You call that a story?Loghain’s voice was gravel and iron, low but biting as he stepped forward again, brushing dust from his cloak where the magic blast had sent him skidding.
He stared at the spot where the creature had been, *Maximus*, if that could be trusted, watching the last motes of its essence fade into the muck. Ash in the wind. Gone. But not forgotten. Not by a long shot.
She made it for you. A living reliquary. And you took its gift like it was nothing more than a hand-me-down cloak.
His tone wasn’t accusation. Not exactly. But there was steel in it, cold and weighing.
And it called you stupid.
He stepped closer to Morrigan, eyes locked on hers.
I’ve heard worse prophecies, and truer insults. I don’t care what it meant. I care what you’re going to do with what it gave you.
He didn’t look away. Not even as a breeze cut through the clearing and the wilds shifted, whispering again like they had secrets they hadn't yet shared.
Because that magic wasn’t meant to be buried. That was a weapon. Or a curse. And Flemeth doesn't leave those lying around unless she *wants* something to bleed.
A pause. Then a nod, curt.
Let’s keep moving. But don't expect me to look the other way if that thing starts waking up *inside* you.
And with that, he turned back toward the darkness, sword still drawn, jaw clenched, and eyes set on the path ahead, wherever it twisted next.
@Morrigan
05-21-2025, 01:55 PM
