Aamu
Well.
Her facial expression about sums it up—it's one of those unequivocal what the fuck things, and if she feels a bit strange talking to someone who spent most of their life three hundred years ago, well, she could take comfort in the fact that it's quite bizarre for him as well. He suspects there's two reasons he hasn't lost his mind yet, one being his naturally placid nature, the other the fact that it hasn't sunk in yet. But, if anything, he's nice proof of the Voice's ingenuity and care in making her Bright Ones. If Aamu lasted three hundred years beneath scree and snow, there's no telling the heights they can reach.
Three hundred and eleven years. At least. He can't remember how the years were tracked, as if it was a knowledge so natural and so mundane it is completely wiped from his mind. Everyone knew it, and now, maybe no one does.
A delicate frown spreads over his forehead as she comes closer, but it is unrelated to her. He opens his mouth to ask about it, subconsciously inviting the dragon onto his lap as she is shooed closer to him, but Wessex goes on before he has the chance to speak.
Not that he minds. Torn as he is between wanting to stick his head in the snow and actually figuring things out, he knows he has to at least try and be sensible.
Wessex Theskyra (a vaguely familiar name), Queen and Ascended demi-god. Well well well. Aamu decides his services to the Ascended afford him some leniency, and besides, she has not seemed to mind his lack of, ah, reverence. If she does now, after revealing herself, she's free to smack him. "It's alright," he assures her. "I suspect it hasn't sunk in yet."
Aamu sighs, gently, and leans back against the bench. Closes his eyes. "I remember the war—The Order, too, more than I'd like to. But no - no cataclysm. What happened?"
Her facial expression about sums it up—it's one of those unequivocal what the fuck things, and if she feels a bit strange talking to someone who spent most of their life three hundred years ago, well, she could take comfort in the fact that it's quite bizarre for him as well. He suspects there's two reasons he hasn't lost his mind yet, one being his naturally placid nature, the other the fact that it hasn't sunk in yet. But, if anything, he's nice proof of the Voice's ingenuity and care in making her Bright Ones. If Aamu lasted three hundred years beneath scree and snow, there's no telling the heights they can reach.
Three hundred and eleven years. At least. He can't remember how the years were tracked, as if it was a knowledge so natural and so mundane it is completely wiped from his mind. Everyone knew it, and now, maybe no one does.
A delicate frown spreads over his forehead as she comes closer, but it is unrelated to her. He opens his mouth to ask about it, subconsciously inviting the dragon onto his lap as she is shooed closer to him, but Wessex goes on before he has the chance to speak.
Not that he minds. Torn as he is between wanting to stick his head in the snow and actually figuring things out, he knows he has to at least try and be sensible.
Wessex Theskyra (a vaguely familiar name), Queen and Ascended demi-god. Well well well. Aamu decides his services to the Ascended afford him some leniency, and besides, she has not seemed to mind his lack of, ah, reverence. If she does now, after revealing herself, she's free to smack him. "It's alright," he assures her. "I suspect it hasn't sunk in yet."
Aamu sighs, gently, and leans back against the bench. Closes his eyes. "I remember the war—The Order, too, more than I'd like to. But no - no cataclysm. What happened?"
You are the night-time fear
You are the morning when it's clear
You are the morning when it's clear
