I am the pattern, the plague, and the prison --
Morrowind has always been straightforward—even for his kind. He had little use for riddles or creativity and his imagination, while not completely blunted, was certainly not his weapon of choice. So he doesn’t often imagine that others are lying. He takes them for their word, even when something tickles at the back of his mind that something is off. His white eyes narrow as he considers her. She seemed too small to be a river goddess, but who knew what strange things this land did to other deities and elementals.
“My apologies, I thought you were of the sky—not the water.” There’s nearly a touch of skepticism there, but nothing enough to color his voice or darken his eyes. He himself does not look like himself and so he doesn’t hold her small stature against her. Neither does he make a move to leave though. For all of his manners and learnings, he’s never truly humbled himself before the law of others. He respects them well enough, but he grew up with enough privilege and power to never truly apologize for his presence.
The idea of trespassing is foreign.
So he just angles his head. “Your magic?” Another thunderous clap of his voice. “I should hardly think that I need to beg you for that which is rightfully mine.” His tail flicks at his haunches and his lips nearly pull into a snarl—pulling back in the corners just slightly. He nearly goes on. Nearly shows his teeth when she calls on the lightning that had once been his own to command. So she was of the sky.
When he glances back down, he notices the laughter creeping in her voice.
It stokes the flames of his fury once more and he takes a step forward.
“Are you—“ his voice is incredulous “are you mocking me?”
MORROWIND
