08-06-2016, 05:09 PM
Sören's usually amenable disposition wilted beneath the pain. Declan dawdled, captivated by their discovery, and it irritated him. When the man paused yet again, sketching the outline of a door, wary and slow, Sören was the one to shoulder through. The air tasted recirculated, but not old as one would imagine. Naudhiz quested the ahead, a searching web more complete than his compromised sight.
Globes of light hung above, casting a watery glow across the cavern within as though it hung underwater. Inscription rippled the walls. Art perhaps. A shrine? A burial chamber? There were many objects. The eerie form of sombre statues. Stacked chests, their wooden frames surprisingly in tact considering their age and circumstance. There was a fishing net of no material Sören cared to guess, wound through with bits of beautiful shell. The glitter of more covetous items.
Yet Sören's eye roved quickly, hemmed by purpose. Somewhere a faint hum reacted to the rune threading its progress amongst the detritus. And despite the glint of wealth, that was how he viewed the meaningless accoutrements. Even the historic magnitude of the discovery, the secrets to be unearthed, the supernatural creature slain to gain entry - it all paled when he felt that flicker of recognition. From that moment, his hunger would only be sated by recovering the object that called to him.
He was not overly circumspect; in fact he doubted Declan would be paying much attention beyond the wonders surrounding him. Even if he did happen to notice, there was little the man could do to stop him, and, balanced on the razor's edge of agony, Sören would be ruthless. He strode to the centre, brow lowered into a piercing frown. Something like an altar - empty of crowning glory - thrust from the ground. Stylised waves worshipped its base, tenderly carved sea creatures arching out from the waters. Sören's hand groped the cool marble. Searching. Until the brush of his touch met something that made the rune sing.
He bent and with a wrench he released the shard. Its edges, still sharp, bit a warning into the palm of his flesh; would draw blood with a squeeze. At its base it grew jagged, as though once larger. This first study was rough; brief by necessity. Sören eased it into the confines of his coat with barely a pause, and finally felt his soul eased.
His energy fled, then, enough that he slumped, one hand braced against the pedestal's top. His hand sprung open, fingers aching sharply. The world dimmed considerably. "If you wish to document this, be quick."
Globes of light hung above, casting a watery glow across the cavern within as though it hung underwater. Inscription rippled the walls. Art perhaps. A shrine? A burial chamber? There were many objects. The eerie form of sombre statues. Stacked chests, their wooden frames surprisingly in tact considering their age and circumstance. There was a fishing net of no material Sören cared to guess, wound through with bits of beautiful shell. The glitter of more covetous items.
Yet Sören's eye roved quickly, hemmed by purpose. Somewhere a faint hum reacted to the rune threading its progress amongst the detritus. And despite the glint of wealth, that was how he viewed the meaningless accoutrements. Even the historic magnitude of the discovery, the secrets to be unearthed, the supernatural creature slain to gain entry - it all paled when he felt that flicker of recognition. From that moment, his hunger would only be sated by recovering the object that called to him.
He was not overly circumspect; in fact he doubted Declan would be paying much attention beyond the wonders surrounding him. Even if he did happen to notice, there was little the man could do to stop him, and, balanced on the razor's edge of agony, Sören would be ruthless. He strode to the centre, brow lowered into a piercing frown. Something like an altar - empty of crowning glory - thrust from the ground. Stylised waves worshipped its base, tenderly carved sea creatures arching out from the waters. Sören's hand groped the cool marble. Searching. Until the brush of his touch met something that made the rune sing.
He bent and with a wrench he released the shard. Its edges, still sharp, bit a warning into the palm of his flesh; would draw blood with a squeeze. At its base it grew jagged, as though once larger. This first study was rough; brief by necessity. Sören eased it into the confines of his coat with barely a pause, and finally felt his soul eased.
His energy fled, then, enough that he slumped, one hand braced against the pedestal's top. His hand sprung open, fingers aching sharply. The world dimmed considerably. "If you wish to document this, be quick."
![[Image: odinraven.png]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/08/odinraven.png)