They're just trying to rile you up. Just like when they left that calling card. Just like they have been with almost every word they've ever said to you. They play with people. They manipulate people. They must be expecting you to go barging in, blunder through whatever traps and wards they have prepared like some clumsy oaf, but you're better than that. A storm rages in your very bones. You don't need to get close at all.
Baw. No full on dragon moment for you.
It seems you ah, misjudged the speed of your approach. You find yourself kneeling in a crater where some of the paved walkway used to be, the ruin that once was the familiar's paper torso driven so much deeper beneath your claw that you burst a water pipe. It 'dies' without a sound, sagging completely flat beneath you, and when you withdraw your hand it's soaked in inky, waterlogged paper 'guts'. You grimace and shake it clean as you straighten up.
Hey, it could be worse, given our big blue dumbass's luck I wouldn't expected a sewage pipe.
They duck down, and whatever they do next your attention is drawn more to the dog-faced warrior sprinting full-pelt at you. It draws its sword and casts the paper sheath aside, setting upon you with a silent snarl and all the fury you could expect from a real warrior. Its ferocity is matched only by its agility, darting left and right, to and fro, striking a new place every time you move to block a previous blow. For a moment even you are stymied, thoughts whirling in search of any idea how to defeat your clearly skilled opponent, before the simple fact sinks in. Though its impossible paper blade may be sharp as a razor, it would have to be a thousand times sharper than that to have any realistic chance of hurting you. So the next time it falls you just close your hand around it and tear it in two.
The dog-faced swordsman looks down at the ripped stump of its blade almost in offence. You reach out and lift it in the air, one claw grasping it by the haunch and the other by the chest, and simply tear it in two. The spell breaks with a loud rrrrrip and what was once a familiar falls between your talons in so many shredded scraps.
And here we see Eldingar's fighting style in a nutshell: Get absolutely clowned on skillwise, bull through it anyway on the basis of Being A Dragon.
And then you have an idea.
Oh No.
"DO NOT BE AFRAID"
A light as brilliant as the sun bursts to life before you, a wave of heat washing over you. You stagger back as you're forced to squint, throw up your hand to shield your eyes and look away, blinking away stars. Something materialises in the space between you and Takara, and by the time your eyes have adjusted to the light the sight of it takes your breath away anyway.
It's like a construct of awe-inspiring artistry and complexity married to the finest work of a world-renowned sculptor. Some marvel of precursor civilisation that should never have seen the light of day for fear of exposing it to the unworthy. Its shape is that of a man, carved from a single slab of the purest obsidian and sculpted in such reverent celebration of the male form you could teach an anatomy class with it. Every flexing muscle connected by taut golden sinew, every crack or seam in the glossy surface somehow seeming deliberate, as if the sculpture could be accomplished without but a statement had to be made. It hovers just above the ground, taloned toes just a hair's breadth from touching, holding up similarly clawed hands to ward you and Takara away. It hovers on an array of wings, so many you can barely count them, so bright that you can barely stand to look at them straight on. Wings that glitter and shimmer, overlapping and blurring into one another, shedding light as golden as the morning sun. Its face is a blank mask, a gleaming obsidian mirror deeper than the night sky, and the longer you look the more clearly you see the golden lights glimmering within like stars and constellations.
Hey Issachar. Fancy meeting you here, I guess the others wouldn't wait any longer?
Also, props for the traditional angelic greeting.
"We have precious little time and you must listen carefully," it goes on.
"sorry if you're saying something i got nooooo idea" Takara says before it even finishes, drunkenly indicating one still-ringing ear.
This is such a Zerb Moment. Or maybe it's just this quest. The arrival of something grand and glorious, only to be immediately short-circuited by irreverence. It's a recurring element, and it's not getting old.
When you open your eyes Takara has sagged all the way down to the ground again, propped up against the gazebo with their head turned away - no doubt so they don't have to witness a moment more of this disgusting display.
Not gonna lie, I actually feel bad for Takara here. Think about it from their perspective, soaked in self-hatred as it is - Takara just got their keister handed to them, and now instead of killing them, their would-be executioner instead got a cool-down hug from his literal angel of a boyfriend. Given how lonely Takara seems to be... I mean, salt in the wound much?
A god rises from the sparking, crackling aftermath of the strike, drawing itself up to its full height and striding proudly from the crater to meet the upstart interlopers causing so much chaos and destruction. Ljósingar is an avian sort but only just, for the sky is the natural domain of those that fly. They have been called upon to win many wars with their great power and greater wrath, and thus they are a being of war themself; a sleek, sharp thing of steel and silver, their beak a cruel hook, their talons like knives, their very wings like bundles of blades forged together without flaw or seam. Their head is like an iron helm, sleek and smooth but for a backswept crest of bladed feathers, their eyes burning with the inner cerulean light of the storm that sustains them. A light that shines through a few other joints and seams now that you take a closer look, flickering and brightening as the god draws closer and takes in the scene before them.
/me squints
Inhuman, hot, paragraph of description, aesthetically and thematically distinct...
Secret tenth husbando, is that you?
[X] Find Petros' cell and speak with him. You have a second-hand account or two, but this is your first chance to speak face-to-face with what you suspect is another map-boyfriend. He even managed to spend days on end in Takara's company. What was his secret?
Issachar will keep. The cat's out of the bag about his angelic nature, that's enough. Given the way the vote is going we're clearly going to see Takara and it's probably the right thing to do but I can't pass up a chance to go see the Wholesomest Beefcake In The Land the first chance I get. I want to see Eldingar kind of boggle at him.
What's the chance that Takara will rat out Eldingar for that heist we carried out together?
Slim to none, I should think. Apart from anything else, who would
care? We're a long way from Söfnun, and the victims have already been bought out. Is there even a sophisticated enough legal structure to press charges for this kind of financial espionage?