#roxykiin

“No, that makes sense. Be like asking which Elder Scroll was written first, when the answer is all of them.” It doesn’t occur to her yet that they’re speaking of different world-eaters. Alduin was the only one she knew of.

“To be honest, I don’t think he’s even meant to be able to die. I think grandma got a kick out of the world eater being eaten and wanted to ask.”

The words do not all make sense, but there is something universal in them nevertheless-- he doesn’t know what an Elder Scroll is, exactly, but if it is Old and Writ and defies traditional methods of creation, then he kens it.

He doesn’t really know what’s happening here, but a shiny wrapped box is being thrust at him, so he might as well take it.

He sniffs at it first, rattles it around, is unsatisfied; so he commences to opening-- with hands and teeth, of course.

His confused expression remains as he gingerly lifts one dagger from the pair in the box, sniffing at the blade and then the hilt, then licking the hilt experimentally. There’s a taste, an arcane one, and it makes him shudder reflexively.

“You... know of the World-eater?”

--Of course, what Mordred thinks of as World-eater -- among many other epithets, some more difficult to express in anything but High Speech -- is Mother Spider behind the deadlights.

“I cannot eat World-eater. It is like...”

He thinks with mouth open and working, tasting the air, eyes wide and distant and searching, but he does not have the word for it. He makes a circle with his hands, his face twisting irritably as he tries to conceptualise.

She grins, not exactly human, but close enough. “Now isn’t that the million septim question? Am I the lastborn of Akatosh, savior of Tamriel, vanquisher of Alduin? Or am I something…else? Is this a dragon suit? Why don’t you tell me?”

These words might as well have been nonsensical syllables, for all they mean to him. The pupil of Mordred’s Sighted eye expands hesitantly, as if unsure what it will See-- with one eye black as pitch and the other blue as day, he regards this... woman unblinkingly.

Human, dragon, hero, god. Too many shapes. He snarls, feeling betrayed-- another shape-changer, come to harry him even here, in this jagged world that burns him with its coldness, its constant song thrumming so deeply in him that it sets his teeth on edge.

Mordred hisses reflexively, his narrow shoulders hunching and his arms curling in towards his chest. He looks about to skitter away, had he been in the right form, the form by which this stranger calls him.