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6/10/2025, 5:38:49 PM
>>6255745
With your heart pumping fast, throbbing inside your chest, you step inside the vision, and the boat, the ocean, your sleeping friends behind — this is for you, for you only, and maybe Rosandra.
The people inside the memory are standing right before a huge black door, standing in the middle of an empty space, no wall to surround it.
You have never been inside Ansàrra’s palace. It’s a place of sharp geometries, right lines and corners, angles that remind you of some cavern, but not one shaped by natural forces. Nature does not carve blindglass at such precise angles, creating reflections on the smooth black surfaces, six-faced columns that reach to the empty sky, as if holding up the heavens, the fast clouds that linger around their tops.
It’s astounding and yet it carries a mournful quality, like you just entered an austere tomb instead of the core of the entire Faith.
And looking down, you see the courtyards and arches, the pools and fountains — all of them in black and gold — create a perfect sphere, bearing no hole.
Her palace is still perfect.
“Is this like the visions you were telling me about, Argia Candente?” Rosandra looks about, stiff.
“Yes,” you reply. “Though this one time it waited for me to step in.”
A warning?
You admit you did hesitate for a heartbeat.
Even if she has given you back your cameo, Rosandra still feels like someone you do not want to spend with a minute more then necessary.
Comes with enjoying your head attached to your neck.
“It asked me no such thing,” she adds, and to your surprise there is little to no resentment in her voice.
If this was Astoria, she would be screaming and yelling and scraping the floor, while Rosandra seems to accept it, if cautiously. She walks closer, initially to her older self, then to Saint Bragia, tracing a circle around her, and her eyes grow dark with sorrow.
“The years are short and the days long,” she huffs, “is a saying I am fond of. But it is not always true. Some years are stretched long with regret.” Her bandaged hand raises almost to brush against Bragia’s dark locks, then withdraws. “Nay. I am the spectator.” She bows and steps away, then looks at you.
Right.
This is for you.
[cont.]
With your heart pumping fast, throbbing inside your chest, you step inside the vision, and the boat, the ocean, your sleeping friends behind — this is for you, for you only, and maybe Rosandra.
The people inside the memory are standing right before a huge black door, standing in the middle of an empty space, no wall to surround it.
You have never been inside Ansàrra’s palace. It’s a place of sharp geometries, right lines and corners, angles that remind you of some cavern, but not one shaped by natural forces. Nature does not carve blindglass at such precise angles, creating reflections on the smooth black surfaces, six-faced columns that reach to the empty sky, as if holding up the heavens, the fast clouds that linger around their tops.
It’s astounding and yet it carries a mournful quality, like you just entered an austere tomb instead of the core of the entire Faith.
And looking down, you see the courtyards and arches, the pools and fountains — all of them in black and gold — create a perfect sphere, bearing no hole.
Her palace is still perfect.
“Is this like the visions you were telling me about, Argia Candente?” Rosandra looks about, stiff.
“Yes,” you reply. “Though this one time it waited for me to step in.”
A warning?
You admit you did hesitate for a heartbeat.
Even if she has given you back your cameo, Rosandra still feels like someone you do not want to spend with a minute more then necessary.
Comes with enjoying your head attached to your neck.
“It asked me no such thing,” she adds, and to your surprise there is little to no resentment in her voice.
If this was Astoria, she would be screaming and yelling and scraping the floor, while Rosandra seems to accept it, if cautiously. She walks closer, initially to her older self, then to Saint Bragia, tracing a circle around her, and her eyes grow dark with sorrow.
“The years are short and the days long,” she huffs, “is a saying I am fond of. But it is not always true. Some years are stretched long with regret.” Her bandaged hand raises almost to brush against Bragia’s dark locks, then withdraws. “Nay. I am the spectator.” She bows and steps away, then looks at you.
Right.
This is for you.
[cont.]
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