who we are and all that we're trying to be
While infant stars burned and crooned, while a goddess waxed and waned back into life, while he stared and surmised the blight situation, the Reaper mulled over the possibilities, the reasons, the madness. The fact that Ronin was also infected with the affliction was enough to give him pause – it had been only plants before, curling and coiling its plague motivations through the Greatwood – the Fae unhappy, discontent, worlds threatened. Now it was people too. He clenched his jaw, glancing over at Remi, who appeared unnerved; Deimos surmised he’d be the same if it was Amalia in Ronin’s place – and he very solidly, stoically, placed a hand on the alchemist’s shoulder, supportive, for as long as the other would endure it. The chill suddenly settled over their forms; the warmth of the endeavors and efforts seemingly forgotten, with more trials and tribulations ahead. If it wasn’t Zariah, it was something going on with the Fae, and if it wasn’t the Fae, it was the blight – then they had the pending LongNight to think about, and combined together was a mass of issues and dilemmas pressing down, down, down along the ridge of his spine. He didn’t understand how none of these people ever seemed to break.
But to the Goddess, his eyes lifted, musing out loud. “Did it come from the Spire?” Could they simply destroy the remains of that vile hellhole, and be done with the spread of the disease?
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
