[ There is always a sense of wrongness that permeates the other shards. Too many lifetimes used to the way the Source felt when it was whole means that now, feeling the fractured shards of the Underworld, the itch of something isn't right persists. Worse, when it's an issue he cannot resolve any longer. He must simply accept that this is the way the Underworld exists, now, a discordant little jangle amongst the rest of the music the Underworld provides.
Viktor, he thinks, wouldn't notice. They would only have a few moments of time comparatively to reference against and are otherwise distracted by a dozen, a hundred other sensations and bits of awareness.
There's a hum to the air; if Emet-Selch looked properly he thinks he'd see at least one soul gathered close, with a half-dozen other lingering on the periphery. While Viktor lingers, Emet-Selch slips his hand from the other man's grasp and sets to work creating. The tunnel widens, further lamps sprouting to life with faint green flickers. A pathway down into gray grass opens, spreading that same slick black stone until they have a set path, an area where the marsh-soft grass that feeds into the water won't swallow their boots to their ankles. Above, he shifts the ceiling with a thoughtless little twist of his wrist, raising it and eliminating the dirt above to give the room more breathing space.
Fitting, he supposes, for Her to simply have a tunnel down and then naught but a place for them to stand; She could give Her little marching orders and send them right back up. Irritatingly, he thinks of the main audience chamber in Garlemald, finds them too similar, and decidedly thinks of something else. ]
Of course she does. Bringing you down here - bringing both of us down here is akin to bringing proper torches amongst countless candles. [ In all the ghostly light here, even without looking at Viktor properly, he still shines like a muted sun. It's Viktor's next comment that cows him, slightly. He strains to think of what he'd said that caused it, and ah, he supposes that is a fair enough call to make. His rearranging of the audience chamber does not cease, but he does glance over his shoulder at Viktor.
He wants to protest - they're children. Of course he doesn't respect them in the same way he would their original selves. They're a fraction of a fraction, without even the sense that age can grant, but that is not the answer, neither to give nor to think. Emet-Selch digs a massive chunk from the earthen walls and smooths stone into its place, settling the dirt to the softest places where grass only intermittently the quicksand-like ground. From the corner of his eyes he can see flickers, hints of souls lingering on the periphery, wary, smart enough to stay out of his way while he works. The ground, Emet-Selch thinks, could use the steadying clutch of roots from proper greenery here. The invisibility is no longer needed, and so with a tingling rush he dismisses the charms laid upon them, and turns to look at Viktor properly. ] I shall...endeavor to keep that in mind.
no subject
Viktor, he thinks, wouldn't notice. They would only have a few moments of time comparatively to reference against and are otherwise distracted by a dozen, a hundred other sensations and bits of awareness.
There's a hum to the air; if Emet-Selch looked properly he thinks he'd see at least one soul gathered close, with a half-dozen other lingering on the periphery. While Viktor lingers, Emet-Selch slips his hand from the other man's grasp and sets to work creating. The tunnel widens, further lamps sprouting to life with faint green flickers. A pathway down into gray grass opens, spreading that same slick black stone until they have a set path, an area where the marsh-soft grass that feeds into the water won't swallow their boots to their ankles. Above, he shifts the ceiling with a thoughtless little twist of his wrist, raising it and eliminating the dirt above to give the room more breathing space.
Fitting, he supposes, for Her to simply have a tunnel down and then naught but a place for them to stand; She could give Her little marching orders and send them right back up. Irritatingly, he thinks of the main audience chamber in Garlemald, finds them too similar, and decidedly thinks of something else. ]
Of course she does. Bringing you down here - bringing both of us down here is akin to bringing proper torches amongst countless candles. [ In all the ghostly light here, even without looking at Viktor properly, he still shines like a muted sun. It's Viktor's next comment that cows him, slightly. He strains to think of what he'd said that caused it, and ah, he supposes that is a fair enough call to make. His rearranging of the audience chamber does not cease, but he does glance over his shoulder at Viktor.
He wants to protest - they're children. Of course he doesn't respect them in the same way he would their original selves. They're a fraction of a fraction, without even the sense that age can grant, but that is not the answer, neither to give nor to think. Emet-Selch digs a massive chunk from the earthen walls and smooths stone into its place, settling the dirt to the softest places where grass only intermittently the quicksand-like ground. From the corner of his eyes he can see flickers, hints of souls lingering on the periphery, wary, smart enough to stay out of his way while he works. The ground, Emet-Selch thinks, could use the steadying clutch of roots from proper greenery here. The invisibility is no longer needed, and so with a tingling rush he dismisses the charms laid upon them, and turns to look at Viktor properly. ] I shall...endeavor to keep that in mind.