[It was a strange experience, hearing a story that one was a part of, yet having no recollection of it.
But the details seemed reasonable. The heroic efforts, expected. At the mention of K'rhinn being unable to contain the light, the Ascian nearly sighs, a flicker of disappointment showing. But he has little opportunity to dwell on that feeling (and is likewise distracted from the odd mention of him having taken something) by the rest of the miqo'te's words.
...It all made sense. If K'rhinn had failed, as Emet-Selch anticipated he would (yet hoped he would not), he would've left for the Tempest, where he knew the ruins of the original Amaurot lied. He would have recreated the city, for himself, for nostalgia's sake, to wait out the end of the world. A reminder of home that he couldn't achieve on the Source, not yet.
And he would've invited that failed Warrior of Light to see it, to witness the one place worth saving, that had once been home for the both of them.
His actions made sense, the information was all accurate- and were all things that the Warrior of Light had not known in his time. They could only have come from the future. The Ascian's hands tense at the mention of Amaurot's final days- even now, after so many years, the memory was as clear and blinding as the moment it had occurred. If he'd shown them that, then there was truly no hope.
The conflict was inevitable. But the result--
His attention, already transfixed, drawn in more than he'd expected- snaps upward, every part of him tense to the point that it felt his muscles might very well break under the strain. His breathing stills, and he knows not what to say.
He wants to protest, to claim that K'rihnn was obviously mistaken- how could some failed remnant destroy him, in the full flush of his power? If they had fought, he would not have held back, and how could one kill the very face of death itself?
Emet-Selch's thoughts race in circles, an ouroboros devouring itself until there was nothing left but the truth.
Clinging to- it didn't qualify as hope, he couldn't identify the feeling just yet- he asks one question.]
...What is it then? My name.
[He looks away from K'rihnn as he asks, voice softer than usual. Somehow, this one last detail would clinch things to him- would prove some inescapable validity to K'rhinn's story.]
no subject
But the details seemed reasonable. The heroic efforts, expected. At the mention of K'rhinn being unable to contain the light, the Ascian nearly sighs, a flicker of disappointment showing. But he has little opportunity to dwell on that feeling (and is likewise distracted from the odd mention of him having taken something) by the rest of the miqo'te's words.
...It all made sense. If K'rhinn had failed, as Emet-Selch anticipated he would (yet hoped he would not), he would've left for the Tempest, where he knew the ruins of the original Amaurot lied. He would have recreated the city, for himself, for nostalgia's sake, to wait out the end of the world. A reminder of home that he couldn't achieve on the Source, not yet.
And he would've invited that failed Warrior of Light to see it, to witness the one place worth saving, that had once been home for the both of them.
His actions made sense, the information was all accurate- and were all things that the Warrior of Light had not known in his time. They could only have come from the future. The Ascian's hands tense at the mention of Amaurot's final days- even now, after so many years, the memory was as clear and blinding as the moment it had occurred. If he'd shown them that, then there was truly no hope.
The conflict was inevitable. But the result--
His attention, already transfixed, drawn in more than he'd expected- snaps upward, every part of him tense to the point that it felt his muscles might very well break under the strain. His breathing stills, and he knows not what to say.
He wants to protest, to claim that K'rihnn was obviously mistaken- how could some failed remnant destroy him, in the full flush of his power? If they had fought, he would not have held back, and how could one kill the very face of death itself?
Emet-Selch's thoughts race in circles, an ouroboros devouring itself until there was nothing left but the truth.
Clinging to- it didn't qualify as hope, he couldn't identify the feeling just yet- he asks one question.]
...What is it then? My name.
[He looks away from K'rihnn as he asks, voice softer than usual. Somehow, this one last detail would clinch things to him- would prove some inescapable validity to K'rhinn's story.]