“Told you,” the little rascal continues, impudent. “Nothing hap-”
A large, bright green moth the likes of which he has never seen and she maybe once in all her travels leisurely zig-zags in the air; moves away, past the shore, through the ferns, into the woods, then disappears.
Heysel and the kid look at each other, wide-eyed and so baffled they don’t speak, for a moment and a moment only. Then the thought that they should be running after it flashes bright and red into their minds.
They begin running. Their feet kick up clouds of sand.
She’s a strong runner, and she bolts through woods daily because of what she does for worship, but this isn’t woods she knows- this isn’t wet Farron that she memorized every tree and root of; her carefulness makes her slower than the boy running along with her, who in turn runs like he’s got wings through rustling leaves and low hanging vines, flies like a sparrow across the forest and soon enough he’s so ahead of her she can’t see him much anymore.
And even if she can’t see him, she hears his yell loud and clear.
Heysel’s heart feels like it’s about to burst. What is she supposed to say, now, as she meets him? I’ve heard of you from my father. He thought you a legend, but you live! I have so much to ask you and I can think of nothing.
She levels her breathing. Still, her pulse is frantic in her ears, as she emerges from the thick greenery, into a small clearing — and she sees the kid, starry eyed, staring — hears him say you don’t look like a mermaid — looks up and…
Before her very eyes lies no river-sea god. She knows this, because elegantly waiting, the moth they’d followed now slowly crawling on his finger, stands Gwyndolin, the Dark Sun, leader of the Darkmoon Blades.
“You’re supposed to be in the water!” the kid laugh-shrieks, marveling at the snakes protruding from under his gown. To his delight, the inverted mirror of Heysel’s sheer horror, dimming to disappointment.
“What is this. You- are you here to kill me or something, Gwyndolin? Not your style to do so personally, but. Let’s be clear with each other.”
Gwyndolin also finds himself rather shocked. First, he hadn’t been expecting a child, especially not one thinking he is the missing god. He raises his hands out, disturbing the moth which flits back off to its business.
“N-no, I am not— Ah, a mermaid... I—”
And before he has a chance to formulate a response, it’s her. That odd Finger of Rosaria. No wonder he’d felt something was off. Gwyndolin props himself back up to complete seriousness, resting his hands behind his back with a forced air of confidence.
“Heysel,” he speaks her name in solemn greeting. “No, that will not be necessary today. I am here because thou called for me, although perhaps not intentionally. Thee and thy friend here are searching for something I am also looking for. Thus... I would like to propose a truce while we search for the missing ocean god. That is, if thou wouldst have me.”
The many snakes sniff the air while they watch the two. The salty sea air is so different in wonderful way... but he’d best keep his attention on Heysel. Though, she wouldn’t be so terrible as to attack him in front of a child, would she? One snake looks curious towards the boy who seems fascinated.
“I do have information gathered on gods of many lands that thou may not have. Thou shouldst take that into consideration before making thy decision.”
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