video; un: deathweaver

[respired]

[ So, that relatively cheerful guy dancing with everybody on the beach--he's gone. He's out of here. Koltira leans forward, his expression pained, jaw clenched. There's a flat piece of wood on the ground beside him with the start of an intricate filigree carved into it, but he's set it aside. He's focused entirely on the jewelry. ]

I feel unwell.

[ His guttural, echoing voice is rougher than usual; he sounds like jagged rocks scraping against each other, and the strange ethereal reverberation does nothing to better the effect.

He's experiencing, for the first time in years, something like fatigue. It's discomfiting, impossible. His kind does not tire. And yet here he is, feeling--not exhausted, but legitimately weary. ]

The ocean is not rife with magic, but it provides some sustenance.

[ He shakes his head, as though trying to clear his vision. Some sustenance. Not enough. ]

If anyone has found other sources, I would know of them.

[ His voice drops to an almost feral growl. ]

Or a solution.

Comments

[respired]

[ Irritation laces his voice. ]

I am in full control of my faculties. Why would I?

[babbylon]

[Unfazed:]

One never knows with you.

[respired]

I am not a mindless beast.

[ Well.

Not all the time. ]

[babbylon]

I worry.

[For whom, it must be asked. Gilgamesh seems rather tight-lipped about it.]

[respired]

[ RUDE AF. THOUGHT WE HAD A MOMENT, BRO. ]

You needn't.

[babbylon]

I would anyway.

[Lightly:]

Come find me when I return from this venture. We will see if we might be of use to each other.

[respired]

[ Stews, stews. What venture? He's too fucking grumpy to even ask. Just bites out a simple: ]

As you like.