I am the pattern, the plague, and the prison --
She is struck by lightning and barely flinches.
She asks him if he’s the crazy one.
She mocks and laughs and stares at him as though he was talking in tongues.
The conversation in and of itself is perhaps more confusing than the fact that he is here at all, and yet he does not find it in him to walk away just yet. She’s the first soul he has found since he had been spit out in this world, and he can at least understand her language. They can converse and she had answers, although she seems to prefer handing them out in riddles rather than giving them to him straight.
Perhaps she is more like the jesters from him than he had even thought.
He sighs as she strikes the ground, as the mud flies and then lands across his dark face. He sputters slightly, blinking the mud from his eyes, although some remains caked on his eyelashes. “And you ask if I’m crazy,” he finally manages, incredulous. Glancing down, he looks at the way the mud has splashed across his massive chest, at the way it now laces up his legs. He is practically covered in it now.
“You remind me of my sister,” he breathes heavily. If he could pinch his nose, he would. Instead he reminds himself of how he had dealt with Regn in her youth. “Which means that your help is more trouble than anything else.” Then, without further warning, he charges at her, aiming to tackle her to the ground, where the ground has begun to become covered with muddy puddles turning small lakes.
The lightning cracks overhead as the rain begins to come down even heavier—
and there is almost the sound of laughter as he rushes forward.
MORROWIND
