[ Without thought, the Forsaken's hand reached, finding the leather of the assassin's glove. It was only a brush of fingertips in passing, reassuring if not comforting. The god could not say that he had made peace with his life. He held enough fury and grief for himself, though. Often, like now, it was buried beneath centuries of apathy built out of self-preservation that he did not lose his mind entirely. But when it surfaced, it felt as raw as they day he had been judged.
Strange that he did not remember the gods that sentenced him, but he could remember his own anguish as if it had only just happened. ]
Then you should continue to do that. [ For a god who had a predestined purpose, who had been trapped for so long without say, to follow his own path seemed greater than any treasure. ] May I ask what path that is?
[ Or whether it could even be followed, here in Sleep's domain. ]
no subject
Strange that he did not remember the gods that sentenced him, but he could remember his own anguish as if it had only just happened. ]
Then you should continue to do that. [ For a god who had a predestined purpose, who had been trapped for so long without say, to follow his own path seemed greater than any treasure. ] May I ask what path that is?
[ Or whether it could even be followed, here in Sleep's domain. ]