Aamu
The pattern of the dragon's movement shifts, and Aamu freezes subtly again. Blue eyes narrow at it, and he turns his arm, the backward bend of his wrist a silent threat—but all she does is wander off his lap and contemplate the sky. Aamu holds very still until she's gone, rising into the oncoming dawn.
Decides to hold his breath indefinitely, since he doesn't need to exhale it anyway.
Wessex picks up her own story, giving him a name for that disturbing black tower. His mind turns, gets stuck and snagged on details, tries to piece it all together: the Voice, imprisoned, at the Grounds. So utterly and so completely she couldn't get out, and if she couldn't, no one could. Not even the heralds of the Gods.
So... It's a potential explanation: a reason for three hundred years spent on a mountainside. Powered down. Vulnerable.
What had happened to those who dropped in the cities, the fields, on the roads?
He shudders.
It must've been a massacre.
He doesn't exactly respond to her, just thoughtfully stares off into the distance as he tries to order his thoughts and not forget what he's just been told. Her story is elusive, drifting on the breeze, threatening to entirely abandon the mess making up his rattled memories. The Core?
He doesn't know if it's familiar or not. Could be. Might not be. He opens his mouth to answer, closes it again. Shakes his head as another small frown lines his face. "There must've been," he admits, thinking—there's some vague idea of generals, of sorts, those who bore the figurative torches against the dark, mapping their entire strategy in their heads as the battle raged among the stars. "But I can't tell you more than that. And I, well, I feel I must've had more upgrades, I find myself doing small motions, or thinking I'll just do something but nothing happens and I don't know what I'm expecting either. I think I was mostly geared towards battle and utility, and this is the only thing I've got to work."
And it's a subtle, barely perceptible tensing of his wrist, and a blade slides out. "Common as daylight, huh?" he says with a self-conscious smile, letting the blade retract.
Decides to hold his breath indefinitely, since he doesn't need to exhale it anyway.
Wessex picks up her own story, giving him a name for that disturbing black tower. His mind turns, gets stuck and snagged on details, tries to piece it all together: the Voice, imprisoned, at the Grounds. So utterly and so completely she couldn't get out, and if she couldn't, no one could. Not even the heralds of the Gods.
So... It's a potential explanation: a reason for three hundred years spent on a mountainside. Powered down. Vulnerable.
What had happened to those who dropped in the cities, the fields, on the roads?
He shudders.
It must've been a massacre.
He doesn't exactly respond to her, just thoughtfully stares off into the distance as he tries to order his thoughts and not forget what he's just been told. Her story is elusive, drifting on the breeze, threatening to entirely abandon the mess making up his rattled memories. The Core?
He doesn't know if it's familiar or not. Could be. Might not be. He opens his mouth to answer, closes it again. Shakes his head as another small frown lines his face. "There must've been," he admits, thinking—there's some vague idea of generals, of sorts, those who bore the figurative torches against the dark, mapping their entire strategy in their heads as the battle raged among the stars. "But I can't tell you more than that. And I, well, I feel I must've had more upgrades, I find myself doing small motions, or thinking I'll just do something but nothing happens and I don't know what I'm expecting either. I think I was mostly geared towards battle and utility, and this is the only thing I've got to work."
And it's a subtle, barely perceptible tensing of his wrist, and a blade slides out. "Common as daylight, huh?" he says with a self-conscious smile, letting the blade retract.
You are the night-time fear
You are the morning when it's clear
You are the morning when it's clear
