#calla.eterna

"You stink of sand and blood," Kalamar addressed, voice smooth but neatly edges as he appraised the Olympian from outside the ritual chamber. His arms were crossed, one shoulder propped against the dark stone wall as Calla stepped back into his sphere. "At least that means you weren’t taken."

His gaze trailed over her and took inventory: no visible limp, no obvious injuries, and no a'dam. Relief followed, though the only evidence was in the slight sack that came from his shoulders - relaxing, only just.

"You were reckless," he added, not cruelly - just true. "But you came back." He pushed off the wall and approached Calla to scrutinize the witch a bit further. "Well, what did you find?"

Not all deals with devils ended with the exchange of souls, some people were just useful, others prompted a note of inspiration. This witch had potential laden with a ruthlessness that he could respect, unfortunately that tenacity might have put her in harm's way - but that was the nature of any endeavour worth it's salt.

"Calla."

Kalamar stepped from the shadows, the man and not the monster, ten approached the Olympian. Alone in the library, burning the proverbial midnight oil - so to speak. All that poking and prodding, now her favourite subject was out there, and no doubt plotting his revenge. Naturally, Kalamar had thought it prudent to pay her a visit.