rosymorn temple lays in disrepair around them as immeral hovers anxiously in the doorway of the room depicting ancient clerics and paladins as stained glass saints. ahead of him, florence arranges weapons on platforms bearing their names.
he feels like an outsider. something rumbles angrily inside of him, muttering foul curses about restoring the power of the dawnfather, and he twists his fingers around the ceremonial rope wound around his wrist.
" this isn't your temple. was yours so. . .elaborate? "
It’s delicate. Each piece of information is filtered, modified, and shared with a silent prayer. Home isn’t an enjoyable topic of decision – voice too much, and the questions flood out of the gate.
“ It wasn’t. ” She’s adjusting the mace’s position. It’s therapeutic. These sacred weapons are being returned to their rightful owners. “ It was. . . practical, and the most puzzling part was learning to navigate the halls. ”
Immeral is given a brief glance before she’s dragging the battleaxe. “ It had its own charm, though. There were windows of the sunrise and if you woke at just the right time, you’d see it paint an entire room with color. ”
