darlingdatura | I left a rose at the bottom of the big black sea

I left a rose at the bottom of the big black sea

The Scions wouldn't have agreed to this. Barely tolerated the presence of the Ascian, certainly didn't like or trust him speaking to Mikh'tan. Not that this ever stopped the little Keeper from seeking Emet-Selch out to talk whenever he showed his face. If he was ever bothered by the man's barbs and smart remarks, he was especially good at letting it roll off his back. Seemed earnest in trying to bridge the gap between them, to find some common ground. Held a hope that they could find some third option between the idea of one or the other. Something. Anything.

It wasn't such idealism that had him sneaking away from the Crystarium in the dead of night though. He'd kept a brave face on things, but it was impossible for him not to realize what was happening to him, long before anyone actually admitted it to him, long before he was starting to crack apart ilm by ilm under the strain of the glut of Light Aether. If any of his companions had any idea, they'd surely stop him but no one was expecting him to leave, to slip away to Amaurot.

For all he wasn't a creature of darkness, there was some semblance of relief in the malms of ocean water above blocking out the Light he knew stained the skies, all but prickled up the back of his neck. The Miqo'te managed several steps away from the aetheryte before he felt a surge that had the white creeping in at the edges of his vision, that searing cold all but carving it's way through him, sending him stumbling hard as he dropped his bag, grabbing for one of the railings to at least avoid hitting the ground. Tail frizzing as he let out a low, distressed noise of pain behind his hand, fingers quickly stained with the glow of liquid aether as the air positively crackled with the same energy making more of that awful white and gold creep over skin like a poison.

It would take him a moment to be able to go looking or call out, if Emet-Selch wasn't already aware of his presence. He held no real illusion that this wasn't exactly what the Ascian had been planning, but at the same time...

He didn't see a way to make this stop. Didn't want to be alone in what he was afraid would be the final days or even hours he had left as himself before the Light subsumed him.

He'd spent too much of his life alone.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Hmph. Yes, your kind do like to struggle on far beyond reasonable limits."

But such efforts cannot be sustained indefinitely. Sooner or later, the body - or the mind - breaks. And even if neither do, one cannot come out the other end unchanged. Like waves dashing themselves against a breaker, trying to wear it down.

"But when you transform, I shan't need to lift a finger. Not that I would want to - too much Light, even for one such as I, you know. No, your own instincts will guide you as you hunt for aether, and I shall watch from afar to ensure you bring this shard back to ruin."

His expression hardens. "If that means killing the Scions so that they cannot muster an army against you, then so be it."

"Ah. Yes that... makes sense." Mikka managed after a moment. The idea made him positively miserable, easy enough to see in the pin of ears against his hair as he tilted his head back to rest against the cool stone of the railing as he tried to ignore the creep of cold white starting at the edges of his vision. "Like as not I came here just in time... I don't seem to be able to even so much as summon Zaika to curl in my lap, let alone travelling by aetheryte."

He doubted it would change anything but maybe his starting so far from civilization would give them enough warning to muster some manner of defense. A weak, sad little smile crossing his face, though other than that and the uneasy flick of his tail he didn't move much. Conserving his energy, holding out as long as he was able for all he knew it was only a matter of time, soul aching under the strain of so much Light. "Like as not you'll think me childish for this, and perhaps I am but... I find I cannot bear the idea of being alone. Would you stay? Just... talk to me. About..."

He cast about for a subject, a thing that was made difficult by another loud crack not unlike spun glass breaking apart, body tensing as a fresh wash of agony flooded his voice, making his words a pained rasp. "T-the sky- what was the sky like in the real Amaurot?"

Despite his impeccable self-control, Emet-Selch flinches. Not because of their piteous words but because every crack, every flicker of Light spilling past their lips or from their eyes could signal the final collapse of their soul. Faced with such immense Light, even he must be wary.

He ought to leave. That would be the sensible course of action, but...

"Oh, very well," he sighs. "I suppose 'twould be heartless to ignore a dying wish."

Stepping closer, he sinks on to the cold stone with a pointed sliver of distance between himself and the Warrior of Light. But then he reaches up to touch their cheek, carefully avoiding the pale, ceramic streaks running down their skin.

"Close your eyes."

These broken things never had understood the true power and capabilities of the Echo. The power to transcend limits, the power to sympathise, but also more simply: the power to share.

A headache is probably the least of their worries when the Light is eating away at them inside. Emet-Selch touches their foreheads together and imparts one of his oldest, fondest memories of a time long past...

A night like any other. The walkway gently curves its way down to the shore, following the bend of the land their city is built along. Emet-Selch strolls without hurry, eyes searching out the one who had called him there.

They are easy to spot. They are the only one who would have the boldness to stand out by the sea with their robes hitched up and the waves lapping at their feet.

"Hythlodaeus sends his apologies. A sudden urgent matter forces him to remain at the Bureau," he says tersely once he draws within range. Urgent, his foot - it's obvious what Hythlodaeus is playing at by calling out so suddenly.

Their laughter sends an odd flutter through his heart. They point up towards the stars.

"Look, aren't they beautiful?"

His gaze follows their hand, lingers on the glittering canvas above. "They look the same night after night," he says dourly. "Tonight is no different." But does he mean the stars or the light of so many brilliant souls dancing amongst them?

They huff. He drags his gaze back down and watches them spin to face him. Their mouth moves but he doesn't quite register the words, and he swallows back those hovering upon his own tongue, heart hammering in his chest.

Your star will always shine brightest in my eyes.

As a general rule, Mikka did his best to try and avoid clinging to others. Knew that such things were seen as pushy, or unpleasant, made him seem needy. So he kept his need for contact with others under wraps as well as he could. But in the face of touch like that it always seemed to seep through even in the best of circumstances. Here and now, coming apart ilm by ilm with each agonizing moment, there was no way he could stop himself from the faint sway into the gloved hand against his cheek, even if he knew the delicacy of it was likely more out of caution from the Light bleeding out of him than any affection. It still soothed that loneliness that nestled in the core of him, the thorned knot easing ever so slightly as he did as instructed, eyes sliding shut.

He figured Emet-Selch told him to do so as a way to make it easier to picture what he would describe. At least until he sensed the man leaning in, the touch of their foreheads together before that familiar pain flared up behind his eyes, though compared to the Light currently tearing through him it was by and far the least of the pain he was enduring-

It was indeed beautiful, the sight of the skies above that twisting cityscape, no matter the stubborn way Emet-Selch clings to that dour mask almost like a cloak. But there was a bittersweet tinge to the memory with those words unsaid, the Miqo'te feeling his heart jackhammering just as hard as Emet's had been, even as the memory seemed to come to a close, unravelling around them as the Echo faded to the background once more.

"S-she was right you know-" Mikka managed after a moment in a low whisper. "They were beautiful..."

He felt the hitch of his chest before the coughing started, flinching back, tossing his head to the side as if to shield the Ascian should the fit have him spitting up even more liquid aether, not entirely aware of the white haze starting to wreathe him like a fog.

"I am sorry-" He rasped, the words taking effort, the sad, apologetic smile curving Light-stained lips thin and pained. "I wish I c-could have been what you were hoping. T-that we could have been friends-"

He snatches his hand back and leans away, bristling instinctively as the Light begins to shine even through their very pores. Ironically, it's like sitting near a newborn sun. He feels it burning him, like solar flares rippling across the Warrior's skin, and feels the Darkness he is steeped in rebel.

Sickening regret, bitterness, anger, all surge to the fore as he grips their shoulder. It hurts but he ignores the painful tingling in his palm.

"Then why didn't you?" he hisses. "I offered you the chance. With your strength, there was much and more we could have accomplished. One more shard and your soul would have grown that much fuller. We could have found another way."

The Light is burning through him at this point, searing through his veins so intensely that it feels almost like the most agonizing of cold, and when aware of the loss of Emet's touch he's not entirely surprised given how dangerous such a thing was to him. But the feel of the hand clamping on his shoulder instead did startle him, enough that his gaze lifted to meet his, the usual bicolor blue of his eyes marred by harsh gold.

"Foolish naiveite I suppose," He rasped, the words painful to grind out at this point, the little Miqo'te trembling under the hand on his shoulder with the effort. "For all my optimism i-it seems I'm destined to be a disappointment once again-"

If he had anything to add it was lost as there was another louder sound, a sickening snapping that just had that haze of aether flashing brighter as the little Warrior doubled over with a raw cry of utter agony, arms tight around himself as if in a last blind bid to try and keep himself together.

This time Emet-Selch scrambles to his feet backing away and shielding his eyes from the growing Light. He can't do anything for them. Anything he could try would simply cause them more pain, and the Oracle is not here to suppress their Light now. Not that she would be able to any more.

He watches the vicious fluctuations of aether wrack their body. What form would they take, he wonders, as the hollow in his chest yawns wider. To see that almost beautiful, distinctive blue give way to cold porcelain...

He balls his fists and clenches his teeth. "Lest you worry about disturbing the shades with your screaming," he says tightly, "worry not. They care for naught. Let it go and it will be over all the sooner."

What about you?

Not that Mikka could give voice to the question anymore, and it was debatable if Emet could even see past that blinding Light to see it in his gaze. He didn't have the time to worry about that, or to try and force the words out as the little Miqo'te seemed to reach the tipping point, a shriek erupting from him as he tensed, body curling in on itself as if to defend against the pain of the Light tearing through his soul for all there was no external source.

It was a horrible sort of momentum that built from that- without the Warrior able to fight the corruption anymore the transformation was brutal in it's suddenness, the sounds of it a horrible cacophony under the ring of Light, all the more dissonant for the way it echoed off the cool pale stone of the plaza, for the twilight surroundings of the underwater monument to a long-destroyed place.

Hard to say if it was better or worse, to recognize him still. Too many arms surely for his small frame, but the gold brambles that seemed to be growing from the deep hollow in his chest wound around and up each arm, lashing around his wrists to end in wide gold blooms against the palms. Almost pretty, if not for the porcelain eyes in the heart of each flower, to say nothing of the unblinking blossoms otherwise decorating the thorny vines that wrapped the Lightwarden's limbs, trailed up his throat, an unadorned end curling against the edge of the blank half mask that hid where his eyes would be, the trails of gold from underneath the only hint that they might still be there at all.

The creature's movements were jerky and unnatural, and if Emet were watching for it he might notice the shift of brambles that heralded each movement, tensing and moving against limbs in a way that was almost directing the movement, down to even the tensing of the curl against the side of the Lightwarden's face directing it's unseen gaze even as the blossom eyes turned as well towards the Ascian as if assessing him. Positively glut with aether but... the Darkness was repellant, and they recoiled with a baring of fangs, ears flicking to a wary half-mast as they edged back, gold dripping onto grey stone where the bramble's thorns dug into 'skin' in the Warrior-turned-Lightwarden's movements, a faint wisp of aether curling from the fallen drops, each sprouting into a gold and porcelain flower not unlike the night-blooming sorts that the little Miqo'te had so adored.

They were hungry. Starving in fact, but clearly would find no meal here. No, better to go elsewhere, leaving naught in their wake but the forgotten satchel, and that trail of gold and flowers to mark they'd ever been there.

For a long while he only has eyes for their monstrous form. Funny how there is still somehow beauty in the horror before him. Though he has never really given thought to how any of the First's Lightwardens manifest themselves, he finds his gaze drawn to the former Warrior of Light's figure.

Thorny bramble and golden blooms. He wonders if they mean anything. Though he tenses when they look his way, as he expects, they mark him as an unappetising meal and meander away, leaving behind a trail of gold. If he were a better person, he would feel for the Ondo about to become the creature's next banquet. But the lives of the natives don't matter any longer. The First is now condemned. His work here is finished.

He sighs and slumps, only then realising that their satchel had been left behind. He picks it up, and out of idle curiosity, takes a brief look inside.

Some of the contents were fairly expected in an adventurer's bags. Maps, a few potions, random odds and ends picked up either to make more or to trade for other necessities. A few bits of extra clothing. The little bundles of seeds the Miqo'te had painstakingly collected. The journal wedged in between several jars of pigment and brushes almost fit too, plenty of adventurers used them to keep track of jobs or details, but this one was a bit bigger than anything like that. A bit too well-loved and Emet would likely note the small pile of notes tucked under the closing ties that were those self-same lists and details.

If Emet cared to flip through, it seemed a combination of diary and a botanist's sketchbook. Or at least at the start that's all there was. He could likely tell when Mikka had started adventuring even without reading a word from the way the subject matter of those little sketches and paintings shifted from plants alone to include details of places he'd been, people he'd met. He might be excused for thinking that some of the sketches were from after he'd come to the First- small doodles in margins of patterns and designs not used in mortal aesthetics. Plants sketched that again that while Emet might recognize no one else would.

But a glance at dates noted on those pages belied the assumption by a large margin. If he skimmed any of the writing he'd notice those sketches were often accompanied by mentions of dreams, vague in any detail but compelling to the little Keeper all the same.

The drawings grew more certain as pages went by. Figures gathered in conversation or laughter, in those familiar hoods and masks, but unlike those Emet had populated his memorial with, there were details here. Familiar smiles, some with longer or shorter hair, one smaller than the others but no less exuberant in their smile. Enough details that the Ascian would certainly be able to tell who they all were.

Her room filled near to bursting with plants as it always was, a small table set by an open window with a pair of steaming cups set on it with a view of Amaurot beyond. But unlike the one Emet had shown him, there was no murky water overhead. He might assume that there was artistic license taken in adding a night sky, but the constellations were as they should be. An uncertain note in the entry on the opposite page, that surely this was some effect of the Echo. Except that it felt more like a memory of his own than anything like that...

Emet-Selch would be able to advise him on this surely... but he was so wary of bringing it up to him yet, didn't think he would thank the Warrior for digging into old wounds if it was just the Echo. Maybe then he would ask once the final Lightwarden was slain.

A typical adventurer's satchel, he thought as he glanced through the contents. He had half a mind to hand it back to the Scions as a gesture of good faith so that they had something to mourn. 'Twas not like they could do anything with their friend now that he was a mindless beast.

Out of idle interest, he took out the journal and flipped through its pages. Nothing of much note - although he did pause to admire the detail in the drawings. He spotted a few familiar sketches and thought nothing of it until his eye caught upon a note scrawled in the margins about seeing such things in their dreams. Only then did he pause and flip back, scrutinising everything anew. The dates meant very little to one such as him, but even he could piece together events and see that they occurred far too early to be attributed to their travel to the First. His heart beat a nervous tattoo against his ribs as he came to the later entries, and then fair stopped at the final sketch.

"...Impossible," he muttered, hands trembling. All this would mean... It would imply--

They were right, he wouldn't have thanked them for dragging up old memories. Dreams were dreams after all. It meant nothing. Nothing, except to imply that Azem yet remained somewhere in their subconscious, buried deep. Perhaps with one more shard...

Clenching his jaw, he snapped the journal closed. Looking towards the trail of golden blooms left behind by the Warrior of Light, he felt a sickening sense of uneasiness. Why didn't you bring this up earlier, he wanted to shout. Why leave it until it was too late?

He had never been one to doubt his course once decided, but he found himself doubting it now.

Though he knew the Light must have returned full force to Norvrandt's skies, he took himself away from the Tempest's gloom and left the Warrior's satchel in their room at the Pendants. The journal, though - the journal he kept for himself. And then he hung back and waited, to see how events would unfold.

Word travelled fast.

The fate of the Ondo, the Light-stained sky enough to spur everyone else into action for all there was little to be done. Evacuations organized when the Lightwarden's path was known, utter devastation left in the creature's wake otherwise. Stories flying about who, how, but only those who drew close enough could say for sure the identity of the new doom of the First, and any who got that close didn't tend to survive long enough to tell. Nor to tell about the vague oddities in behavior- the way the porcelain figure would balk on occasion, recoiling before the brambles twining around them would tense, seeming to steer the Lightwarden back on the attack.

The Scions knew. The Exarch knew. Doing their best to keep that knowledge from becoming better known to stave off what despair and panic they could while they tried to find some way, any way to put a stop to the former Warrior's rampage. Killing them was out of the question, would just create a new Lightwarden. The idea raised to trap them somehow, but the problem of the Light would remain. Some arguing on the back of Vauthry's former existence that he could potentially still be in there somewhere. That maybe if they could get through to him somehow it might make coming up with a solution easier.

Y'shtola pointing out grimly though that it was questionable at best. And even if it were possible, with the utter slaughter at his hands, would Mikka be in any state to help? Or would it just be a final cruelty on top of making things worse?

Everything is proceeding as he had hoped...

Such is what Emet-Selch told himself as he lurked behind the scenes, watching the people of the First launch futile resistance against the greatest Lightwarden to ever walk their land. In the end they could do nothing of course. The Warrior had become an inexorable, monstrous force with the power of so much Light.

The Scions' time was coming to an end as well - he could see how they faltered here and there, the way their souls flickered vainly in their temporary shells. Whether they found a way home or not, their time on this shard would soon be done. They had managed to make a mess of his plans on the Source in the little time they had, but without their strongest piece to play, the Eighth Calamity was all but guaranteed.

He ought to be pleased. So why wasn't he?

Again, he found himself paging through the Warrior's journal. This was why. This damned thing. Had he, in fact, been too hasty to dismiss their potential? No. No, they had surely been dying then. So what if they remembered bits and pieces of the past? It wouldn't have saved them.

He took himself to where the Lightwarden had last been sighted. It would be the first time he had tried to approach it since watching its birth. As ever, it was surrounded by a host of lesser sin eaters. He kept his distance in case the beast chose to attack him, calling out to get its attention.

"Hail, sinner," he says sardonically. "I see you've made some new friends."

It was a scenario they'd all hoped never to see come to fruition. All the Scions could do without some plan to stop the new Lightwarden was to help with evacuations. Move people away from the creature's path for all they all knew this was just delaying the inevitable as things stood. Not that they would say as much aloud, but it hung there in the silences. Send word to the Source, warn their comrades of the potential for disaster in the near future should nothing about the situation change. It wasn't like those there could stop this, or lessen it's damage, but perhaps being forewarned would help them to save more, to salvage some semblance of order more quickly should the seemingly sealed fate of the First truly be so.

The Lightwarden had taken to the desert when not actively hunting. The area it had 'claimed' plain enough in the twists and tumbles of gold and white blossoms and vines spreading undoubtedly from places where it's own 'blood' had spilled, creeping across the sands and twisting up stone and along cliff faces. Easy enough to tell where it spent the most time from the sheer density of the plant life, to say nothing of the lesser sin eaters who stayed near.

The call predictably drew it's attention- several of those eye-bearing blooms twisted in their palms towards Emet-Selch, before the creature's head turned as well. Again not looking to attack once it recognized the sort of aether Emet was full of, not nearly as starving or agitated to try such a foolish thing. Brambles shifting around pale limbs, sending drops of gold to splatter into the sand, a shift almost like the Lightwarden was going to retreat deeper into it's territory before the two hands empty of blossoms tightened their grasp on the stone it was perched on as if resisting the movement. Difficult to say why, but the Ascian had it's attention, and for the moment at least it was still.

Why was he bothering to try to talk to them, he wondered? It wasn't like the thing could comprehend complex speech. It seemed to have enough self-consciousness to register that he wanted to speak with it somehow.

He would put aside the matter of 'how' and focus on the fact that it could.

"Quite the territory you've staked for yourself," he begins conversationally. Middle of the desert, plenty of open space for the Light to reach. The sort of place he preferred to avoid as a servant of the Dark. "I don't suppose there's any trace of your host left in there, hmm?"

He expects the answer to be no. Or, rather, he expects the lack of an answer to indicate much the same.

The words weren't registering. Not really, not in the state the Lightwarden was in. But something about Emet was for all neither could really examine why that was. And while the Ascian might be expecting no response, there was one.

Not that the creature spoke- it was likely that it couldn't, not as it was now, but there was a shift in stance, a slight hunker down before it was slowly slinking down from the stone onto the sand. A soft noise slipping from it not entirely unlike the sound made from a bow harshly run over the strings of a violin, something about it sounding distressed under the discordant echo of it.

"Oh...?" He dared not drift closer but he did drift around so that he was more directly in the Lightwarden's line of sight. "Yes, I'm sure it hurts very much. But 'twas inevitable, as you know, and I'm afraid I cannot hurry it up to spare you further suffering. Doing things properly takes time, you see."

Something their sundered members never could quite grasp. He sighed, gazing up at the creature. Seeing them reminded him of Mitron's twisted form, lying somewhere out in the Light-blasted plains beyond the frozen wall.

"...Hero, can you hear me?" he called, hating how hesitant his question sounded. "Azem?"

Fool. As if anything of them remained.

Edited (adds a bit more flavour text after 5.4) 2020-12-10 02:28 (UTC)

It was hard to tell how much of what was said was registered. The Lightwarden hadn't gotten aggressive, none of the sineaters in the area seemed ruffled by Emet's presence so long as that stayed the case. The creature watched him a long moment, though the Ascian might get the sense that it wasn't entirely with the eye-bearing blooms. But soon enough there was movement, the two empty hands held out, cupped around a drop of gold spilled from some point where brambles pierced alabaster.

That it sprouted into a flower was not a new thing- the area around them was thick with blossoms and vines undoubtedly started from such simple beginnings as well. What was different was the type. Vines curling around fingers, and the flower was not gold, instead a pale lavender. Perhaps it was a strange thing for a creature of Light to create a moonflower, but it had been Azem's- Persephone's favorite.

If Emet was watching, he might see the way the creature seemed to wilt slightly when the lavender color bleached almost immediately to that cold white of everything else, a soft, mournful rasp slipping from it in response to the shift.

His breath caught. His heart felt like it might burst from his chest. As he stared at that solitary bloom, bleached of all its lovely colour, he couldn't help but doubt. What if, this one time, he had chosen incorrectly?

On impulse, he lifted a hand and focused, snapping his fingers to produce a larger field of the selfsame flower. These ones would not bleach. They were a Creation not unlike his (their) city. As they materialised all around them, he found himself watching the Lightwarden desperately for further signs of recognition.

Edited 2020-12-13 22:49 (UTC)

As someone so used to masks, the one obscuring part of the Lightwarden's face wouldn't prove too much of a barrier for Emet in seeing those signs. The creature froze utterly for a long moment, before starting to move, ever so slowly and gingerly to trace fingers along the edge of one of the Created blooms, the touch tentative as if afraid to taint them like the one it had made itself.

A shudder running visibly through it as it's unseen gaze turned towards Emet, another of those strange noises made, though from the way it's lips curled to a frustrated sort of frown, fingers touching the corner of it's mouth consideringly, it was clear that wasn't the sound it had wanted to make.

He startled himself by laughing. Not humorous laughter but the mad, helpless laughter of someone so far gone they didn't know how to claw back. What a joke. What a poor, poor joke.

"Why didn't you say something earlier you thrice-damned fool?" he shouted at the Lightwarden. All his pent up frustration, disappointment, anger - he let it spill forth as he continued: "I would have done things differently. We could have changed the world! Yet you remained silent until it was too late and now look at you..."

He gestured up at them in disgust before the arm fell bonelessly back to his side and he slumped.

"You never tell me anything," he muttered resentfully. "Always running off to take care of matters on your own, letting me find out only after the fact. How many times do you think I covered for your antics?"

The sudden noise was startling, the Lightwarden recoiling faintly at the outburst, attention fully on Emet as he all but bled out his anger into the sands as it skittered back ever so slightly, watching him.

Keeping low, as if to ensure he was aware that it wasn't attacking, the creature crept closer again, head tilting as it's mouth twitched, as if uncertain what to say- or in this case how to say anything at all. One empty hand lifted and reaching cautiously, fingers twitching in sudden discomfort as the brambles wound around the arm tensed and tightened, thorns digging in as if in protest of getting any closer to a creature so full of Darkness. But that didn't seem to stop it, fingertips moving to brush ever so gingerly against the back of one of Emet's hands.

Emet-Selch flinched at the touch, taking a sharp step back and cradling his hand like he had been burnt. He hadn't been, but he was acutely aware that he stood in the midst of this creature's domain and that a single thoughtless, careless slip-up could spell his end. It brought little consolation to know that some form of awareness yet remained for him to interact with - after all, it wasn't nearly enough to halt their desire for aether.

He gritted his teeth and clenched his fist. "Look at you... Pathetic. Were you whole, you would never let your soul become corrupted like this. You could have taken the aether and shaped it to your will. In this state you are no better than Mitron..."

He sucked in a deep breath and stared up bitterly. "What was I meant to do?" he whispered. "You kept undoing our work. I had no choice. I...I had no choice..."

It sounded like words he had repeated to himself often in the past. He did have to though, didn't he? To see their people returned. To see their star whole once more. They were a necessary sacrifice. Necessary, like those lives given to bring Zodiark into being so, so long ago.

Stretching out a hand, he tried to reach out to touch the Lightwarden in turn. He was glad there were none to hear how his voice quietly broke when he next spoke.

"Azem, please forgive me..."

Luckily for Emet, it hadn't gotten that far yet. There were still others, still prey not so replete with Darkness for the Lightwarden to prey on. It was, for the moment as sated as it was going to be, and so long as the Ascian wasn't hostile, seemed to regard him curiously rather than as a threat. Even still it started back slightly at the way Emet jerked back, a low uncertain noise rough in it's throat as it watched.

Something about that bitter misery resonated. Something about it made the creature want to edge close, for all the brambles twining around his limbs tensed around them again as if to protest the idea. It was momentarily distracted by trying to swat them back like some manner of disobedient creature before the movement of the hand drew it's attention, that soft break in tone as it tilted it's head towards Emet again. A soft huff of breath before it leaned to press the side of it's face against the man's palm, mouth twisting faintly as if it were seeking something to say. If it even could- the almost guttural noise that it managed seemed to frustrate it more than anything, ears lowering faintly as it tried to focus to try again.

"Hk-" Again not right, but at least there was a recognizable sound in there this time.

I left a rose at the bottom of the big black sea

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god I'm so sorry for delay orz

No worries, it's all good 8)

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I keep forgetting to use past tense oops

XDDD tenses are Hard

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