Kiada's presence was unexpected but sorely welcome, and the bard's expression softened at her entrance, grateful for both her unwounded self and the gifts she brought. He left Deimos to arrange the liquor and take a seat while he went to cut the fresh bread. No one would have appetite, yet they would all need to eat, to keep up their strength, to heal the wounds left on both body and soul. That much he could do, mechanically and without needing to think about it as his mind shied away from the day's events.
Deimos' burns were as worrying as his own gas-induced sores and wounds; more so, because the big man had endured both while the bard had only had to deal with one attack. "Will you pour, please?" he asked Kiada softly as he brought the bread over to the table, sitting across from Amalia and leaving the seat between them free for the harpy eagle. Isuma peeped quiet welcome to the friends who had come, but stayed nestled close on her leopard-sister's lap, offering softness and warmth and affection in her own way to support the girl whose heart bled more than any outer wound the men bore.
Four lost souls in a sinking ship, and none with the energy to bail out the inrushing water, Jigano thought wearily. Deimos' wounds would need tending soon, though he wasn't sure his friend would be in the mood to tolerate it. But before he could begin worrying about that the mountain spoke - to him, not the silent Amalia and he winced as the question threw his mind back to the awe and confusion and disbelief, the grief and denial of a mere few hours before.
"The Tulmhainar... could not be saved," he said quietly. "She did not want to be saved. She had been there, wounded and alone in the dark for too long. But... we had thought... we wanted to let her see the sky, the light, one last time." His explanation was as much for Kiada as Deimos as he took a slice of hot bread and began methodically reducing it to crumbs with his hands, an idle tic he wasn't even aware of. He kept his head down, but not so far that he couldn't steal glances at Amalia as he spoke, ready to stop speaking if it looked like she had something to say.
"She was..." he hesitated, then shrugged helplessly as words proved inadequate. "Impossible. A creature so old, so vast, in such a small body... it was as if she bore the weight of aeons, of worlds, on her shell. She could not make it to the stairs; we could not carry her to the sky. So... the sky came to her." He stopped again, taking a shuddering breath and coughing against his ravaged throat. "Safrin... Amalia warned me and I flew up the stairs, just as the goddess began to blast her way down. I don't know... the Voice was there so long, I don't think it was... I think the Spire resisted her," he stumbled through the memory, a vision brilliant and deadly and overwhelming such that he shuddered even now, hours later. "But somehow she... she did it. She tore the heart from the Spire, opened the basement to the sky so the Tulmhainar could see the sky and then she... she fell... and..."
He shook his head, eyes squeezed shut as he relived that sight. The impossibility of it, and the grief. The fear of watching a goddess fall, a star that glimmered and guttered out before his eyes. "And then she... she was gone," he said, voice barely a whisper as he opened his hands and let the crumbs fall to the table before him, shredded and lifeless on the wood.
Deimos' burns were as worrying as his own gas-induced sores and wounds; more so, because the big man had endured both while the bard had only had to deal with one attack. "Will you pour, please?" he asked Kiada softly as he brought the bread over to the table, sitting across from Amalia and leaving the seat between them free for the harpy eagle. Isuma peeped quiet welcome to the friends who had come, but stayed nestled close on her leopard-sister's lap, offering softness and warmth and affection in her own way to support the girl whose heart bled more than any outer wound the men bore.
Four lost souls in a sinking ship, and none with the energy to bail out the inrushing water, Jigano thought wearily. Deimos' wounds would need tending soon, though he wasn't sure his friend would be in the mood to tolerate it. But before he could begin worrying about that the mountain spoke - to him, not the silent Amalia and he winced as the question threw his mind back to the awe and confusion and disbelief, the grief and denial of a mere few hours before.
"The Tulmhainar... could not be saved," he said quietly. "She did not want to be saved. She had been there, wounded and alone in the dark for too long. But... we had thought... we wanted to let her see the sky, the light, one last time." His explanation was as much for Kiada as Deimos as he took a slice of hot bread and began methodically reducing it to crumbs with his hands, an idle tic he wasn't even aware of. He kept his head down, but not so far that he couldn't steal glances at Amalia as he spoke, ready to stop speaking if it looked like she had something to say.
"She was..." he hesitated, then shrugged helplessly as words proved inadequate. "Impossible. A creature so old, so vast, in such a small body... it was as if she bore the weight of aeons, of worlds, on her shell. She could not make it to the stairs; we could not carry her to the sky. So... the sky came to her." He stopped again, taking a shuddering breath and coughing against his ravaged throat. "Safrin... Amalia warned me and I flew up the stairs, just as the goddess began to blast her way down. I don't know... the Voice was there so long, I don't think it was... I think the Spire resisted her," he stumbled through the memory, a vision brilliant and deadly and overwhelming such that he shuddered even now, hours later. "But somehow she... she did it. She tore the heart from the Spire, opened the basement to the sky so the Tulmhainar could see the sky and then she... she fell... and..."
He shook his head, eyes squeezed shut as he relived that sight. The impossibility of it, and the grief. The fear of watching a goddess fall, a star that glimmered and guttered out before his eyes. "And then she... she was gone," he said, voice barely a whisper as he opened his hands and let the crumbs fall to the table before him, shredded and lifeless on the wood.
