The Sketch Rift: The Seal of Demons

Modified Solipsism

From what Soal could have gathered, he had been dozing nervously on an uneasy winter night, lacking the tune of Irene's melody in his ears. He yawned and stretched his arms upon awakening, expecting to remain in bed for an hour, conceiving skittish thoughts in a great quantity. Alas, he continued to think in such a manner, but in a very different environment. His first drowsy yawn was met within a moment of startled frenzy by Moth himself, who somehow seemed even taller than before, his once childish grin long shattered into a determined grimace, its slope altered slightly upon the awakening of his, according to Hemingway, "vessel".

"Your presence here depended solely on my interference of your nocturnal respite," he harrumphed. His attire now largely consisted of a bombastically trailing black coat, glazed with two layers of dirt and a light layer of grease, on whose back was emblazoned an elaborate emblem, marked L.M., of the various colors of the Rift (primarily red), tarnished by time and labor. "We reside now in Hendera. There is little to fear."

"It's August now, isn't it?" Soal yawned, but his fatigue only masked his stress. "That leaves us hardly any time."

"Exactly. A month to the fateful day," Moth piped, as optimistically as he could. Around him in the cramped and dusty clay walls stood a handful of self-proclaimed journalists for the sole Henderian billboard in Snohalerat. "Irene is not here yet, but we are expecting her to return within several hours. From my knowledge, she is not doing anything at her perception of this moment, but we will extract an informational result should we decide to consult her. -- That is, she is only busy if the Kyueb Reacsoa claims her to be. The same should apply to yourself, however much you busy yourself attempting to defend it."

"We don't need to talk about this right now," Soal mused aloud, sitting up on his stiff mattress atop a rigid bed of bars. "There are people I need to meet, and things I need to see. As the Master Bringer, there's a job I have. Probably."

"I believe the same," Moth uttered acceptingly. "To add to your own role, I daresay we may already have found the Bejirian Incarnation within the puzzling case of Nathaurus, with whom you share (or, perhaps, shared) a personal connection. Hemingway has already begun interrogating her on this position. Which is, of course, an issue of its own."

"I know all about it," Soal exhaled deeply. "What does this mean for the fact that Hemingway himself has played such a large role in helping me? I know that he's... a liar, and that he must be more than what he says he is, but shouldn't he be able to come to our side when Sulukrita rises?"

"We still need to interpret that question for another time, although time draws especially short as the calendar does," the Ambassador frowned even more heavily upon this suggestion. "When you regain restlessness, return to my aid, and Irene will be there."

"I know I can trust you with this," Soal leaned back mildly. "When 9101 comes, though, please don't make me choose between three sides of the battle."