in tenebris est veritas.
The shaman’s body tenses as she spies the dark shape in the water, preparing for some monster or spirit to accost her in this distant, lonely place. Her hand move to the dagger at her belt as he emerges and will remain there for a time. For his wide, scarred, gilded body is not exactly a friendly one, his silent inquisition lost on her as the orbital holes of her mask meet his shifting gaze. She senses the loss of his harmonies, though could not describe them if she tried; the empty spaces between the persistent cathedral’s whistles and chimes lend an eerie tone to his arrival.
“Hello,” she greets cautiously, still unsure if the intelligence in his eyes is that of a visitor or a predator. The stolen fragment is already safely tucked away in her bag, now just another dead trophy among others. Her boots shift warily in the sand, utterly aware of her disadvantage on the cramped sand bar. Perhaps hypocritically, she adds, “What are you doing here?”
“Hello,” she greets cautiously, still unsure if the intelligence in his eyes is that of a visitor or a predator. The stolen fragment is already safely tucked away in her bag, now just another dead trophy among others. Her boots shift warily in the sand, utterly aware of her disadvantage on the cramped sand bar. Perhaps hypocritically, she adds, “What are you doing here?”
