08-27-2022, 12:32 AM
Tristan was the wolf in the crystal shop and was just as uncomfortable. His following Thalia was casual, and he was frequently drawn aside by something that caught his eye (or his nose). The whole of the place smelled strange. The nautical aroma persisted, but it was mixed with something like warm plastic – manufactured. Or, as he peered into a jar of murky liquid obscuring whatever floated within, another word came to mind: preserved.
It was age preserved. For a man accustomed to loping among the sinewy pillars of an ancient world, the idea of eternal preservation was a nightmare of entrapment. He shivered despite himself and kept a keen eye for any sight or a tuned nose to smell of life stirring. If anything lingered in this bubble, he would know it.
They entered a room that he likened to a sort of office. There was a desk and books and plenty of tools for serious study. He’d never been a serious student, not even when threatened with any manner of punishment, but while at school, there were plenty of similar rooms in Reykjavik. Though, he supposed, staring at the starry ceiling, there were none quite like this.
He smelled the musk of ash and flame only a moment before the fire burst to life. He jumped, startled as Thalia, golden eyes flared wide to seek an explanation. Every hair on his body was edged to blades, but there no threat revealed itself. He grumbled to himself, “I don’t like this place. I don’t belong here,” he added careful to not include Thalia in the statement. She certainly seemed at home, more so with a blanket settled around her shoulder.
Thalia’s musings was like a ruffling of his hair, shaking the unease enough for him to relax near the fire. Tristan squat near the hearth, soaking up the warmth. Its light danced in the gilded halos of his eyes.
“Don’t worry. We’re not dreaming. If we were…” he stopped himself, clearing his throat with a deep rumble. He wouldn’t turn her away if she offered, but neither was he a hound. He continued, “I would be dryer and my hair would be far cooler,” he grinned, recalling the bad ass furs and war paint and braids that decorated Sun Snatcher.
“You can search your whole life and never understand all the parts of yourself. Best not to waste the time and just accept it,” he shrugged, letting his gaze be pulled toward their strange surroundings. Just as Tristan said, he was accepting of what he saw, but kept the strange things at arms’ length.
“I am a monster as surely as she is,” he said without explaining the identity he spoke. “Troll is in my blood. And so is the wolf, as Sierra has taught me. They fight like mortal enemies, and somewhere amid that conflict is a man. When I dream I sense the trolls who have wakened from the world. They call out to me.” He spoke with all the sincerity of one who also believes in fairy mounds and destiny. “And there are no worse monsters in the world than the trolls,” he said.
It was age preserved. For a man accustomed to loping among the sinewy pillars of an ancient world, the idea of eternal preservation was a nightmare of entrapment. He shivered despite himself and kept a keen eye for any sight or a tuned nose to smell of life stirring. If anything lingered in this bubble, he would know it.
They entered a room that he likened to a sort of office. There was a desk and books and plenty of tools for serious study. He’d never been a serious student, not even when threatened with any manner of punishment, but while at school, there were plenty of similar rooms in Reykjavik. Though, he supposed, staring at the starry ceiling, there were none quite like this.
He smelled the musk of ash and flame only a moment before the fire burst to life. He jumped, startled as Thalia, golden eyes flared wide to seek an explanation. Every hair on his body was edged to blades, but there no threat revealed itself. He grumbled to himself, “I don’t like this place. I don’t belong here,” he added careful to not include Thalia in the statement. She certainly seemed at home, more so with a blanket settled around her shoulder.
Thalia’s musings was like a ruffling of his hair, shaking the unease enough for him to relax near the fire. Tristan squat near the hearth, soaking up the warmth. Its light danced in the gilded halos of his eyes.
“Don’t worry. We’re not dreaming. If we were…” he stopped himself, clearing his throat with a deep rumble. He wouldn’t turn her away if she offered, but neither was he a hound. He continued, “I would be dryer and my hair would be far cooler,” he grinned, recalling the bad ass furs and war paint and braids that decorated Sun Snatcher.
“You can search your whole life and never understand all the parts of yourself. Best not to waste the time and just accept it,” he shrugged, letting his gaze be pulled toward their strange surroundings. Just as Tristan said, he was accepting of what he saw, but kept the strange things at arms’ length.
“I am a monster as surely as she is,” he said without explaining the identity he spoke. “Troll is in my blood. And so is the wolf, as Sierra has taught me. They fight like mortal enemies, and somewhere amid that conflict is a man. When I dream I sense the trolls who have wakened from the world. They call out to me.” He spoke with all the sincerity of one who also believes in fairy mounds and destiny. “And there are no worse monsters in the world than the trolls,” he said.