Ever since he left the bustling streets of Luca behind, the hairs on the back of Zveran’s neck had been standing. He reshoulders his pack, adjusting to make it more comfortable, as well giving him the chance to peek behind him.
He couldn’t see anything, but that didn’t mean no one was there, and if he let them get the better of him, if they caught him by surprise, well. The thieves who trained him would be very disappointed.
Masque jerks to their feet, ignores any propriety that might exist and surges through the curtain, knife in hand.
Zevran is slumped over the crystal of the fayth. There is a shadow of a young, beautiful woman hovering over him. She stares at him impassively.
Masque would mutter something sour, but even they have some sense of respect. Instead, they wrap an arm around Zveran's waist, pull one of his arms around their shoulders, and takes them out into the waiting area.
Masque grimaces and sheds their jacket, balling it up to give Zveran a pillow. They want to get him out of here, but they aren't sure they can carry him out.
Zveran’s breath seems a little shallow, but he doesn’t seem to be injured in anyway.
Probably just exhausted then. Masque sighs, and searches through the pack for a rag and a waterskin. They dampen the rag and wipe down Zveran's face, leaving it on his forehead.
"He'll be fine," they say to Aten.
Some time passes, but eventually, Zveran groans.
His conciousness floods back into Aten.
“Uuuugggghhhhhh. I think a shoopuf somehow got it in there and stomped me to death,” he groaned.
He feels Aten’s relief. He looks up to offer him a tired smile. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“I’m afraid it’s a very vague okay,” Zveran says, smiling at the aeon.
He looks over at Masque. “Help me up? I need to see that I actually got the aeon.”
"You sure you're up for that?" Masque asks even as they stand and offer Zveran a hand.
“Almost definitely not,” Zveran laughs. He may hold onto Masque slightly longer than he should, but once he lets go, he takes a deep breath.
He focuses.
And summons.
Shiva bursts forth, twirling with her ice-coloured scarf.
Her face is as impassive as her fayth’s.
-before Zveran yanks her back, falling onto his knees.
“What were you saying? About practice, Masque?”
“Don’t joke about stamina while I wheeze on the floor,” Zveran laughs. Wheezily.
He looks behind him to the little fire ball. “Are you all right, Aten? I felt your fear.”
View Flat HTML
View Metadata
Search Post
