Iskra
this heartwood was cut too damn deep
For all the heat the Ancients love, Iskra can't help but feel like there's an aspect of coldness to the design, likely due to so much of it being in stone and grandeur that lifts the space. He's become accustomed to the cozy architecture of Halo, where a smaller size means less is lost to heat, and a mixture of wood and brick and metal structure their buildings. He's grown up in the sweeping layouts of Torchline, meant to draw in cross breezes, full of windows and warm in a reassuring manner with reed and thatch and wood along with stronger bones and character unique to each place. Which is not to say that the housing around here might not be warmer, but here, in this placer meant for worship, it is more unsettling to Iskra than any of the other shrines he recalls visiting. Beautiful, yes, but many things that are beautiful are ones worth granting distance to.
His gaze skips over the odd manner of order and chaos folding into each other, curious as he is wary. It's new, and strange, and not entirely to his tastes, but... he keeps an open mind. At least, until they come to a halt and Astraoth's words change into a demonstration as offerings are laid out in a most uncustomary way. "Blood?" Iskra parrots, like he's testing out the word to make sure he heard it right, that it's the same blood he knows, that it's—yep, it is. Astaroth's palm peels red over a ruby, resulting in a wince form Iskra as he visibly leans away and cringes at the sight.
Not squeamish, exactly, but he's never exactly witnessed someone intentionally carve pain into themselves like that. Having split his skin plenty of times of various tools and sharp edges of bark, he knows the sensation all too well, and a ghost of it throbs in his hand now at the sight of Astaroth's injury. "Uh—why?" Iskra asks, smaller than he'd like, as he now hunches over his bundle of toys and treats like a child that has found themselves in the wrong classroom and isn't quite sure how to make it to the proper one, especially since finger painting seems to be on the docket for this room.
His gaze skips over the odd manner of order and chaos folding into each other, curious as he is wary. It's new, and strange, and not entirely to his tastes, but... he keeps an open mind. At least, until they come to a halt and Astraoth's words change into a demonstration as offerings are laid out in a most uncustomary way. "Blood?" Iskra parrots, like he's testing out the word to make sure he heard it right, that it's the same blood he knows, that it's—yep, it is. Astaroth's palm peels red over a ruby, resulting in a wince form Iskra as he visibly leans away and cringes at the sight.
Not squeamish, exactly, but he's never exactly witnessed someone intentionally carve pain into themselves like that. Having split his skin plenty of times of various tools and sharp edges of bark, he knows the sensation all too well, and a ghost of it throbs in his hand now at the sight of Astaroth's injury. "Uh—why?" Iskra asks, smaller than he'd like, as he now hunches over his bundle of toys and treats like a child that has found themselves in the wrong classroom and isn't quite sure how to make it to the proper one, especially since finger painting seems to be on the docket for this room.
I can't see the wood for the trees
