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You watch a figure crest over a hill in the sea–a man riding atop a six-legged horse, wild mane of hair catching the wind, dancing in it. The old man does not resemble a god in the least–hunched back, sloped brow, untamed white hair–..no, he looks more like a naked old man, actually. Your master stiffens up next to you.
“Lady Sigrid, is that really..?” You begin, but your master elbows you in the gut, her subtle signal for you to shut up.
The old man brings his horse to a slow amble, hooves kicking up clods of dirt as he rides up before you. You have to crane your head up to meet the old man’s eyes–standing overhead, he seems to block the sun, casting a long shadow over the pair of you–though you can’t make out much beneath the sag of his brows.
>”Sigrid de Hautdesert. It’s been a while, has it not?” The old man’s voice is.. strange, to say the least. The way it resounds in your head–.. less like he’s speaking to you and more like he’s somehow in your mind.
“It has.” Your lady responds tersely.
>”About 1312 days, by my measure.” He leans in, almost bored. “And who’s this? Achk–.. what was your name again..? Bobbington? Snuff Sigurdsonn..? Bezwzględny Pietraszkiewicz? Something like that. How have you been, my boy? Keeping out of trouble?”
You wait for the usual spiel of responses to pour into your mind in response–.. but nothing does. Your brow furrows–something’s off.. What’s he done?
>”What’s wrong? Waiting for something?” He grins at you. “If you’re going to say something, say it yourself.”
