The Herald of Telluric Springs hears the summons from an old friend, the ruby-scaled dragon that calls herself 'Theritas' — but he remembers her as Clarisse. She wants to talk, and the Herald sees no reason to find the ask suspicious.
They meet a little way out from the shoreline near the northern tip of the Godlands looking out towards the Isle of the Lost, now shrouded in a blanket of cloud cover and the approaching sunset. It's quiet here and their proximity to the holy place might strike him as slightly strange, certainly outside of their usual routine, but it occurs to him that in eight hundred years they never really had much of a routine anyway.
Much of their history has been smudged away by the centuries: how they met, how they'd become friends, how and why they managed to maintain a friendship over eight hundred years. All that really matters is that they did.
In the earlier years, Clarisse had been witness to the birth of his children, watching them grow and eventually die. She had seen the rise in his power, and he in hers, and they'd fought alongside each other to keep their spawn at bay over the centuries, to avoid a few too many escaping the Witchwood and into the rest of the country. They laughed, they drank, they showed off their temples, and recited their recent feats.
And so, the Herald has no reason to expect anything other than a catch-up. ]
You wanted to talk.
[ His great, eldritch god-form diminishes in favour of a friendlier, more familiar face — that of a young man with striking sea-green eyes. With centuries of life behind him and no end to the years in sight, there's an unspeakable depth in his gaze when he offers Clarisse a smile. ]
awakening — clarisse ;
The Herald of Telluric Springs hears the summons from an old friend, the ruby-scaled dragon that calls herself 'Theritas' — but he remembers her as Clarisse. She wants to talk, and the Herald sees no reason to find the ask suspicious.
They meet a little way out from the shoreline near the northern tip of the Godlands looking out towards the Isle of the Lost, now shrouded in a blanket of cloud cover and the approaching sunset. It's quiet here and their proximity to the holy place might strike him as slightly strange, certainly outside of their usual routine, but it occurs to him that in eight hundred years they never really had much of a routine anyway.
Much of their history has been smudged away by the centuries: how they met, how they'd become friends, how and why they managed to maintain a friendship over eight hundred years. All that really matters is that they did.
In the earlier years, Clarisse had been witness to the birth of his children, watching them grow and eventually die. She had seen the rise in his power, and he in hers, and they'd fought alongside each other to keep their spawn at bay over the centuries, to avoid a few too many escaping the Witchwood and into the rest of the country. They laughed, they drank, they showed off their temples, and recited their recent feats.
And so, the Herald has no reason to expect anything other than a catch-up. ]
You wanted to talk.
[ His great, eldritch god-form diminishes in favour of a friendlier, more familiar face — that of a young man with striking sea-green eyes. With centuries of life behind him and no end to the years in sight, there's an unspeakable depth in his gaze when he offers Clarisse a smile. ]