ERD
Hoods up, cowls on, Erd guided his brother through the downpour. They, like so many others of Terrastella and the outreaching provinces, were hoping to find someplace dry to wait out the worst of the storm. It showed no signs of relenting, however, the skies dark and gloomy. Oppressive, almost. Otherworldly.
Erd was attuned enough with nature, with the elements themselves, to know that this storm was not normal. Something had caused it. Something was causing it. Did it have any relations to the strange tremors that had been felt throughout Terrastella? Or the goose that had visited, only to disappear shortly after arrival? Whatever it was, he didn’t know, but all they could really do was stay above the worst of the flooding and not be caught out among the buffeting winds.
Encountering Marisol was not part of their plan. Drawing up short with Ard behind him, he was aware of the bump of his twin almost slipping right into him. He cast his brother an apologetic look, his expression mostly covered by the hood and the cowl, before directing his gaze once more to Marisol.
’Hail Vespera.’ The same greeting. Erd recalled her saying the same thing when they had first met, just after literally falling into Novus. He nodded in reply, not yet feeling comfortable, or familiar enough, to reiterate that very greeting back at her.
The Halcyon Commander looked… Off. She looked tired, as though she had been working tirelessly for days. When was the last time she had taken a rest? Ard’s voice, a quiet rasp of, ’Commander?’ reached Erd’s ears and the elder warlock simply frowned. Using his limited telekinesis, he pulled the hood from over his head and removed the cowl, letting them both fall heavily about his neck and shoulders. Ard’s remained on.
“Are you alright, Commander? You look…” Tired. Exhausted. Sorrowful. Erd wasn’t a learned fellow, uneducated at the best of times and he found himself worried that he may say the wrong thing. Yet, he couldn’t lie. Not to Marisol, the one who had found them and brought them to the Dusk Court proper. “Unwell.” Another pause. The flick of a pierced, silver ear. ”Should we find somewhere dry for you?”
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