// I've been trying to fix my pride //
Iskra snorts in response to that, "yeah well, I went with a Ludo demigod too and she didn't tell me about the cold until it was too late." So take heed. He didn't actually have any hard feelings about it though, and well her company had been a favor, he's the one who didn't bother to ask and just trudged to the shrine in silence. So he shrugs, smile light that fits along his features. "But, that's Mel for ya." Implying, that maybe even if he had asked, she still might not have actually told him, just to see for herself what might come of the blunder. She'd certainly found the curse amusing enough.
Sunjata seems to commune with the volcanic rocks for a minute, hands finding more than heat. Iskra's poor attempt to copy him only comes up empty handed, other than reddened skin and black smudges anyway.
The flare of wings that serves as a warning to the distant roar unsettles Goose. The dog spins to his back, belly exposed with a quiet lick as he tilts his head back, accepting his death. Iskra glances down with a sign, toing the silly mutt to rise. "Shoulda fucking called you Chicken," he mutters with exasperation.
"Thanks," he says with appreciation for the Flood's quick capabilities, and the tucking of his wings which rouses Goose back to his feet. Glancing at the red seam Sunjata motions to, Iskra hefts up his pickaxe, squaring up to strike. "Alright, let's give it a shot. Hopefully no lava sprays back and sets me on fire," he jokes, kinda. This place feels like it could manage to do just that. With a grunt Iskra brings the point of the pickaxe down on the red shine of ore. Some rock crumbles away, and he works the tool free to set it's edge against the stone several more times, carving it out like a face taking shape in clay.
Sunjata seems to commune with the volcanic rocks for a minute, hands finding more than heat. Iskra's poor attempt to copy him only comes up empty handed, other than reddened skin and black smudges anyway.
The flare of wings that serves as a warning to the distant roar unsettles Goose. The dog spins to his back, belly exposed with a quiet lick as he tilts his head back, accepting his death. Iskra glances down with a sign, toing the silly mutt to rise. "Shoulda fucking called you Chicken," he mutters with exasperation.
"Thanks," he says with appreciation for the Flood's quick capabilities, and the tucking of his wings which rouses Goose back to his feet. Glancing at the red seam Sunjata motions to, Iskra hefts up his pickaxe, squaring up to strike. "Alright, let's give it a shot. Hopefully no lava sprays back and sets me on fire," he jokes, kinda. This place feels like it could manage to do just that. With a grunt Iskra brings the point of the pickaxe down on the red shine of ore. Some rock crumbles away, and he works the tool free to set it's edge against the stone several more times, carving it out like a face taking shape in clay.
Iskra
// But that shit's broken //
