. There was a brief hope, because he knew it didn’t do well to merely rest on laurels and pretend that faith would seam it back together, that Rexanna had not fallen back into old habits, that what he’d seen had been naught more than a show, a display, or perhaps a return of the Thief.
So the Reaper lingered near the entrance, lured by the breadth of darkness pulsing, pervading from its threshold – a Stygian canal, exactly what he yearned and craved in those devastating parallels. It’d be so easy to slip back into routines and habits, to conform into the sepulchers and catacombs. He took a step inward, glanced into the void, and waited.
