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sapholi_rasasiriLike hell he was going any further into this hell hole without any recon. Sapho had seen the Palace of the Dead and Heaven on High-- this place seemed to be determined to try to put it to shame. His better judgement kept him pacing in the lobby, addled by the sweet smell in the air but able to distract himself with the generous spread of food in the dining hall.
The carpet was plush, many of the trappings vaguely familiar but foreign in a way he couldn't parse out. This was not his world, that was sure-- but it wasn't the first time that had happened. If anything, the place reminded him of Amurot if it were scaled to be closer to his own size, and he wasn't sure how that made him feel either. Surely someone would be along soon to explain, or to beg him for his help. That was just how things went. He never went anywhere of his own free will at least not anymore.
Sapho worried about his friends, as he often did. About the Source. About the daily comings and goings that had become his desperately needed structure. They would be fine, and he would find his way back-- just as he always did, wouldn't he? Though he sat confidently in an easy chair, his feet up on an old coffee table while he ate a pastry, his heart was in turmoil that wouldn't show on his dark features. He hated being alone. He had not known terror such as this since the wake of the Calamity. Despite his antisocial nature, he found himself hailing the first person that passed through, eager and as pleasant as he could manage.
"Oy you there-- What is the nature of this place? And this tomestone--" At this he produced the cellphone that he'd found on his person upon waking. "What am I meant to do with such a thing?" And what, pray tell was a "wi-fi" and why was it "Sketch?"
The carpet was plush, many of the trappings vaguely familiar but foreign in a way he couldn't parse out. This was not his world, that was sure-- but it wasn't the first time that had happened. If anything, the place reminded him of Amurot if it were scaled to be closer to his own size, and he wasn't sure how that made him feel either. Surely someone would be along soon to explain, or to beg him for his help. That was just how things went. He never went anywhere of his own free will at least not anymore.
Sapho worried about his friends, as he often did. About the Source. About the daily comings and goings that had become his desperately needed structure. They would be fine, and he would find his way back-- just as he always did, wouldn't he? Though he sat confidently in an easy chair, his feet up on an old coffee table while he ate a pastry, his heart was in turmoil that wouldn't show on his dark features. He hated being alone. He had not known terror such as this since the wake of the Calamity. Despite his antisocial nature, he found himself hailing the first person that passed through, eager and as pleasant as he could manage.
"Oy you there-- What is the nature of this place? And this tomestone--" At this he produced the cellphone that he'd found on his person upon waking. "What am I meant to do with such a thing?" And what, pray tell was a "wi-fi" and why was it "Sketch?"
crystal_exarchHe rubbed at his aching wrists, a nervous habit he wasn't aware he'd developed over the past century. Something was... well. Wrong. This wasn't where he'd been somewhere in some dark void that cut him off from the Tower's power.
Had he failed? Had he somehow whisked himself away to some other world without truly meaning to? He hadn't absorbed the Warrior of Light's light-soaked Aether like he'd planned, or even he would have likely become a Lightwarden by now. Everything had come tumbling down so quickly-- and he knew how to manipulate history. He'd done it before. He'd do it again. This had to end differently, had to end... Crimson eyes shot open wide, ears flattened against his head as a spike of recent memory pierced through his fog of confusion.
A gunshot. That he remembered. The Exarch instinctively pressed his palm to his stomach, seeking the wound he wasn't even sure was there. As he tried to swallow his rising panic, he heard something-- or someone-- move nearby. After quickly and haphazardly yanking his hood back into place, he tried to even out the wavering of his voice.
"H-Hello?" Worse still, he could sense nothing. His magic felt far away, dampened by his confusion and terror.
Had he failed? Had he somehow whisked himself away to some other world without truly meaning to? He hadn't absorbed the Warrior of Light's light-soaked Aether like he'd planned, or even he would have likely become a Lightwarden by now. Everything had come tumbling down so quickly-- and he knew how to manipulate history. He'd done it before. He'd do it again. This had to end differently, had to end... Crimson eyes shot open wide, ears flattened against his head as a spike of recent memory pierced through his fog of confusion.
A gunshot. That he remembered. The Exarch instinctively pressed his palm to his stomach, seeking the wound he wasn't even sure was there. As he tried to swallow his rising panic, he heard something-- or someone-- move nearby. After quickly and haphazardly yanking his hood back into place, he tried to even out the wavering of his voice.
"H-Hello?" Worse still, he could sense nothing. His magic felt far away, dampened by his confusion and terror.
