“The Fates,” she repeated, the word line tin to her palate. “The Fates have been here. Come, gone, forgotten.” Veseniya was not necessarily bitter on account of her death, but she was not happy about it, or rather the way it presented itself as a slow crawl to the end. Exhaustion made his indirectness grating, but she was not truly angry with him.
“Toth,” she responded simply, the exhaustion that clung to her bones making it too much of an ask of her to so much as consider fabricating some sort of lie. Lysara would spin legends out of what the Legion had done. Maybe they should, especially out of those braver than herself. Veseniya would not be around long enough to hear them–they could depict her however they pleased.
Her eyes narrowed at him, his cryptic message. Perhaps the next time they were granted access to the world by the Wheel he would make a fine druid of himself in his lack of directness and strange words. “There are no gods between us,” she muttered, a hand lifting to her ribcage as if she was suddenly breathless or wounded. Her bracelet caught some lingering vestige of life and called her attention to it. She pulled at it until the clasp snapped open and held it out between them. “Her?”
Theon is quiet, often he's reticent in the sake of self preservation, but there's the nagging reminder that he's never fond of looking inward; the incubus knew what ugly beliefs of his that he stowed away and preferred to live in this distant land of harsh sarcasm. Recognizing any beliefs or hopes.... - he'd given up on that a long time ago, though the incubus had been known to teeter one way to give an inch to something, to show someone something beneath the surface. It helped that this one seemed affected by something terminal, accosted and scorned by the Fates, he was never surprised at that. "Well, they never stick around long," a tchh which resembled something of disappointment escaped him, but Theon tried not to frown so heavily.
His soul was tied to the Dark, all those years ago when he'd made a deal he didn't quite understand; when he still had the vestiges of an adolescents mind propelling his decisions, deluded by grief. Thus, he knew of costs, of darkness, and trouble; but Old Gods? He tried very hard to alienate himself from even the idea of them and as such, Theon very visibly stilled as Veseniya mentioned Dumat. "Oh, you're in deep shit," he couldn't help the laugh which bubbled forth, something more of disbelief; but any creature, unassuming or otherwise, could be tangled with darkness and he'd never make an assumption as to what threshold of Dark someone could handle.
As Veseniya wrestled with the bracelet and wrenched it from her wrist, Theon wanted to repeat the sentiment, but that same lacquer of self preservation reared it's head and Theon settled for something more aligned with vacuous sarcasm. "She is death," he snorted as though that would make the idea of Ereshkigal any easier to swallow, "Once she has even a pinky on your soul, she's not keen on letting go." This was more venomous and truthful, and is face of disgust was clear, "Whatever set up you have with her, don't count on her to salvage you from this." Theon's hand moved as though to encompass Veseniya's wilting life force.
