well any man with a microphone
can tell you what he loves the most
can tell you what he loves the most
It feels strange to wind through the hallways of the Scarab with his sword at his side.
August rarely had cause to use the weapon; it had been a gift from his father, passed down to him by his first mate shortly following his disappearance. The palomino saw it more as a decorative memento than anything, with its finely-curved handle well encrusted with barnacles and coral, its slim blade needle-sharp and gleaming. He cared for it the way he did all his possessions and even himself, keeping it polished and above reproach, but it seldom left its place hung on the wall of his room.
Now, though, he is glad for the slight weight of it as he glides down a corridor, candles casting his flickering shadow behind him. The hallway is still ornate, here, gilded wallpaper patterned in a way reminiscent of leaves - though the forest may be more like the new island’s than any woods he’s seen. But as August follows it back and back, each doorway opens to an area more utilitarian, and less for public eyes.
It has been too long since he’s come to visit Vikander, and he closes his eyes briefly as he inhales the scent of incense and gods-know-what that wafts from beneath the warlock’s door when he reaches it at last. He knows the man has been working with the flowers from the first return of magic; Angahvni had said he was close. August hopes the best for him - he deserves happiness perhaps more than any of them - but something inside him still tightens like a pillbug in the dirt at the thought of raising anything from the dead.
Still. Gods knew they could all use a miracle.
“Vik?” he calls out, soft but sure, and knocks once against the door.
@Vikander
