It had been a long, long time since Acton had climbed the winding path up to the gods’ peak.
In a way, his reason now was slightly more devout – where last time he had come to meet with the Ghost, to discuss secrets and stirrings, this time he was meeting nobody, intending only to commune with the gods.
The buckskin had never taken to the gods of Novus. They did not seem altogether different from those of his birth country; just as invisible, just as ineffective. Whether it was indifference on their part or the fact that they didn’t exist at all (he knew which he leaned to), he had never seen a reason to involve them in his life.
But now, after all that had happened, he wanted to give them a piece of his mind. He figured they were the only ones who must listen without interrupting, and he had plenty to say.
He was just about to begin the ascent when the ground started to tremble. At first Acton only thought of being back in the arena with Rostislav; it was the only time he’d encountered anything similar, and he braced himself now. There was nothing but the groaning of the earth beneath his feet, a shake that set the trees to sighing and all the birds to chattering flight. To his right there was a low, loud, rumbling sound, like a world coming apart.
Well. That was interesting.
Once the ground stilled and the grasses stopped their swaying, the buckskin began to make his cautious way toward the source of the noise. This wasn’t wise, likely, but his curiosity had been whetted, and life in Delumine was dull, and Acton had not felt the thrill of adrenaline that licked through his veins now in oh, too long.
He only paused once more during his approach, and that was when he heard an incoherent scream. One that sounded…familiar. The buckskin’s head cocked, dog-like, and then once more he started forward, this time at a lope.
He wanted to laugh at what he found, but the scene was too strange.
There was Raglan (how long had it been since he had seen him? The last thing he remembered was the Silvertongue tumbling onto the castle parapet, riding the winds of a storm), earnestly addressing a stand of trees. The trees themselves (and what they were guarding) were the least of Acton’s thoughts; he didn’t frequent this part of Novus often, though he should have taken note of the sharp smell of ozone, of new earth, of magic.
“Rags?” he said, slowing his approach, and licked his teeth at the distasteful sound of caution in his voice. “What’s going on, buddy?”
There was this, at least: whatever madness was afoot, it was better than discussing the shambles the Crows had become.
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whatever you feed me I'll feed you right back
