I was so cold and lost, nothing seemed to ring true
Then I whispered your name, that's when everything changed
Then I whispered your name, that's when everything changed
Longnight is a lucrative time for the woodcutter. He tries not to consider the horrors of the darkness that stretches out over their land and the way those fears feed his pockets. It's not a favorite truth of his, but it is one he'd be stupid to ignore. He manages it better by shifting the perspective away from the depths of the night and what it hides, to the fuel he instead provides, feeding the light and the warmth that provide the hope and the comfort for people to carry through into the dawn. He is not profiting off disaster, he is facilitating survival.
Tucked away in a lighter coat and his red plaid flannel beneath, Iskra's head turns from his current exchange, drawn by the shouting. The shopkeep passing over coppers into his awaiting palm turns with him, each of them craning their necks towards the stall a few ways down where Nova is arguing about price scales. "What's that stall?" Iskra wonders, hoisting up the bundle of freshly chopped wood and thumping it down on the stall's table. The shopkeep finishes paying him and shrugs. Bells? I think. And other noise-making things. Iskra muses aloud, one hand tugging thoughtfully on his beard.
"I do need a bell, actually," he murmurs, then nods in farewell, reaching down for his sack of wood and lumbering down the stall aisles towards the noisy stand. He has enough time to see Nova create a bell from nothing, its metal gleaming where it sits in her hand. Iskra draws closer, gaze tilting from her to her creation. "Does it sound the same?" he wonders of her, genuinely curious. Being in Deimos' company often enough, creation magic is something he sees routinely, but it's special enough to still snare his attention.
Tucked away in a lighter coat and his red plaid flannel beneath, Iskra's head turns from his current exchange, drawn by the shouting. The shopkeep passing over coppers into his awaiting palm turns with him, each of them craning their necks towards the stall a few ways down where Nova is arguing about price scales. "What's that stall?" Iskra wonders, hoisting up the bundle of freshly chopped wood and thumping it down on the stall's table. The shopkeep finishes paying him and shrugs. Bells? I think. And other noise-making things. Iskra muses aloud, one hand tugging thoughtfully on his beard.
"I do need a bell, actually," he murmurs, then nods in farewell, reaching down for his sack of wood and lumbering down the stall aisles towards the noisy stand. He has enough time to see Nova create a bell from nothing, its metal gleaming where it sits in her hand. Iskra draws closer, gaze tilting from her to her creation. "Does it sound the same?" he wonders of her, genuinely curious. Being in Deimos' company often enough, creation magic is something he sees routinely, but it's special enough to still snare his attention.
Love came out of the rain, talk about being saved
Suddenly I wanna live, more than I ever did
Suddenly I wanna live, more than I ever did
Iskra
