Vercingtorix hears the man he stole the Soul of rules this city.
He cannot help but wonder what it must be like, being reigned by a Sovereign missing a fundamental piece of himself. They have done studies, in Oresziah, on the effects of Binding. The way the memory begins to fade; on the island it is slower, a transgression of years. He can imagine, however, without the magic tie to the island that Orestes must already be gone.
Now, he must be a golden shadow of who he had once been. A ghost.
Vercingtorix, surprisingly, does not find much pleasure in the thought. Nor, however, does he find guilt. He, as a foreigner, watches the going-ons of the marketplace and eventually passes through the center of the town into a region beyond. The lot is clearly owned by someone, but they must have enough land this particular parcel is of little concern. There are overgrown gimlet eucalypts and fierce understory of blue bush daisy.
He walks among the blue bush daisy until he finds a well. And once there, he hauls the water to the surface and begins to drink from it. A bead of sweat tracks it way down his neck, and the midday sun glares like a celestial eye.
What it must be like, he wonders, to be in a place so unlike home? Solterra is like nothing he has ever seen before, and, somehow, it speaks to him.
“speech” || @Adonai || setting inspired by this image