02-07-2016, 01:03 PM
While the old spirit projected himself as a victim, his presentation seemed staged, and almost disingenuous. The swordsman knew two sides existed to every story, and whomever bound this spirt to the temple probably did so with the conviction of strong reason. The true question was this a conflict between wickedness and righteousness, or just a feud between evil and a slightly less evil; Trunks never recalled a 'Hero' using shady tactics to request help, and it made him wonder how many Teucer arrested in the same fashion.
“I'll do your dirty work for you,” Trunks decided, reluctantly; without the convenience of an Option B, it felt more like an ultimatum.
The old man took satisfaction from the swordsman's response, and grinned. The crow's feet attached to his eyes stretched across his temples. “I knew I could count on you,” he replied. “While you're courageously doing battle, I will stay here. My spirit is bound to this temple.”
Sounds oddly convenient, Trunks thought, though he nodded in agreement. “Right.”
Teucer returned the head gesture and receded to the marble statue, gazing at the goddess with eyes of despair before closing them. He brought his palms together like a priest, and dipped his head to speak inaudibly to the deity.
Without the dialogue between the old man and he, Trunks' ears were able to pick up the sounds of other voices. They conversed all around him, at low volumes, between the columns and within the clouds of fog shrouding the boundaries of the temple. The swordsman could only depict chunks and bits of bodies, unable to get a clear look at any visages, but was able to count over two dozen other people—detainees.
Seems like the geezer amassed quite a militia to apply his elbow grease.
Most of them had already segregated into groups, gossiping like high school cliques. Trunks tried to tune into the conversation closest to him, but it translated to mush with all the other voices overlapping it (if only he shared his mother's personality trait of rudeness, he could insert himself into one of the groups, and scrape some information out off someone).
“I'll do your dirty work for you,” Trunks decided, reluctantly; without the convenience of an Option B, it felt more like an ultimatum.
The old man took satisfaction from the swordsman's response, and grinned. The crow's feet attached to his eyes stretched across his temples. “I knew I could count on you,” he replied. “While you're courageously doing battle, I will stay here. My spirit is bound to this temple.”
Sounds oddly convenient, Trunks thought, though he nodded in agreement. “Right.”
Teucer returned the head gesture and receded to the marble statue, gazing at the goddess with eyes of despair before closing them. He brought his palms together like a priest, and dipped his head to speak inaudibly to the deity.
Without the dialogue between the old man and he, Trunks' ears were able to pick up the sounds of other voices. They conversed all around him, at low volumes, between the columns and within the clouds of fog shrouding the boundaries of the temple. The swordsman could only depict chunks and bits of bodies, unable to get a clear look at any visages, but was able to count over two dozen other people—detainees.
Seems like the geezer amassed quite a militia to apply his elbow grease.
Most of them had already segregated into groups, gossiping like high school cliques. Trunks tried to tune into the conversation closest to him, but it translated to mush with all the other voices overlapping it (if only he shared his mother's personality trait of rudeness, he could insert himself into one of the groups, and scrape some information out off someone).