Rikyn

Two very familiar scaled demons play in the sea.

I watch them from a grassy rise, seeking out the monolithic being which accompanies them along the shore. It’s not very hard to find him, what with being a giant, obsidian tank on a pearly beach, and another dark, familiar form accompanies him. Not seeing the foxes, mostly perplexed as to how I know the blood stained man, an ear eases backwards in contemplation.

The Basin? No.

Out here, in the wild? I don’t think so…

Then, suddenly, it strikes me, like a revelation, the irony of having recently encountered Sikeax most coincidental. That had both been there, on the beach, and that man below was none other than Sacre, King of Spies.

I had already deduced in my age and minor wisdom that he was not truly the King of anything, but still, the memory had lingered with me with such strength and poignancy that it might be said he was the root cause of all my disastrously failed attempts at thieving, and the scars which accompanied them. It was not to say, either, that I disliked him for it, or even truly blame; all he had done was implanted an idea, a notion, a fantasy that I had played out secretly in my head, when I thought the Gods who praised warriors and valor above all else weren’t listening.

King of Spies, master of secrets. The idea of such a thing was beguiling, as tempting as the bone laden warlord which also haunted the vast realms of my imagination. It’s such a vibrant memory that, for a while, as I stand there, looking at them, working away on the soiled stretch of beach, I forget that there is a hole in my heart.

It returns, however, that nagging ache, as I return my attention to reality, stepping down towards the shore, having found that work was a suitable distraction from sorrow. Perhaps something hilarious would happen here, as well, and be a further lure from the melancholy that seems to stalk me, waiting for moments of weakness. Glancing at the crackling kitsune with lifeless eyes as I approach, only now noticing her and the other, red fox, I nod to both the men before taking my place at an untended patch of filth and debris.

"Long time no see, King of Spies, Volterra," I say, the slightest twitch of my lips into a smile, a “normal” way to deliver such a line, that I feel disinclined to give any true effort; I otherwise let their conversation fill the quiet, brine laden air, alongside the crackle and snap of lightning and muscle breaking away the built up decay.

[ OOC: Yeah he's super emo. Sorry about that. D: ]