who we are and all that we're trying to be
He expected the inquiry as they ambled through the dusk, the puncturing gestures of unordinary design slashing towards the sky. When he’d first arrived, he had thought of it somewhat like the monoliths in the Basin, high, towering structures, set to regard the rest of the world from their summit-adorned views. Those notions had died soon thereafter, once actions had unwound, once the Voice was set free from its chambers, once they’d explored the basement and he’d nearly perished, once they’d destroyed plants thought to carry the blight, once the weight of history gnawed at their shoulders, clawed at their spines. The Spire he answered at first, pausing for a moment so Chulane could gaze upon it, its shadowed, emblazoned thing, while Deimos stood, rigid, unyielding, unbending, wondering if there was a way they could ever destroy it.
If it mattered any longer. If it was far too late.
The Voice was imprisoned within he started, imparting some notions of knowledge and experience as he began to move once more, the fields’ dried stalks basking, twitching, and maneuvering in the light wind. She used it to bring Outlanders here. It was how he’d arrived, it was how any of them had been taken from worlds they understood and comprehended, thrown here to assist in breaking barriers apart. It is largely used for portals now, at least, what they’d explored, the vast range of rooms mostly off-limits. The Sword made no mention of the disastrous results embedded in there – the amount of death, destruction, chaos, and caustic imbalances, the weight of cataclysms. The curiosity shared by the other would likely be overwhelmed by only those minuscule contortions of information, so he purposefully stalked through the wide-open expanse, the plains, closer and closer to the minaret, and the sanctions of the town.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
