The clamor of birds is akin to the rush of a stream: it could mean both good an ill. The stream fat with rain slithered with the recklessness of a well fed snake, it’s winding form consuming more and more, until all the rain has drained from its veins. The call of birds could signal death, disruption, or even dispute– but not this time. It is the cry of acknowledgement that rings high to the sky, gliding over inky wings even as the air glides beneath them, and the symphony is abandoned with descent. Wings spread, catching at the air, and talons spread. The bird gives way for the man, his bare feet sprinting across the earth, and the magick he bears trailing behind him in a faux mist. The earth knows him, sees him, and the mouth that opens to swallow the entry of Dirthamen’s Temple whole yawns in greeting. Flagstones comprise the mouth’s teeth and tongue, a broken door repaired with a passing touch leads him away from the maw, and into the depths.
Only an intruder would alarm him, much like the fools that had blundered into the Temple not long ago, and had mistakenly broken his bonds. They had placed his body onto pedestals, repeated words that did not belong to them, and he had escaped his prison. The prison of live flesh that would likely never mend, not by his hand, and the anger of worshipers who had thought his desire was what they called theirs. He is not alarmed, his leggings damp with flowing water, and Veilfire lighting the walls as he passed. The child he has taken as his own knew not such exertion such a short time ago, but no longer. His intake if breath is not from a winded form, but of awe. He approaches with caution but does not leap forward, nor does he prostate himself, for he is no slave. He treats this reuinion carefully, with concern coloring his soul. The Veilfire plays off his skin, draws out the speckles of pigment that once had not belonged upon him, and sharpens the proof of his undying loyalty: smooth vallaslin.
“Andaran atish’an Our Father– I am most joyous upon your return.”
“ And so you have returned. ”
He speaks with little emotion, tone hushed yet it is carried throughout the hall. Facing away from where the young elf would enter, the god turns his head to glance over his shoulder. The body is far from what he would ever expect, but he finds amusement in it. Young and spry, still growing- in a way, he believes it fitting.
The corner of his mouth curls so faintly, but his shoulder blocks it from view. While Dirthamen does not want to admit to the relief he feels, he cannot deny it. The return of his Chosen marks a new beginning for this world, and the revival of the old. He finds not hope, but reassurance in the resurrection. He plans to rebuild, and he now knows he cannot be stopped.
He sighs quietly, head turning away. “ You were expected here long ago -- but I will not fault you. ” nor will he fault himself; he knows at whose feet blame lies, and justice will be brought.
The thought is pushed aside as he turns to face his most devoted follower. The curl to his lip has faded. His chin inclines and he stares with hooded eyes. “ Regardless, you may find me impressed; I anticipated your revival to be by my hand. ”