"I don't know." He really didn't, and for several moments Solomon just stood there, at a loss. Things were building behind the veneer of action, and fast. Surely there was only so much the ex-Necromancer would be able to take before the dam burst.
He wasn't even sure which question he was answering. Or why he'd reacted as if he could, or wanted, to save the man. He'd never known Bliss well, or even quite liked him. Respected him, certainly, but liked him, not really. Solomon closed his eyes to take a slow breath, clenching his hands and rubbing his thumbs over the ridge of the nail-scar in his palms. He needed to calm down. To centre himself, as much as he could.
"Souls have gravity," he said. "So do reflections. If you want an analogy, I suppose you can call them black holes. When a soul departs from its body, it's subject to the currents of the lifestream, unless caught by the gravity of something else." This much, he knew. This much, he had witnessed with his own eyes, though that had been his father's soul and the gravity of his own Necromancy. Solomon opened his eyes, glancing toward the office's exit.
"I don't see why it wouldn't be possible to rescue him, though I don't know how we would. But reflections are conjured with a sigil, and we have at our disposal the Archangel of communication and the greatest sorcerer in history. If in the event that I'm wrong--" He hoped he was wrong. "--they'd be able to tell."
"It's worth pursuing," Corrival said grimly. "No one ever stopped to ask what would happen if Bliss died." He snorted. "Then again, no one really took the whole soul thing as seriously as the Temple does, no matter what they do with it. Either way, the man's a hero, and he's earned more than to be trapped in a void."
But it didn't stop Corrival's eels from gnawing on each other. Not snapping, as if with irritation, but more as if a problem was bothering him. Without anything to drink, anything to page through, anything to occupy himself but his own thoughts--and those, Solomon didn't currently want--the ex-Necromancer reached out and touched two of those eels, stroking one's head until it subsided and released its companion.
It made his fingers tingle, and what he felt wasn't exactly an emotion so much as semi-deja vu of a worry he hadn't had. "The question," Solomon said, speaking what Corrival was already wondering, "is whether we'd lose the Cleavers in the process."
"Do you mind not fondling my soul?" Corrival's voice was a mix of things. Gruff. Bemused. Disconcerted. Solomon blinked, cracked a smile and withdrew his hand.
no subject
He wasn't even sure which question he was answering. Or why he'd reacted as if he could, or wanted, to save the man. He'd never known Bliss well, or even quite liked him. Respected him, certainly, but liked him, not really. Solomon closed his eyes to take a slow breath, clenching his hands and rubbing his thumbs over the ridge of the nail-scar in his palms. He needed to calm down. To centre himself, as much as he could.
"Souls have gravity," he said. "So do reflections. If you want an analogy, I suppose you can call them black holes. When a soul departs from its body, it's subject to the currents of the lifestream, unless caught by the gravity of something else." This much, he knew. This much, he had witnessed with his own eyes, though that had been his father's soul and the gravity of his own Necromancy. Solomon opened his eyes, glancing toward the office's exit.
"I don't see why it wouldn't be possible to rescue him, though I don't know how we would. But reflections are conjured with a sigil, and we have at our disposal the Archangel of communication and the greatest sorcerer in history. If in the event that I'm wrong--" He hoped he was wrong. "--they'd be able to tell."
"It's worth pursuing," Corrival said grimly. "No one ever stopped to ask what would happen if Bliss died." He snorted. "Then again, no one really took the whole soul thing as seriously as the Temple does, no matter what they do with it. Either way, the man's a hero, and he's earned more than to be trapped in a void."
But it didn't stop Corrival's eels from gnawing on each other. Not snapping, as if with irritation, but more as if a problem was bothering him. Without anything to drink, anything to page through, anything to occupy himself but his own thoughts--and those, Solomon didn't currently want--the ex-Necromancer reached out and touched two of those eels, stroking one's head until it subsided and released its companion.
It made his fingers tingle, and what he felt wasn't exactly an emotion so much as semi-deja vu of a worry he hadn't had. "The question," Solomon said, speaking what Corrival was already wondering, "is whether we'd lose the Cleavers in the process."
"Do you mind not fondling my soul?" Corrival's voice was a mix of things. Gruff. Bemused. Disconcerted. Solomon blinked, cracked a smile and withdrew his hand.
"Sorry. Your eels were nibbling on each other."