[Childe didn't know what Titanspawn were, but he knew wolves, both within his comprehension and those beyond, that existed in the remains of the cataclysm.
He knew the fear fluttering in his heart as a pack had stalked him, as he stepped over an edge that should not be. The feeling of falling and drowning were very similar, he'd found, both forces out of one's control. One couldn't choose when their body would take one last desperate breath, just as one couldn't choose to stop hurtling towards solid ground.]
I'm used to there being way more monsters. This is a bit disappointing.
[Casper's reading of the ghost-vibes seemed to match his own. That it might be an event haunting the place, rather than a specific person. Childe had been on battlefields both before and after war, haunted by the blood that stained the ground, great acts of violence still in the air, some of them his own.]
Yeah, I feel that it's an event, too. It feels too broad to just be... a handful of people. Too many different voices. Whatever happened here was rough.
[Many people feared him, but they tended to displace the fear they had for him: Killing people was not something that caused him to laugh the way he did, it didn't wholly bring him joy unless it was a great beast of some kind.
It was the heat of battle itself, the effort, the fight, that interested him, that sent his blood pumping and heart soaring. It was the action, the trading of blows, putting himself and his body to the absolute limit. He chased a high, a recreation of a formative experience in his mind, the months he'd spent in a state of hyper-vigilance. The violence of becoming.
He preferred it when his opponent didn't die: It meant an opportunity for a rematch.
The Harbinger let one of the giant mosquitoes land on his shoulder. It had no interest in either of them, just looking for a momentary place to rest. The fatuus makes a bit of a face at it. Childe glances at Bob. Did he want a snack?]
Just bugs here, huh. Your little guy hungry? I think this thing has his name on it.
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He knew the fear fluttering in his heart as a pack had stalked him, as he stepped over an edge that should not be. The feeling of falling and drowning were very similar, he'd found, both forces out of one's control. One couldn't choose when their body would take one last desperate breath, just as one couldn't choose to stop hurtling towards solid ground.]
I'm used to there being way more monsters. This is a bit disappointing.
[Casper's reading of the ghost-vibes seemed to match his own. That it might be an event haunting the place, rather than a specific person. Childe had been on battlefields both before and after war, haunted by the blood that stained the ground, great acts of violence still in the air, some of them his own.]
Yeah, I feel that it's an event, too. It feels too broad to just be... a handful of people. Too many different voices. Whatever happened here was rough.
[Many people feared him, but they tended to displace the fear they had for him: Killing people was not something that caused him to laugh the way he did, it didn't wholly bring him joy unless it was a great beast of some kind.
It was the heat of battle itself, the effort, the fight, that interested him, that sent his blood pumping and heart soaring. It was the action, the trading of blows, putting himself and his body to the absolute limit. He chased a high, a recreation of a formative experience in his mind, the months he'd spent in a state of hyper-vigilance. The violence of becoming.
He preferred it when his opponent didn't die: It meant an opportunity for a rematch.
The Harbinger let one of the giant mosquitoes land on his shoulder. It had no interest in either of them, just looking for a momentary place to rest. The fatuus makes a bit of a face at it. Childe glances at Bob. Did he want a snack?]
Just bugs here, huh. Your little guy hungry? I think this thing has his name on it.