02-22-2023, 12:03 AM
Now that was done, Philip backed away Mara and the beflowered Nimeda. He recognized the bloom in her hair of course. Fantastical as it was, it quite was beautiful, though he would not linger upon the way her face was all the more flattered for it. He turned away and considered the difference between needing and seeking.
He hated to admit it, but he did anyway. “You are wise, Nimeda. That’s why I am unsuccessful. I don’t need the next key. I want it.”
The Key of Cunning was his to discover. He found it. Recovered it. Coveted it.
At present it was locked in an ornate box in a hotel room in Norway. The same room in which he slept at the moment. There were other keys, but they weren’t his to discover. He wanted them for himself, but it was up to the others to reconnect with the object that was a part of them as surely as Cunning was threaded in himself.
He scratched his chin absently. Here, he never needed a shave. In the waking world, he took great pride in the task. The nicks of bloody razors did not mix well with white, after all. The thoughtfulness settled, and he was left without direction again. Frustrating.
He turned back, considering her open-palmed invitation. Something inside wanted to grasp that connection, but for all the desire to take it, he denied that impulse. “Never mind. It won’t work,” and tucked his hands in his pockets.
His frown settled deep rivers around his mouth. He disliked feeling stuck, so he closed his eyes and drank a deep breath in an attempt to dislodge himself from the quagmire.
Maybe he should just drift. Ponder the meaning of the demon that confronted them and let himself go.
He hated to admit it, but he did anyway. “You are wise, Nimeda. That’s why I am unsuccessful. I don’t need the next key. I want it.”
The Key of Cunning was his to discover. He found it. Recovered it. Coveted it.
At present it was locked in an ornate box in a hotel room in Norway. The same room in which he slept at the moment. There were other keys, but they weren’t his to discover. He wanted them for himself, but it was up to the others to reconnect with the object that was a part of them as surely as Cunning was threaded in himself.
He scratched his chin absently. Here, he never needed a shave. In the waking world, he took great pride in the task. The nicks of bloody razors did not mix well with white, after all. The thoughtfulness settled, and he was left without direction again. Frustrating.
He turned back, considering her open-palmed invitation. Something inside wanted to grasp that connection, but for all the desire to take it, he denied that impulse. “Never mind. It won’t work,” and tucked his hands in his pockets.
His frown settled deep rivers around his mouth. He disliked feeling stuck, so he closed his eyes and drank a deep breath in an attempt to dislodge himself from the quagmire.
Maybe he should just drift. Ponder the meaning of the demon that confronted them and let himself go.
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