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Oct. 26th, 2016 10:46 pmIt was not unusual to not hear from Balthier for a few days at a time. Krem had gotten used to their comings and goings being sparse, sporadic, the chance of a breeze. Krem had found he rather liked that. It left everything open to chance, and chance open to their whims. It had made him easier about admitting that he could love someone and not be beholden to them. Balthier had been good for that. So he didn't hear from him for a few days. And then, when that began to seem suspiciously long, he went looking for him. All the haunts he knew that Balthier favored, coming up empty, until finally, he went to the beach.
The Strahl was gone. It was not just that the cloaking on it was more impeccable than ever. Krem rolled up his pants and stepped out into the frigid water and it was gone. Krem stood there, the surf crashing around his calves, soaking up into his jeans, and let a quiet, creeping dread crawl through him like ivy, like poison.
An hour later, he stood in front of the Iron Bull's door, holding a bottle of high proof vodka. He hated the stuff. It tasted like rubbing alcohol and made his head hurt. But he wanted to forget the terror of finding all evidence of Balthier rid from this place. He wanted to not be scared of losing all of them, one by one, brick by brick, until the illusion of this place left him with one singular realty: death was the only permanent thing.
He wasn't sure why he chose Bull. He could have gone to Gannicus or Hild, Thomas, Poison, even Adaline. But he stood in front of Bull's door, and rather hoped that he was not otherwise occupied at the moment. He wanted to remember that losing wasn't always forever. After all, he had lost--and now, here Bull was.
He knocked and waited, breathing raggedly, trying to pull together the winding threads of his thoughts.
The Strahl was gone. It was not just that the cloaking on it was more impeccable than ever. Krem rolled up his pants and stepped out into the frigid water and it was gone. Krem stood there, the surf crashing around his calves, soaking up into his jeans, and let a quiet, creeping dread crawl through him like ivy, like poison.
An hour later, he stood in front of the Iron Bull's door, holding a bottle of high proof vodka. He hated the stuff. It tasted like rubbing alcohol and made his head hurt. But he wanted to forget the terror of finding all evidence of Balthier rid from this place. He wanted to not be scared of losing all of them, one by one, brick by brick, until the illusion of this place left him with one singular realty: death was the only permanent thing.
He wasn't sure why he chose Bull. He could have gone to Gannicus or Hild, Thomas, Poison, even Adaline. But he stood in front of Bull's door, and rather hoped that he was not otherwise occupied at the moment. He wanted to remember that losing wasn't always forever. After all, he had lost--and now, here Bull was.
He knocked and waited, breathing raggedly, trying to pull together the winding threads of his thoughts.
