who we are and all that we're trying to be
It had been a long while since he’s bowed his head at the altar. Not since laying offerings, or sending out silent oaths and apologies, for those had been done frequently throughout the latter part of seasons and changes, but to press the words lurking and waiting behind his teeth had taken a stretch, a span. The notions of impulse were rare and fleeting in the man, and it’d shown why when everything spun out into debacles.
Because there’d been multitudes of failures to fix, broken barrages and paths laid bare and started anew, growth lacquered and stuck fast to circumstances he’d altered and mishandled. Nothing was perfect, but the Sword had certainly taken the time to strive, to try, to show his loyalties in the midst of the deity’s certain disappointment.
So he took an unwinding breath, permitting it to fill his lungs and filter out into the Citadel air, and placed his offering along the mantle. A glass bottle, filled to the brim with starlit flowers, made to reflect poignant hues and colors of constellations, of the skies above. Thereafter, the deep intonations of his rumble began. “Safrin, I was hoping to speak with you.” But if she didn’t want to, or laid a curse down at his feet, he’d understand that as well. “I would like to use this scale,” and he reached into his bag, pulling out the leviathan piece, holding it in his grasp, “for armor, to guard against any magic attacks.”
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
