Deimos
He’d taken no time at all – bag of holding over his shoulder, companions following alongside, snagging at Cordelia, and leaving a note on the door of the guild. There would be other moments to put together loose ends and frayed strands – the current ones were too precious, too few.
Then it was wings and thunderbird reaches and scanning the sky for mountains he hadn’t seen in nearly a year.
And all the while, a hollowed, echo tune in the back of his mind. Morgan was dead.
Never one to analyze feelings, he had a difficult time measuring why there was a mixture of relief, melancholy, and something like sadness. Maybe because they’d once been friends and allies. Maybe because once she’d helped pick him up in the middle of the Tundra, when he should’ve been perished too. Maybe because he figured that wasn’t how she would’ve wanted to go out – struck down by a monster, and left out in the Whitebrim.
He placed the notions aside, and focused on the traversing, on the arctic winds sweeping across his face, about familiarity and the summits beckoning him home – winter in his blood and bone and soul.
There was no telling how long it took them to arrive; not in their haste. He only ceased when they arrived at the Citadel’s gates, landing from massive bird to man, Belial coasting in alongside, Zuriel running with Cordelia. Thereafter, it was the breath of Siberian air filling his lungs, and the slight smile etched on his features. He tilted his head, a beckoning for Cordelia as well, so that they could march down the streets, down towards the Council Hall.
A nod was delivered to the same guards, and the footpaths taken directed them towards familiarity all over again. “Noah,” to which he patted the man on the shoulder. “Sah,” as another greeting.
Then it was wings and thunderbird reaches and scanning the sky for mountains he hadn’t seen in nearly a year.
And all the while, a hollowed, echo tune in the back of his mind. Morgan was dead.
Never one to analyze feelings, he had a difficult time measuring why there was a mixture of relief, melancholy, and something like sadness. Maybe because they’d once been friends and allies. Maybe because once she’d helped pick him up in the middle of the Tundra, when he should’ve been perished too. Maybe because he figured that wasn’t how she would’ve wanted to go out – struck down by a monster, and left out in the Whitebrim.
He placed the notions aside, and focused on the traversing, on the arctic winds sweeping across his face, about familiarity and the summits beckoning him home – winter in his blood and bone and soul.
There was no telling how long it took them to arrive; not in their haste. He only ceased when they arrived at the Citadel’s gates, landing from massive bird to man, Belial coasting in alongside, Zuriel running with Cordelia. Thereafter, it was the breath of Siberian air filling his lungs, and the slight smile etched on his features. He tilted his head, a beckoning for Cordelia as well, so that they could march down the streets, down towards the Council Hall.
A nod was delivered to the same guards, and the footpaths taken directed them towards familiarity all over again. “Noah,” to which he patted the man on the shoulder. “Sah,” as another greeting.
it's not the waking, it's the rising
It's the fire it ignites
It's the fire it ignites
