[Bruised, bloodied, and with a heavy sense of tiredness in the body and mind, the Forgemaster had made an uneventful return from the draft to find another loss awaiting him at home. There was no savaged corpse, like Zevran had left, and yet, what little remained for him was somehow worse in that there was no immediate, cold, undeniable sense of finality to Hector’s disappearance. Isaac had smoothed his fingers over Hector’s shirt and breastplate in an absent, meaningful way, memorizing every fold and contour and mark engraved. And even after skimming the contact list for the name of his erstwhile companion twice over, he had stepped outside and reached far for him, palpating the air for the faintest trace of his aura until he allowed the reality of the situation to penetrate.
Hector had vanished yet again from his life, without warning. While turning the fact over and over in his mind, the sense of heat and pressure building in Isaac’s chest had given in a sudden, wildly irrepressible fit of laughter. On and on he had laughed until he collapsed into bed, spent and heaving for breath. Yes, of course. As expected of him. As expected of the Malnosso with their clever sense of humour.
The lone Forgemaster then did as he was wont to do, and pursued his interests with a fiery intensity, busying himself with hunting and sorcery. The days are growing warmer and he’s grateful for it, spending longer hours outdoors. He happens to be out at this hour, sitting atop a boulder with his attentions on a crow perched on his raised gauntlet. It decides after some shifting about and ruffling of feathers that it prefers to rest upon his shoulder and preen itself. They are beautiful, verbose animals and made for affectionate company, he muses; nonjudgmental company, moreover, something that had meant that much more to him as a lonely child. It's hard not to like it; he tends to feel a sense of kinship among creatures believed to be of ill-omen.]
Did I say you could stand there, you miserable sack of feathers? [The crow blinks its wise, beady eyes, carefully considering this before cawing by his ear.]
action
Hector had vanished yet again from his life, without warning. While turning the fact over and over in his mind, the sense of heat and pressure building in Isaac’s chest had given in a sudden, wildly irrepressible fit of laughter. On and on he had laughed until he collapsed into bed, spent and heaving for breath. Yes, of course. As expected of him. As expected of the Malnosso with their clever sense of humour.
The lone Forgemaster then did as he was wont to do, and pursued his interests with a fiery intensity, busying himself with hunting and sorcery. The days are growing warmer and he’s grateful for it, spending longer hours outdoors. He happens to be out at this hour, sitting atop a boulder with his attentions on a crow perched on his raised gauntlet. It decides after some shifting about and ruffling of feathers that it prefers to rest upon his shoulder and preen itself. They are beautiful, verbose animals and made for affectionate company, he muses; nonjudgmental company, moreover, something that had meant that much more to him as a lonely child. It's hard not to like it; he tends to feel a sense of kinship among creatures believed to be of ill-omen.]
Did I say you could stand there, you miserable sack of feathers? [The crow blinks its wise, beady eyes, carefully considering this before cawing by his ear.]