Then, there really is nothing here for you. If you seek the other kingdoms.
Phrased in that way, Zayir feels like retching. If you seek the other kingdoms. He thinks of Terrastella first, then Delumine. Finally, he thinks of the mountains outside of Denocte, where an older Solterra had once waged war. Where he had been a general. A lifetime ago.
“No… not leaving in that sense.”
It seems to be too much, but once he had begun to explain the explanation itself takes on a kind of life, a kind of story. “I simply don’t recognise Solterra anymore. I think I would rather the desert swallow me, or the mountains, or the sea. There is a part of me that is persuaded I belong to a breed of man that has outlived his time—that recognises if things do not adapt, they die.” Zayir’s lips take on a bitter kind of smile. He thinks of how the magic, which once flowed so readily in his blood, is absent now. He thinks of his ultimate failure: not only to Solterra, but to Solis himself.
“Old lions wander off to die, eh?” The statement seems bizarre coming from the lips of someone so young.
As he has been speaking, Zayir has taken note of the other man’s observation—they sit side-by-side, again like comrades, and Zayir begins to wonder if perhaps the catacombs never opened, and his memories of reality have begun to loop into elaborate, realistic fantasies. There’s nothing here to convince him otherwise, save the light.
And even that, when he looks to long, takes on an aura of the celestial. He looks at his companion, etched beside him as if of limestone or granite. He asks, quite boldly, "Do you only hunt slave traders? Or is it whoever is worth a bounty?"
"Speaks" || @Noam
Phrased in that way, Zayir feels like retching. If you seek the other kingdoms. He thinks of Terrastella first, then Delumine. Finally, he thinks of the mountains outside of Denocte, where an older Solterra had once waged war. Where he had been a general. A lifetime ago.
“No… not leaving in that sense.”
It seems to be too much, but once he had begun to explain the explanation itself takes on a kind of life, a kind of story. “I simply don’t recognise Solterra anymore. I think I would rather the desert swallow me, or the mountains, or the sea. There is a part of me that is persuaded I belong to a breed of man that has outlived his time—that recognises if things do not adapt, they die.” Zayir’s lips take on a bitter kind of smile. He thinks of how the magic, which once flowed so readily in his blood, is absent now. He thinks of his ultimate failure: not only to Solterra, but to Solis himself.
“Old lions wander off to die, eh?” The statement seems bizarre coming from the lips of someone so young.
As he has been speaking, Zayir has taken note of the other man’s observation—they sit side-by-side, again like comrades, and Zayir begins to wonder if perhaps the catacombs never opened, and his memories of reality have begun to loop into elaborate, realistic fantasies. There’s nothing here to convince him otherwise, save the light.
And even that, when he looks to long, takes on an aura of the celestial. He looks at his companion, etched beside him as if of limestone or granite. He asks, quite boldly, "Do you only hunt slave traders? Or is it whoever is worth a bounty?"
"Speaks" || @
swift, blazing flag of the regiment
lion with crest of red and gold
