@Teyao I demand a bromance-valry between the Regalias of Fire and Water
I have done part 1 and 2 of my post. Hope to have part 3 done tonight, then it should be posted after that most likely.
On a random side note, Teyao, I have never had a good experience that started with the words "Hello Miss" ! I might have had Nia in character get the ick if greeted that way. đ
If that was something down the line if ours ever met, if you wanted to lean into it or avoid.
That would be extremly funny, though it was my intention for the words to be slighly weird, he just thought about creating a mess for no other reason that because it would be glorius conflict and is restraining himself.
He was rewarded with an expression of ecstasy as his sword pierced through his follower's core. The man kept a serene smile as the bell tolled, his face a mask of content bliss, shining rivulets of light sprouting from his eye sockets as liquid streams of crimson flare escaped his wound. The warmth of the blaze spread over his hands, almost searing, and for a fleeting second, it was as if he could feel the man's heartbeat in his grip, pulsing, slowing, then stopping.
Beautiful.
He turned around, smoky, whispered words called to him from somewhere distant and yet so close. They tugged at his senses, pulling him down and down as a hail of death tore through the night. The sound was sharp and vicious, each projectile cutting through the night with a high-pitched whine, furious as their intention to end him was wasted in a barely passable attempt, in response his sword swung in a smooth arc, his will was made manifest, and a barrier of fire was erected. The heat hugged the air, sealing him from the world in a flaming embrace, obscuring his form and fooling each cruel projectile's trajectory to mere fingers away from himself. Then he charged through it.
The flames clung to him, a second skin that felt fitting, flickering, and growing with every step. He moved forward, but the world around him blurred, shapes melting into a colorful mess, the ground beneath his feet dissolving into nothingness as the faceless figures looked at him as mere shadows, hollow eyes pleading, begging to be released from their dark shackles. The whispered words grew louder, but not clearer, twisting through the smoke like tendrils of thought. He couldnât grasp them, but he didnât need to. The fire knew. The fire always knew. It moved through him, and he through it, every breath feeding the flickering mass, every beat of his heart reverberating in the flames around him.
It took an eternity and a second to reach them, his body a remnant of a fragment and his sword a living blaze, he was burning, he was living, he was where he was supposed to be, he would grant them-
[Location] Landow, Estren [Time] Sunday, 04:00 AM [Interactions] @N/A
Consciousness returned slowly, almost painfully so for one accustomed to early mornings like him.
It may have been a mistake to drink so much last(?) night but after he had managed to obtain a pass for a renowned liquor store it would have been such a shame to squander it, what with that friendly fellow with the deep pockets who kept throwing them around. Plus the old man always said that knowing when to rest and relax was another form of discipline.
Stretching he looked at the bench that served as his impromptu bed, from what he could remember from the night before he had been out partying with someone, the same kind patron that sponsored his way to drunkness and recklessness. However, it appeared that at some point he had decided it was a good idea to wander alone through a park before sleep caught up to him. Quietly he checked his belongings. Sword, wallet, and everything valuable was still on his person, besides the bench rested his pack with his extra clothes and necessities. The only thing missing was that alluring and expensive bottle of Spieran Fire Wine he distinctly remembered but maybe that was a good thing.
After making sure everything was where he had left it and he hadn't been mugged in his sleep he decided to head to the ritual proceedings, the Festival of Lights had been the whole reason he came to this little city in the first place. The old man rarely spoke about his past, it had been only once that he had managed to get him drunk enough to recall one of his visits to the Festival and as he was near the area he decided it was a good enough excuse to wander in.
He wondered what destiny would show him here.
[Location] Landow, Estren [Time] Sunday, 06:00 AM [Interactions] @Mirandae
There was a hunger stirring inside of his chest, a roaring beast that became restless at the sight of the two known Regalia, like him they could access powers others dreamed off, like him they had caught the Gaze of something far beyond them, unlike him they had decided to attend the Festival and the following ceremony without hiding their identities.
Laura Genevieve - Regalia of Gaia
Aethalos Vephariel - Regalia of Leviathan
The flame inside his heart was dancing with joy at the prospect of pitting his strength against them, would he win? Would he lose? Would he die? All acceptable outcomes for a clash of such proportions. Briefly, he allowed himself a second of indulgence, the idea of going straight to one of them and asking for a duel. Then he suffocated the flame inside his heart until only embers remained, temperance flashed through his mind, he was not some unruly beast that acted on any desire without considering the consequences. For starters, if he asked for a duel there was no guarantee that it would be granted and even if it were, all he would accomplish would be to shed his anonymity which would put a damper on his pilgrimage.
No.
Maybe one day he would clash against them but only if the opportunity presented itself.
Having reached a satisfying conclusion he let out a sigh, he had known there would be other Regalia here but he had been blind to his own excitement, an oversight to correct next time if nothing more. However his decision left him with a question, should he approach them? Never before had he met a Regalia so for all he knew this could be a lifetime opportunity.
Tentatively he made his way to the shrine of Gaia, no other reason than it being the first in line, then before long he was within distance of the other Regalia.
A pit formed in his stomach as Adam explained in detail his situation.
"Okay, shit, wait let me think, fuck, wait, give me a second"
It was... bad(?), okay it was bad, potentially catastrophic? it was a complicated situation at least. Leaking information during a situation like this was a terrible fucking idea, but maybe the enemy would think it was a deliberate attempt? Not a chance. It was fucking Saladin, there were rumors the guy slept in his closet while a double slept in his bed with an eye open.
This...
If the enemy knew they knew then the timetable was fucking accelerated into the stratosphere. Forget 10 days they could be plotting to attack right now!
There were also other concerns.
How could he protect Adam from possible inside retaliation? Logically he should go with a slap on the wrist, anyone important knew he punched above his weight class and that would be invaluable once the barriers fell but what about the fill and rank? He needed to shift the blame but how? He needed to attack the problem from the beginning, what was the origin of the problem - Adam sent a message, okay that was the origin but not the root of it, the root was - that the Witch Queen was aware of his party messages.
His eyes narrowed.
Was the Witch aware of all messages or just those of his party?
There was an angle there, he casted his attention back to when they opened the message.
Fear was not an emotion Zigmund Mugba-Zarack was familiar with but in HER prescence? He was terrified.
He needed to distract himself, Lucy!, he should- no, he was panicking, acting foolishly, yes this was uncommon but Hacking was a known practice, of course SHE would have access to it and if she had caught on their existence it was rational to guess that she would try to do something about it.
Just in case better keep it under wraps at the moment.
Walking towards Lucy he spoke loudly "Thank you, the message was not what we expected and it raised some questions but is good to at least have a lead" giving her a nod he moved on.
He paled.
Did-did anyone tell her about it? He tried to remember but he drew a blank, she must know about it, she had been in the room with them, just a few steps away, besides! She had seen how shaken they were, surely...
Surely...
Oh no.
The panic from Adam was making his own worse. He needed to calm down, HE NEEDED TO CALM DOWN!
"Okay, okay" He took a deep breath "First off, stop thinking about running to the enemy that is just plain stupid, it's your panic speaking. Second, second" He needed a moment, just a moment "Adam, did we ever tell Lucy that the Witch Queen was interfering with communications?"
He looked at the man in front of him and his heart crumbled at the sight.
P R E S E N C E He may no longer be a follower of Shiva but some habits remain, quietness is to be valued, hospitality is sacred and politeness is as natural as breathing. That said he tends to be overly detached, traveling has made it difficult to form long lasting connections so nowadays he does his business, and leaves as soon as it is done.
That doesn't mean he doesn't care, he wouldn't do half the things he does if that was the case, he just prefers to burn bright and quick then seek the next battlefield.
When he was much younger he used to be rash and abrasive but time and discipline have mellowed him out, nowadays he is able to control his worst impulses and think before acting, even though his internal thoughts have not changed that much. Somewhat stern and uncomplicated, he prefers to tackle problems head-on, believing that letting a problem persist leads to festering and rot.
His relationship with the cult of Iffrit is friendly, with his home it's strained and with his cult it's complicated.
As a wanderer he prefers slower methods of transport, be it carts and trucks driven by farmers, walking if it is an option if he doesn't have to spend more than two weeks in the wilderness. It doesn't originate from a loathing for modern vehicles but rather a wish to take his time and reflect, it may be slow but it is ever forward.
C H R O N I C L E Born in a small rural town in the mountains of northern Spiera, there were a few things that were clear the moment he was born, cold was his people's way of life, a warm house wasn't to be denied to anyone and Lady Shiva was the Dominant they followed.
He never quite fitted.
Active where others were placid, loud instead of quiet, and quicker to resort towards violence -merited or not.
It was perhaps a quirk of fate, an old swordmaster arrived at their village, he was an old follower of Ifrit and this was to be his last pilgrimage. Of all the other children it was he alone who dared to approach the stranger, pestering him with question upon question, despite this the stranger took the time to answer each one with patience, perhaps recognizing something within him that mirrored his own youth. There was a faint sense of disproval from the elders of the village but that only drove him to interact further with the swordmaster until one day he finally decided to pop the question.
'Can you teach me how to use a sword?'
... Admittedly he was never the most eloquent person.
What followed were some of the hardest and most rewarding years of his life.
At first it was grueling work. As a young boy he was filled with impatience, wanting to leap straight into swordplay, to swing and slash as he had seen in stories. But the old master was unyielding, the lessons were about discipline, the control of one's body and mind. Hours were spent holding stances, practicing footwork, and learning to breathe in a way that harmonized the spirit with the movement of the blade. Even though he was quick to anger and frustration, he never quit. Each day, he returned, determined to prove himself worthy of his Master's teachings.
Slowly, the sword began to feel like an extension of his own body. He learned to harness the aggression that had once gotten him into trouble, to channel his fiery nature into something controlled, something dangerous yet disciplined. The more he learned, the more he realized how little he truly understood before. The sword was not just a tool of violence; it was a path to mastery over himself.
He even managed to convince the old Master to teach him how to use a little complementary magic, nothing like a dedicated caster could but mere tricks to serve in conjunction with his sword.
His relation with the rest of the village changed too, although most were put off by his new obsession -with some of the most conservative members even objecting to it- it proved to be an overall boon to his social standing, no longer was he the firecracker that kept causing trouble but instead a polite teenager that had found a sense of purpose.
But nothing lasts forever, sooner than he wished his Master decided it was his time to depart. As a last gesture, he gifted him a blade, a small crystal, and some parting wisdom.
"Fire doesnât seek peace -it seeks to burn, to grow. And you, boy, you are a flame"
If only the both of them knew how true that was.
Life moved on, he kept with his training now all by himself, practicing each day in the quiet solitude of the mountains. Though the village carried on with its usual rhythm, the absence of the swordmaster left a noticeable gap in his life. He tried new things, fishing, woodworking, smithing. Nothing ever clicked the way swordsmanship did.
There was a restlessness inside him growing every day.
It came to a head one fateful winter. News reached the village that a band of raiders, notorious for pillaging small settlements around mining towns, was heading toward their remote mountain home. But these werenât just common thieves, there were rumors that they were followers of Ifritâs darker aspects, flame and destruction without discipline. The villagers, usually peaceful and insular, were unprepared for such a threat. As panic spread through the village, many advocated for fleeing into the deeper mountains or hiding in the caves until the raiders passed. But that wasnât an option for him. This was the first time in his life that the sword he had spent years mastering would be put to real use, his mind burned with purpose, and the flame within him truly roared to life for the first time.
Against the wishes of the elders, he took up his sword and set out alone to face the raiders. He knew the terrain better than anyone and used that to his advantage. Perched on a narrow cliffside path, he watched the raiders approach, waiting until they were close enough. Then, with the discipline and precision his Master had drilled into him, he descended upon them. The fight was brutal. These men were not like the quiet villagers he had grown up around, they were strong, experienced fighters who lived for battle. But he was faster, more agile, and -most importantly- his flame had a purpose. Every swing of his sword was driven by years of pent-up energy and a fierce desire to protect the village he had once thought stifled him.
He cut and was cut away, fire was used as a distraction by both sides, for every enemy he felled another two took its place, a few bullets grazed him and his blood ignited like never before. It wasn't long before he lost himself to the fire of battle
[And you, boy, you are a Flame]
...and found 'SOMETHING' gazing at him.
When lucidity returned to him he stood amidst the aftermath of the battle, wisps of fire licking his wounds, for the first time in his life, the cold failing to affect him in any way. Around him, most of the raiders were either dead or unconscious, with the remaining few watching him with a mix of emotions.
It was... uncomfortable, the way they looked at him, awe, fear, and hunger in each of their gazes.
Vitality was still flowing inside him but he was tired, more tired than ever before, around him 'Flakes' were slowly descending and landing in everything, including the riders. He had some suspicions about what had transpired and the reason for the particles falling around him. With as much strength as he could, he ordered them to leave and never return.
Miraculous enough they complied, their gazes clouded.
His return to the village was met with a mix of emotions. The villagers, who had heard the commotion and seen the distant flickers of fire in the night, initially greeted him with astonishment. Some were relieved, grateful for his bravery and for warding off the raiders, while others watched him with trepidation, unsure of what had truly transpired on that battlefield. The strange sensation of fire coursing through his veins hadnât left him, it pulsed beneath his skin like a second heartbeat. He could feel the eyes of the villagers on him, some filled with admiration, others with uncertainty. His mind flashed back to the raiders' gazes, their fervent obedience when he had ordered them to leave.
Something had changed in him.
In the days that followed, he tried to return to normal life. But nothing felt the same. The villagers treated him differently, even his closest friends seemed distant. There were hushed conversations whenever he passed, glances stolen when they thought he wasnât looking. The fire inside him, once a source of comfort and purpose, now felt like a weight, an uncontrollable force that had burned too brightly for too long.
He couldn't stay, that much was clear, the feelings for his actions were grateful but the knowledge of what they meant was weighing down everyone. So he made his decision. He called a meeting with the elders and announced his leave.
There were attempts to stop him, but he could tell they were halfhearted.
He packed his belongings and took one last look at the village that had been his home. The snow had begun to fall again, covering the ground in a fresh blanket of white. It was beautiful and cold, a stark contrast to the fire that now roared within him. And so, with the blade his master had gifted him, a heart full of resolve, and a spirit aflame with unfulfilled potential, he stepped into the unknown, ready to face whatever challenges awaited him. The journey ahead would be long and uncertain, but he was ready to embrace it with the full force of his flame.
For the last 5 years he has been wandering, imitating his Master pilgrimage, and searching to find himself through the edge of his blade.
After all, fire seeks to grow and he is a Flame.
H O M E The capital of Spiera is a temperate country known for its metal ores, its expensive wines, beautiful ships, and its historic temples. Much has been done to preserve the ancient parts of the city, and as seen from the drones, one is struck by the clear divide of darkness between old and new during the evenings. However, unlike the usual template mainland, the mountains tend to be very cold all year long with heavy winds due to their closeness to the sea.
Mathias's birth home is called Gazet Village, a small rural town in the mountains of northern Spiera.
The main worship is Shiva, but shrines exist to Leviathan and Garuda. The village's closest neighbor is a mining town and one of the biggest concerns for the elders of the village is the new tendency for the youngsters to migrate there in search of a better life.
The town is small, barely reaching above 100 in population it is headed by an elected council of six elders. It is identical to hundreds of small settlements found in the northern regions of Spiera and the surrounding nations.
T R I V I A Likes -Sour candies -Swordsmanship -Cold -Followers of Shiva -His cult
Neutrals -The remnants of that band of Raiders have formed a cult around him, inducting others with similar mentality into their ranks, however, the cult possesses a strange method of worship. They seek to attack him, to enter in battle, and force him to enter his Dominant form. It is only then that the surviving members are 'worthy' of absorbing the residue. -His Master was a relatively high-standing member of the cult of Ifrit, and a well-known Grandmaster swordsman.
S O C I A L Has heard about a few of the most famous ones but has never met anyone(?)
P R E S E N C EHe may no longer be a follower of Shiva but some habits remain, quietness is to be valued, hospitality is sacred and politeness is as natural as breathing. That said he tends to be overly detached, traveling has made it difficult to form long lasting connections so nowadays he does his business, and leaves as soon as it is done.
That doesn't mean he doesn't care, he wouldn't do half the things he does if that was the case, he just prefers to burn bright and quick then seek the next battlefield.
When he was much younger he used to be rash and abrasive but time and discipline have mellowed him out, nowadays he is able to control his worst impulses and think before acting, even though his internal thoughts have not changed that much. Somewhat stern and uncomplicated, he prefers to tackle problems head-on, believing that letting a problem persist leads to festering and rot.
His relationship with the cult of Iffrit is friendly, with his home it's strained and with his cult it's complicated.
As a wanderer he prefers slower methods of transport, be it carts and trucks driven by farmers, walking if it is an option if he doesn't have to spend more than two weeks in the wilderness. It doesn't originate from a loathing for modern vehicles but rather a wish to take his time and reflect, it may be slow but it is ever forward.
C H R O N I C L EBorn in a small rural town in the mountains of northern Spiera, there were a few things that were clear the moment he was born, cold was his people's way of life, a warm house wasn't to be denied to anyone and Lady Shiva was the Dominant they followed.
He never quite fitted.
Active where others were placid, loud instead of quiet, and quicker to resort towards violence -merited or not.
It was perhaps a quirk of fate, an old swordmaster arrived at their village, he was an old follower of Ifrit and this was to be his last pilgrimage. Of all the other children it was he alone who dared to approach the stranger, pestering him with question upon question, despite this the stranger took the time to answer each one with patience, perhaps recognizing something within him that mirrored his own youth. There was a faint sense of disproval from the elders of the village but that only drove him to interact further with the swordmaster until one day he finally decided to pop the question.
'Can you teach me how to use a sword?'
... Admittedly he was never the most eloquent person.
What followed were some of the hardest and most rewarding years of his life.
At first it was grueling work. As a young boy he was filled with impatience, wanting to leap straight into swordplay, to swing and slash as he had seen in stories. But the old master was unyielding, the lessons were about discipline, the control of one's body and mind. Hours were spent holding stances, practicing footwork, and learning to breathe in a way that harmonized the spirit with the movement of the blade. Even though he was quick to anger and frustration, he never quit. Each day, he returned, determined to prove himself worthy of his Master's teachings.
Slowly, the sword began to feel like an extension of his own body. He learned to harness the aggression that had once gotten him into trouble, to channel his fiery nature into something controlled, something dangerous yet disciplined. The more he learned, the more he realized how little he truly understood before. The sword was not just a tool of violence; it was a path to mastery over himself.
He even managed to convince the old Master to teach him how to use a little complementary magic, nothing like a dedicated caster could but mere tricks to serve in conjunction with his sword.
His relation with the rest of the village changed too, although most were put off by his new obsession -with some of the most conservative members even objecting to it- it proved to be an overall boon to his social standing, no longer was he the firecracker that kept causing trouble but instead a polite teenager that had found a sense of purpose.
But nothing lasts forever, sooner than he wished his Master decided it was his time to depart. As a last gesture, he gifted him a blade, a small crystal, and some parting wisdom.
"Fire doesnât seek peace -it seeks to burn, to grow. And you, boy, you are a flame"
If only the both of them knew how true that was.
Life moved on, he kept with his training now all by himself, practicing each day in the quiet solitude of the mountains. Though the village carried on with its usual rhythm, the absence of the swordmaster left a noticeable gap in his life. He tried new things, fishing, woodworking, smithing. Nothing ever clicked the way swordsmanship did.
There was a restlessness inside him growing every day.
It came to a head one fateful winter. News reached the village that a band of raiders, notorious for pillaging small settlements around mining towns, was heading toward their remote mountain home. But these werenât just common thieves, there were rumors that they were followers of Ifritâs darker aspects, flame and destruction without discipline. The villagers, usually peaceful and insular, were unprepared for such a threat. As panic spread through the village, many advocated for fleeing into the deeper mountains or hiding in the caves until the raiders passed. But that wasnât an option for him. This was the first time in his life that the sword he had spent years mastering would be put to real use, his mind burned with purpose, and the flame within him truly roared to life for the first time.
Against the wishes of the elders, he took up his sword and set out alone to face the raiders. He knew the terrain better than anyone and used that to his advantage. Perched on a narrow cliffside path, he watched the raiders approach, waiting until they were close enough. Then, with the discipline and precision his Master had drilled into him, he descended upon them. The fight was brutal. These men were not like the quiet villagers he had grown up around, they were strong, experienced fighters who lived for battle. But he was faster, more agile, and -most importantly- his flame had a purpose. Every swing of his sword was driven by years of pent-up energy and a fierce desire to protect the village he had once thought stifled him.
He cut and was cut away, fire was used as a distraction by both sides, for every enemy he felled another two took its place, a few bullets grazed him and his blood ignited like never before. It wasn't long before he lost himself to the fire of battle
[And you, boy, you are a Flame]
...and found 'SOMETHING' gazing at him.
When lucidity returned to him he stood amidst the aftermath of the battle, wisps of fire licking his wounds, for the first time in his life, the cold failing to affect him in any way. Around him, most of the raiders were either dead or unconscious, with the remaining few watching him with a mix of emotions.
It was... uncomfortable, the way they looked at him, awe, fear, and hunger in each of their gazes.
Vitality was still flowing inside him but he was tired, more tired than ever before, around him 'Flakes' were slowly descending and landing in everything, including the riders. He had some suspicions about what had transpired and the reason for the particles falling around him. With as much strength as he could, he ordered them to leave and never return.
Miraculous enough they complied, their gazes clouded.
His return to the village was met with a mix of emotions. The villagers, who had heard the commotion and seen the distant flickers of fire in the night, initially greeted him with astonishment. Some were relieved, grateful for his bravery and for warding off the raiders, while others watched him with trepidation, unsure of what had truly transpired on that battlefield. The strange sensation of fire coursing through his veins hadnât left him, it pulsed beneath his skin like a second heartbeat. He could feel the eyes of the villagers on him, some filled with admiration, others with uncertainty. His mind flashed back to the raiders' gazes, their fervent obedience when he had ordered them to leave.
Something had changed in him.
In the days that followed, he tried to return to normal life. But nothing felt the same. The villagers treated him differently, even his closest friends seemed distant. There were hushed conversations whenever he passed, glances stolen when they thought he wasnât looking. The fire inside him, once a source of comfort and purpose, now felt like a weight, an uncontrollable force that had burned too brightly for too long.
He couldn't stay, that much was clear, the feelings for his actions were grateful but the knowledge of what they meant was weighing down everyone. So he made his decision. He called a meeting with the elders and announced his leave.
There were attempts to stop him, but he could tell they were halfhearted.
He packed his belongings and took one last look at the village that had been his home. The snow had begun to fall again, covering the ground in a fresh blanket of white. It was beautiful and cold, a stark contrast to the fire that now roared within him. And so, with the blade his master had gifted him, a heart full of resolve, and a spirit aflame with unfulfilled potential, he stepped into the unknown, ready to face whatever challenges awaited him. The journey ahead would be long and uncertain, but he was ready to embrace it with the full force of his flame.
For the last 5 years he has been wandering, imitating his Master pilgrimage, and searching to find himself through the edge of his blade.
After all, fire seeks to grow and he is a Flame.
H O M EThe capital of Spiera is a temperate country known for its metal ores, its expensive wines, beautiful ships, and its historic temples. Much has been done to preserve the ancient parts of the city, and as seen from the drones, one is struck by the clear divide of darkness between old and new during the evenings. However, unlike the usual template mainland, the mountains tend to be very cold all year long with heavy winds due to their closeness to the sea.
Mathias's birth home is called Gazet Village, a small rural town in the mountains of northern Spiera.
The main worship is Shiva, but shrines exist to Leviathan and Garuda. The village's closest neighbor is a mining town and one of the biggest concerns for the elders of the village is the new tendency for the youngsters to migrate there in search of a better life.
The town is small, barely reaching above 100 in population it is headed by an elected council of six elders. It is identical to hundreds of small settlements found in the northern regions of Spiera and the surrounding nations.
T R I V I ALikes -Sour candies -Swordsmanship -Cold -Followers of Shiva -His cult
Neutrals -The remnants of that band of Raiders have formed a cult around him, inducting others with similar mentality into their ranks, however, the cult possesses a strange method of worship. They seek to attack him, to enter in battle, and force him to enter his Dominant form. It is only then that the surviving members are 'worthy' of absorbing the residue. -His Master was a relatively high-standing member of the cult of Ifrit, and a well-known Grandmaster swordsman.
S O C I A LHas heard about a few of the most famous ones but has never met anyone(?)
He was second on the list he decided. First was Mackenzie, she had been bumped to first place after Fenna was demoted to the bottom of the list, only above himself and Zell and that wasn't a good thing! Then there was Adam and following him was Kass.
What was the list?
Least troublesome party members, of course.
After Fenna decided it was a good idea to take a dunk in a wellspring -well okay, he knew she didn't do it on purpose but his near heart attack was still the same, she deserved to be on the bottom three besides him, and Zell, it was a miracle she wasn't immediately reduced to ashes and he hoped, nay, prayed she didn't do something like that ever again.
But back to the point he listened as Adam recounted his last escapades. It was nice hearing one of his friends was having a positive effect on Valheim, regardless of the dreaded cause behind it. It was also good to once more be reminded that his party had one more ace in the hole, he had read about some of the classes during his stay at the institute and from what he had read their Druid was way about weight class for what he should be capable of.
So in conclusion this was a very pleasant time he was spending with one of his friends, just one afternoon talking about their recent endeavors, no heart-to-heart talk about their ambitions, no revelations about one's psyche, and no life-threatening quest emerging.
He really needed this.
â...so after mastering that plant, I went here. Oh, I forgot to mention! My friend, the one I sent the letter to, recommended the book where I learned about it. Glee is great, I'm glad I was able to mail him. I even-â
Suddenly, the look on Adam's face did a 180, turning from a pleasant demeanor to abject horror.
âOh, no.â
Godamit.
He watched in real-time as Adam's face fell into a mix of emotions, none of them positive and a ball formed in his stomach.
Thoughts about relaxation were discarded in favor of concern and wariness. Suddenly his senses sharpened, and vigilance raised his head while keeping Adam in sight, Valhaim was supposed to be safe but if Adam was reacting like this...
"What it is Adam?"
If Adam was reacting like this it meant that shit was bad.
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