Erskine was numbly aware that he should probably be a little more thrown by the revelation. Or at least reeling. Or at least somewhat stunned, even if it was only for a moment.
It was hard to, though. Like trudging through sewer water. Everything Erskine had been forced to accept over the last week, on the fly and with barely an explanation, was slowing down what his reactions would normally do. Sure, he joked about it, but only because Erskine rather suspected he'd fall into a pit if he didn't. At some point, he was going to have to sit down and properly process all of this.
But he hadn't had the chance yet, and so Erskine didn't particularly feel anything when he found out what the Cleavers were. Compared to the last few days, their being reflections felt almost mundane.
He remembered the day Corrival was talking about, too. The day he first saw the Cleavers; hundreds of them, a synchronised and perfect army, but creepy in a very fundamental way, too - creepy just like Bliss, Erskine now realised. No wonder Cleavers never took off their helmets. No wonder they didn't have magic. A trick like that could never be copied successfully by anyone else, either, but it wouldn't stop sorcerers from trying. Particularly the international Sanctuaries, desperate for a cheap and easy way to strengthen their numbers. No wonder Meritorious kept their origin a secret.
But those Cleavers helped win the war. And Erskine knew, from far too much experience, not to question Corrival when the man said not to ask about something. So he didn't. Winning the war was worth it.
Metaphysical voids... Erskine shuddered. He was never going to be able to pass one in peace again, and he didn't even have any idea what Wreath meant. He couldn't begin to imagine what passing them was like for Wreath.
That last comment managed to burst something free from the sewer water, though, which was both a blessing and a curse. Bliss was a man Erskine respected. Even liked, somewhat, in as much as you could like someone who was scarily powerful and rarely smiled. News of the man's death had come as a complete and genuine shock, because no one ever imagined anyone being able to kill a man like Bliss. Of course, the Faceless Ones weren't human.
He wanted to ask if there actually was a heaven and hell, but it wasn't relevant right now. "And you're headed, where, exactly? To save him? Can you do that?" Can we help?
no subject
It was hard to, though. Like trudging through sewer water. Everything Erskine had been forced to accept over the last week, on the fly and with barely an explanation, was slowing down what his reactions would normally do. Sure, he joked about it, but only because Erskine rather suspected he'd fall into a pit if he didn't. At some point, he was going to have to sit down and properly process all of this.
But he hadn't had the chance yet, and so Erskine didn't particularly feel anything when he found out what the Cleavers were. Compared to the last few days, their being reflections felt almost mundane.
He remembered the day Corrival was talking about, too. The day he first saw the Cleavers; hundreds of them, a synchronised and perfect army, but creepy in a very fundamental way, too - creepy just like Bliss, Erskine now realised. No wonder Cleavers never took off their helmets. No wonder they didn't have magic. A trick like that could never be copied successfully by anyone else, either, but it wouldn't stop sorcerers from trying. Particularly the international Sanctuaries, desperate for a cheap and easy way to strengthen their numbers. No wonder Meritorious kept their origin a secret.
But those Cleavers helped win the war. And Erskine knew, from far too much experience, not to question Corrival when the man said not to ask about something. So he didn't. Winning the war was worth it.
Metaphysical voids... Erskine shuddered. He was never going to be able to pass one in peace again, and he didn't even have any idea what Wreath meant. He couldn't begin to imagine what passing them was like for Wreath.
That last comment managed to burst something free from the sewer water, though, which was both a blessing and a curse. Bliss was a man Erskine respected. Even liked, somewhat, in as much as you could like someone who was scarily powerful and rarely smiled. News of the man's death had come as a complete and genuine shock, because no one ever imagined anyone being able to kill a man like Bliss. Of course, the Faceless Ones weren't human.
He wanted to ask if there actually was a heaven and hell, but it wasn't relevant right now. "And you're headed, where, exactly? To save him? Can you do that?" Can we help?