07-22-2021, 08:48 PM
The timid way she grasped his hand was concerning. Almost as if she feared him to be a figment, a spook in the distance, something not real. Tristan understood those anxieties. The stories of old spoke of not believing if a glimpse on the horizon was real or otherworldly. Such things were dangerous. Even if Tristan was a threat, he posed none at the moment. He allowed the girl time to decide the same for herself.
Proclaimed to be unattacked, the inclusion of purposefully was not comforting. Had someone harmed her. He could only fathom a shadow lurking just out of sight, stalking and waiting for solitude. His jaw flexed at the thought, but he was careful to keep the tension from snaking to his wrist for fear of disturbing the newfound trust built between them.
Her comment struck a surprising truth. Tristan’s brow furrowed. “No, I did not think you were here, but neither did you say you weren’t. You look different too,” he said in return. Sierra would piece together by now how they recognized each other without actually ever having met before.
He carried the book of papers to a chair, laid it open across the knees. His glance at Sierra was an invitation to join.
What struck him first was the urgency in the lines. The drawings were rushed, yet the scenes were full and recognizable. The lake was a sinuous omen. The tentacled-creature like something out of the dark recesses of imagination. If so, it was a shared imagination. But there was more.
The basalt column of his trollish uncle was featured on a hill. The angles and darkness like a cragged tower pulled from the depths of hell. Ever since he plunged his fist into that dark abyss, the troll was silent. But even Tristan wondered if the heart of a troll ever truly died; or if it was simply calcified into stillness.
He carefully laid the pages aside. It was one of him that he paused on the longest. The figure was sketched with shapes across the torso. Black war paint decorated his face. Furs draped his body and eyes glowed like the sun.
He solemnly showed it to Sierra before handing the page back to its owner. Quietly, and without explanation, he tugged the clothes from his shoulders. The shapes that appeared in the dream were not distinct, merely echoes of what he remembered. They were angular and harsh, almost like the stroke of a rune, but nothing was clearly demarcated as such. At their center was positioned a black ribbon, almost delicate compared to the jagged edges of the rune-like shapes. It was a sort of upside-down u-shape that curled at the ends. Not the Trollkors, but close.
“Before coming to this place,” he began, rumbling accent heavy and deep, “these appeared.”
“A monster lives in the waters where we found you. We are here to help it. We are all monsters here, yes?”
Proclaimed to be unattacked, the inclusion of purposefully was not comforting. Had someone harmed her. He could only fathom a shadow lurking just out of sight, stalking and waiting for solitude. His jaw flexed at the thought, but he was careful to keep the tension from snaking to his wrist for fear of disturbing the newfound trust built between them.
Her comment struck a surprising truth. Tristan’s brow furrowed. “No, I did not think you were here, but neither did you say you weren’t. You look different too,” he said in return. Sierra would piece together by now how they recognized each other without actually ever having met before.
He carried the book of papers to a chair, laid it open across the knees. His glance at Sierra was an invitation to join.
What struck him first was the urgency in the lines. The drawings were rushed, yet the scenes were full and recognizable. The lake was a sinuous omen. The tentacled-creature like something out of the dark recesses of imagination. If so, it was a shared imagination. But there was more.
The basalt column of his trollish uncle was featured on a hill. The angles and darkness like a cragged tower pulled from the depths of hell. Ever since he plunged his fist into that dark abyss, the troll was silent. But even Tristan wondered if the heart of a troll ever truly died; or if it was simply calcified into stillness.
He carefully laid the pages aside. It was one of him that he paused on the longest. The figure was sketched with shapes across the torso. Black war paint decorated his face. Furs draped his body and eyes glowed like the sun.
He solemnly showed it to Sierra before handing the page back to its owner. Quietly, and without explanation, he tugged the clothes from his shoulders. The shapes that appeared in the dream were not distinct, merely echoes of what he remembered. They were angular and harsh, almost like the stroke of a rune, but nothing was clearly demarcated as such. At their center was positioned a black ribbon, almost delicate compared to the jagged edges of the rune-like shapes. It was a sort of upside-down u-shape that curled at the ends. Not the Trollkors, but close.
“Before coming to this place,” he began, rumbling accent heavy and deep, “these appeared.”
“A monster lives in the waters where we found you. We are here to help it. We are all monsters here, yes?”