@lumoire asked: rumors are fragile things, and he had followed this one across systems in hopes of catching a fragment of idrila. but nothing, again a dead end. for all his radiant zeal, the red-clad knight feels it then – the sinking weight in his chest. still, he forces himself to stand upright. ❛❛ i apologize, i did not mean to dampen the mood. ❜❜ the smile returns. he will not let this disappointment sour the moment. ❛❛ even if the one i sought is not here, i will honour my promise and lend my aid before i resume my journey. ❜❜ (argenti to abi)
Aeons are strange things, to Abigail.
In Grandis, where many become reflections of myths and legends from across times and places long lost or buried, they're familiar... and yet they're also unlike the concept of 'gods' on the scale the peoples of the system once envisioned.
A greater scale, it seems, begets greater power — but also greater cruelty.
What else can it be called when a believer in a supposedly long- gone divinity chases after its traces, with no real hope he will ever find it? That he will continue to seek regardless, even after what must be the latest in only a myriad of mishaps feels... pitiful in a way. His composure over it is admirable, if nothing else. Argenti of the Honorclad, she thinks, would make a wonderful pawn. A pity he's a bit too keen (even if most wouldn't realize) to really let himself be used as one.
"There's no need to apologize." Soft voice, softer steps- muted by the snow beneath her heels as she steps to his side, gloved hands folded in a pristine serenity. Abigail bears the chill of her home's tundra like a particularly hardy cultivar, even with her delicate appearance. Her single eye lifts, then looks back out over the span of ice and snow before them. "Disappointment is a constant in life, whether we wish it to be or not. Feel it, understand it, and let it go- the disappointment has come and gone- be it an opportunity lost or a hope dashed. All one can do is live with it, until the next opportunity strikes."
Abigail's response may be perceived as a perfectly practiced platitude, but there is, to be certain, a degree of earnestness in her conciliatory tone. Effort made in devotion, after all, is something in which she cannot find fault, even if she herself is not the kind to make it. Offering if herself so deeply and so sincerely with nothing to show for it seems to her little more than self-made torture.
(Do Knights of Beauty seek penance in their search for Idrila, or simply validation of their belief? Which answer, she wonders, makes them a greater danger?)
"For the moment, there's no need to rush," she continues, lifting a hand idly. At the crook of her fingers, her cloak is handed back to her, and she slips the heavy, decadent fabric over her shoulders. "Stay and rest a while. Enjoy the Golden City while you're here- I can call in a favor and get you a seat at the latest show there, if you'd like. Then, once you're properly rested and recovered, we can talk about our deal."
From beneath the heavy drape of cloth, her hands reappear, once more folded neatly as petals bloom into being behind and beneath her. Abigail rises atop the twisting stems of enormous roses and reclines amidst them, gold-gilt and gleaming. Sinking sinuously into repose, the woman gestures at once of the cars behind her, eyes shifting from Argenti to something just beyond the horizon.
"Go on, I'll join you shortly. I'm afraid something is about to come up that you very much shouldn't be here for." And neither, technically, should she. But since she's already out here, she may as well handle it before it becomes a problem for Utgard.
Behind her, the door to the car is opened, expectant- and Abigail atop her throne of thorns and flowers waits, expectantly, to be obeyed.
It is her planet, after all- wouldn't it be wisest to listen?
