[ He tries for the words Viktor seems to utter as easily as breathing and finds them unable to wrest their way past the cage of his teeth, his tongue uncooperative. A kiss will have to be enough; Viktor is not overtly in danger, here, and if he goes nosing around in places he ought not to he has enough charm to smooth the way. ]
I fear the issue is there will not be a time I do not want for your warmth.
[ To have the sun again, shining its warmth in full force, to have it within his grasp whenever he chooses - that is not a gift he takes lightly this time around. The hand Viktor'd skimmed his fingers against flexes, clenches into a fist like he can hold onto the memory of that warmth and then before he says anything to ruin the moment, he flicks a portal open and strides through with a lazy little wave into the chill.
This time, when he searches, he looks properly. Finds the pastel colors of a half-dozen souls he used to know as good friends and colleagues and one among them stands out above the rest, edges faded with age.
Pashtarot sits in a dingy, miserable stone house near the center of town, among countless other dingy, miserable stone houses. Were he whole, he would likely be able to see Emet-Selch as he prowls through the room silently, but he is not, and so Emet-Selch examines his quarters unaccosted. Countless pieces of history lay strewn about without any of Pashtarot's characteristic militant neatness. Scrounged bits of a history they cannot hope to comprehend or interpret. Bastardizations of what once was.
Emet-Selch plucks up a few of the more dubiously safe relics, books, and the like and sends them directly into storage, gliding from one chilled room to the next until entering what could only be called a classroom. Desks, arranged in precise lines. Parchment and dried ink containers scattered about. This, at least, is passingly familiar.
After a few bells of work - puttering about the home, listening into conversations the imitation of Pashtarot has with the children, because they are all of them children as he'd dreaded, he deems this enough information for now. No need to reveal himself, for the time being. It would take nothing to ease this version of Pashtarot into the aetherial sea once again. A touch, and no one would question the passing of an old man in his sleep, seated by the ash-clogged fireplace.
The last of the youths leave, assigned their glorious mission of rejoining with no real clear direction on how to achieve it, all aimless, religious fervor and certainty of purpose from a man with Pashtarot's soul and none of his sense. Emet-Selch watches him dodder about, allowing him a meal, a drink, and then to settle by the fireplace. It is a kindness, he thinks, not allowing Pashtarot to exist like this, a shattered fragment so unspeakably unaligned from the past. A single finger pressed against Pashtarot's chest prompts a bleary-eyed blink at nothing, a frown of confusion, and then the life slides from him in one, long, smooth breath outward. The fragment of his soul Emet-Selch ushers back into the Source's aetherial sea gently, and then without a second look at the corpse left in its ratty seat, Emet-Selch steps back through a portal into his temporary rooms to shed Solus once again.
A gentle tug against their connection, a tap on the shoulder, a tug at the hem of Viktor's shirt, and then Emet-Selch begins to orchestrate dinner with the servants, to be brought up for them in anticipation of Viktor's return. ]
no subject
I fear the issue is there will not be a time I do not want for your warmth.
[ To have the sun again, shining its warmth in full force, to have it within his grasp whenever he chooses - that is not a gift he takes lightly this time around. The hand Viktor'd skimmed his fingers against flexes, clenches into a fist like he can hold onto the memory of that warmth and then before he says anything to ruin the moment, he flicks a portal open and strides through with a lazy little wave into the chill.
This time, when he searches, he looks properly. Finds the pastel colors of a half-dozen souls he used to know as good friends and colleagues and one among them stands out above the rest, edges faded with age.
Pashtarot sits in a dingy, miserable stone house near the center of town, among countless other dingy, miserable stone houses. Were he whole, he would likely be able to see Emet-Selch as he prowls through the room silently, but he is not, and so Emet-Selch examines his quarters unaccosted. Countless pieces of history lay strewn about without any of Pashtarot's characteristic militant neatness. Scrounged bits of a history they cannot hope to comprehend or interpret. Bastardizations of what once was.
Emet-Selch plucks up a few of the more dubiously safe relics, books, and the like and sends them directly into storage, gliding from one chilled room to the next until entering what could only be called a classroom. Desks, arranged in precise lines. Parchment and dried ink containers scattered about. This, at least, is passingly familiar.
After a few bells of work - puttering about the home, listening into conversations the imitation of Pashtarot has with the children, because they are all of them children as he'd dreaded, he deems this enough information for now. No need to reveal himself, for the time being. It would take nothing to ease this version of Pashtarot into the aetherial sea once again. A touch, and no one would question the passing of an old man in his sleep, seated by the ash-clogged fireplace.
The last of the youths leave, assigned their glorious mission of rejoining with no real clear direction on how to achieve it, all aimless, religious fervor and certainty of purpose from a man with Pashtarot's soul and none of his sense. Emet-Selch watches him dodder about, allowing him a meal, a drink, and then to settle by the fireplace. It is a kindness, he thinks, not allowing Pashtarot to exist like this, a shattered fragment so unspeakably unaligned from the past. A single finger pressed against Pashtarot's chest prompts a bleary-eyed blink at nothing, a frown of confusion, and then the life slides from him in one, long, smooth breath outward. The fragment of his soul Emet-Selch ushers back into the Source's aetherial sea gently, and then without a second look at the corpse left in its ratty seat, Emet-Selch steps back through a portal into his temporary rooms to shed Solus once again.
A gentle tug against their connection, a tap on the shoulder, a tug at the hem of Viktor's shirt, and then Emet-Selch begins to orchestrate dinner with the servants, to be brought up for them in anticipation of Viktor's return. ]