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Angered at your dismissive lack of explanation, Terry stormed off, dragging his younger brother with him. Perhaps to keep him away from negative influences, you wonder as you walk alone through the repetitive halls of the dead mansion. There’s no breeze through the shattered windows. Nor chirping birds— corpses don’t make sounds. You can only hear urgent clap of the Ghostwalker against your thigh, a thunderous, overpowering clink.
⭑⭑⭑
Lava rises from the pits of a civilisation’s Hell, braced to engulf your falling, rag doll body. Calypso instinctively rolls and swiftly pulls herself up with the rubble. Something you’d never be able to do. The unhelpful Captain Trotters is half splayed out on the floor, other half cradling his bruised leg. You nudge him with your shoe.
As soon as she’s recovered, Calypso rushes to his side, babbling about medical knowledge you didn’t know she had. She carefully tries to pull him up, and turn your back to continue on, sinking into the sand.
⭑⭑⭑
Calypso weeps to the hollow temple, tears streaming down her scarred face as she leans over the calmed lava. You look away. Outbursts delay goals, you mentally chant, to drown out what should be a gaping lack of want.
It doesn’t shine like a trophy in the gold chamber. Like hearts and hatred and blood, the sword is just a dull red. Something churns within you. You don’t understand why any sacrifices were killed for it; why such a decadent temple was slaved over for it- when the sword only harms.
Cries echo throughout.
Calypso strong, grateful, and empathetic, weeps in the corner your eye, cradling her heart. She weeps for her saviours in an endless desert; her crew during many adventurous memories; and her Captain.
You’re shamefully hunched over the Firebrand. Were Terry to barge in, so rightfully emotional, you have no doubt he’d— no—, you’d want him to comfort Calypso.
Hesitant, you reach towards the only person you can.