The hazy weather wafted past, and with it, dragging the masked figure along. Faer, who stood short and stocky, sniffed at the waves in both air and water, feet submerged in the shallows. A hostile shiver overtook the traveler, whose voice was as shallow as the world beneath their ankles. Perhaps a different explorer would have shed the garments long exposed to the elements and jumped in. For Faer, they would rather the cool reprieve had not shown the reflection that stared back.
In lazy eddies and giggling whirls, the glassy waters blinked. Once. Twice. The unsteady figure in neutral browns and violets stood; face obscured, or possessed, by a primitive painted mask. Four lines across one eye, a quiet scratch over the other. None bespoke of the being who wore it, save for the long braid dangling just above the waist.
Faer would not remove the mask.
Not when it had been their own face, though the ‘expression’ in styles frequently changed. Changeable as Death, himself. Mort had been kind, or Faer had been lucky. For no one claimed the life beneath the many masks.
It had been a hot day. The stars shifted, as they always had done. Soon the heat would be a constant current, lapping against the proud brow of those who refused to submit to the heat. Yes, Mort had been very kind indeed, and Faer took their oath to the Old One very seriously.
And yet... Their discipline in Death’s devotion faltered ever so slightly. To swim and play felt like... it felt like... Well. It felt like a hot cup of tea, or a cool cup in this case. To do everything as a wee goat — was that the life to live, even in service to kind-tempered Death?
In lazy eddies and giggling whirls, the glassy waters blinked. Once. Twice. The unsteady figure in neutral browns and violets stood; face obscured, or possessed, by a primitive painted mask. Four lines across one eye, a quiet scratch over the other. None bespoke of the being who wore it, save for the long braid dangling just above the waist.
Faer would not remove the mask.
Not when it had been their own face, though the ‘expression’ in styles frequently changed. Changeable as Death, himself. Mort had been kind, or Faer had been lucky. For no one claimed the life beneath the many masks.
It had been a hot day. The stars shifted, as they always had done. Soon the heat would be a constant current, lapping against the proud brow of those who refused to submit to the heat. Yes, Mort had been very kind indeed, and Faer took their oath to the Old One very seriously.
And yet... Their discipline in Death’s devotion faltered ever so slightly. To swim and play felt like... it felt like... Well. It felt like a hot cup of tea, or a cool cup in this case. To do everything as a wee goat — was that the life to live, even in service to kind-tempered Death?
