It's taken a lifetime to lose my way
All the wasted time on my hands turns to sand
With no other issues, a welcome reprieve, relieve, and surprise, the gap was widened, permitting them all to pass through with no circumstances. He refined it again for good measure, in case they had to traverse this way back through, and continued on in following Loren, Zuriel at his heels. The aforementioned proceedings with the cultists filled in the gaps of what he’d known previously only by hastily scrawled notes: Eirachi, Neron, and Zariah’ influences, cultists for a goddess of the season, and the unknown beckoning, clawing, within the abyss. “Have you heard of them since?” Were these people normal threats, deigning to regroup, clamber back together, and something else to prepare and shield the world against? The notions intermingled down his spine, and it was one more thing he’d have to ask the Warden about, one more potential root of demolition he hadn’t known or thought over.
But for now, he’d have to settle into the caverns, into the hunt.
There was more to assemble anyway, as they arrived at another potential issue. His glance, eternally studious, scrupulous, and meticulous, surveyed the chasm, the gap, and how far, how stable, he’d have to manifest the structure. He proffered a nod towards the healer, before unfurling, unleashing, the earthen enchantments again, constructing an overpass meant to hold them while they crossed, pulsing and placing rock and stone into the adherence, intending for strength, fortitude, and might.
The Sword was only distracted by the high-pitched cackle resounding, bounding, and echoing along the walls – pausing to become entirely rigid, instantly a predator, a vice, a damned heathen ready for malice. He’d been told the Merciless was dead - but a look towards Loren, with his paling features – insinuated that may not be the case. The instinctual drive for menace, for vengeance rooted deep from within, conspiring in the onslaught of his thoughts, and his response was only a feral growl. “Where?” Where was she, and how could they get to her?
But for now, he’d have to settle into the caverns, into the hunt.
There was more to assemble anyway, as they arrived at another potential issue. His glance, eternally studious, scrupulous, and meticulous, surveyed the chasm, the gap, and how far, how stable, he’d have to manifest the structure. He proffered a nod towards the healer, before unfurling, unleashing, the earthen enchantments again, constructing an overpass meant to hold them while they crossed, pulsing and placing rock and stone into the adherence, intending for strength, fortitude, and might.
The Sword was only distracted by the high-pitched cackle resounding, bounding, and echoing along the walls – pausing to become entirely rigid, instantly a predator, a vice, a damned heathen ready for malice. He’d been told the Merciless was dead - but a look towards Loren, with his paling features – insinuated that may not be the case. The instinctual drive for menace, for vengeance rooted deep from within, conspiring in the onslaught of his thoughts, and his response was only a feral growl. “Where?” Where was she, and how could they get to her?
I'm fine in the fire
I feed on the friction
