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Ezadir knelt at the edge of the Dark Water pit, his left hand's fingers wound into the thin chain of the Compass, it looping elaborately about his digits as if to constrict them individually, his right hand holding the magical trinket itself, and both hands in turn rested in his lap. Rhea had raised interesting points with her observation. The ocean was a gradient of power, a frothing conglomerate of Kunda, Vesh and Rael, but it tipped in Rael's favour the further you descended. The questers had not descended far, but Rhea had witnessed how they had fought their way down to Dark Water vents to get one of the Treasures, which spoke in favour of Rael's domain. It was confusing information. He wanted guidance from the silent Gods, a sign of how to proceed. Were the Treasures - a gift from Kunda to banish the Dark Water as they had always been perceived by lore - untouched by Rael's destructive power because he was as powerless to them as Kunda to the Dark Water? Or was Rhea's observation that the legend foretold control of the Dark Water rather than its banishment or destruction accurate? A control that possessed no qualifiers as to whom it pertained to, even. The Tsawan felt there was a real chance that the Treasures were part of Rael's own plan, that without them the Dark Water was simply a slow, cancerous infection of their Planet, but with them would be a driving, shaping force in the malevolent deity's plans. He swallowed consciously, parting knees to let both his hands set down beside each other and clasp against the edge of the pit without letting go of the precious item. Slowly, he pushed the rest of his body back, until his weight shifted from legs to elbows, and he finally lay flat at the edge of the pit, shoulders just ahead of the edge, arms trapped beneath him. Then with a cautious motion, he pushed his arms forward and downward, fingers still wrapped around the Compass, and concentrated on the lazily writhing darkness below. For a moment, he held himself still like that, hesitating in his progression. Then the arduous moment passed and his right hand uncurled its fingers, the Compass abruptly swinging freely and touching the wall of the pit with a sharp sound of protest. Carefully, the fingers of his left hand loosened their grip, his focussed gaze darting between the talisman and the Dark Water. With another soft sound, it unwound, held delicately by one digit alone, and swirled as a lazy pendulum many inches above the tar-like substance. His heart hammered erratically in his chest - if the Dark Water reached out to tear the Compass from his hands, then it would no doubt consider a morning snack right along with that gesture. Yet, if it did reach up that way, then it was his duty to tell his brethren that they had erred. Dying would not do, as much as he was ready for the Dark Water's eventual embrace - he had to be on his guard. For long moments of frantic concentration, he hung there, arms and shoulders tense, stare focussed, occasionally nudging the Compass into a gentle sway to coax the amorphous predator into taking the bait. For long moments, he waited. And nothing happened. |