[ He said, sharply. Silco was, as ever, close-lipped about a great many things. He would not share what it was that this tree owed him, because nobody else knew. There was a shard, precious and perfect and incomplete in his carefully alarmed quarters now, nestled with metal and with paint splashed everywhere all over every surface. Silco wished, so desperately, that it would vanish, but it did not, and there were new people, and not one of them was worthwhile of his time.
He watched the other man take the jacket off his back, and give it to the other, and he blinked a single eye. He noticed the gas, of course, but how vile was it, compared to the poison he'd spent his entire life breathing? The fissures were unkind, smoggy, and he'd spent his childhood mining in the foul air, before they had been given air scrubbers and clean air. He was harder, resolute, and mean than any weak topsider could have been, and so he stood here, hands clasped behind his back, and he breathed normally.
Almost pointedly, as if to point out to them, that he was old hat at this. He did not fear this atmosphere. It did not smell like the toxins and pollution, like the lack of air, so stifling and worrying in how it felt. He knew what that smelled like, what it felt like. Instead, he smiled. ]
I was a part of one of those groups, you know. [ He said, flatly. ] We wrecked the inside of the tree, slaughtered the dryad, and I let a demon consume its soul, for the crime it committed. It was petulant and cruel, that we deigned to punish it.
[ It had tried to play with them. He remembered. ]
This tree should die, and if it's meant to carry on, it will do so in another form. Let it suffer.
no subject
[ He said, sharply. Silco was, as ever, close-lipped about a great many things. He would not share what it was that this tree owed him, because nobody else knew. There was a shard, precious and perfect and incomplete in his carefully alarmed quarters now, nestled with metal and with paint splashed everywhere all over every surface. Silco wished, so desperately, that it would vanish, but it did not, and there were new people, and not one of them was worthwhile of his time.
He watched the other man take the jacket off his back, and give it to the other, and he blinked a single eye. He noticed the gas, of course, but how vile was it, compared to the poison he'd spent his entire life breathing? The fissures were unkind, smoggy, and he'd spent his childhood mining in the foul air, before they had been given air scrubbers and clean air. He was harder, resolute, and mean than any weak topsider could have been, and so he stood here, hands clasped behind his back, and he breathed normally.
Almost pointedly, as if to point out to them, that he was old hat at this. He did not fear this atmosphere. It did not smell like the toxins and pollution, like the lack of air, so stifling and worrying in how it felt. He knew what that smelled like, what it felt like. Instead, he smiled. ]
I was a part of one of those groups, you know. [ He said, flatly. ] We wrecked the inside of the tree, slaughtered the dryad, and I let a demon consume its soul, for the crime it committed. It was petulant and cruel, that we deigned to punish it.
[ It had tried to play with them. He remembered. ]
This tree should die, and if it's meant to carry on, it will do so in another form. Let it suffer.