Situation Normal

Silverlock is mildly angsty and Theron is a close minded idiot. SNAFU.

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The sound of running water was everywhere, dampening the noise of the city beyond the walls. Something slithered over Theron's bare foot; he very resolutely did not crawl out of his skin when it happened.

"Why are we here, again?" He wanted to go back to the manor. He wanted his shoes back. He wanted to get out of this place, with its vine-covered ceilings and watery whispers and slithering things.

Silverlock ignored him and knelt before one of the stone icons lining the walls of the gallery. The carving had been defaced, literally- someone had chipped away at the image until only the right eye and the impression of a jawline remained. There was a low shelf of candles beneath the icon. Silverlock lit three with his fingertips and bowed his head over them.

The walls crawled with squirming threads of something bright and half-familiar; it left a sour taste in the back of his throat, like unripe fruit. Silverlock, in contrast, had lowered his mental and magical defenses almost completely, and radiated death like a maggoty apple. In the diluted light of this place, the candles played merry hell with the shadows, throwing the painted contours of the mage's face into sharp relief and highlighting the whispered movements of his lips.

Theron stared at him, caught in the contemplation of form and pattern. It took a moment for the image to resovle itself in his mind as prayer; when it did, he barely restrained his bemused laughter. Praying was something old men and pregnant women did (his mother hadn't) alone, in utter privacy.

He cleared his throat, but Silverlock continued to ignore him. He shrugged and made his way towards the far end of the gallery, keeping an eye out for more snakes. Rothcarans were a bizarre people, with their shameless exhibitionism and pagan gods- but that was hardly news.

The gallery was lined with dozens of icons, each set in an alcove with its own shelf of candles. Here and there, men and women knelt before them, praying. Water ran from spigots in the walls, flowing freely along channels in the floor; the constant splashing and the occasional reptilian hiss were the only sounds in the room.

There was an open doorway at the end of the room. A pair of serpents twined around the arch of the lintel and stared at him with blue-gray pearls for eyes. The space beyond was dark, but he could hear more running water and faint voices. Silverlock had said something about not wandering off, but Theron wasn't going to make a habit out of listening to him.

"My influence here only extends so far. Keep walking, and I won't be able to protect you."

Theron stiffened and glanced over his shoulder. He still didn't understand how Silverlock could move so silently, weighted down as he was by a good three stones of gold and silver. None of the chains or bells made so much as a whisper when he moved.

He sneered. "You mean there are places where the universe doesn't arrange itself according to your whim? Shocking."

"Say another word and I'll dismember you and feed you to the snakes." Silverlock's glare was several degrees colder than pure scorn. "Your arrogance is no longer amusing."

His face burned as he followed Silverlock out of the temple, but he kept his mouth shut.
---

1 stone is about 11 pounds; Silver outdoes just about anyone, ever, in terms of sheer bling. His pimp factor is off the charts.

Silverlock probably wasn't really praying; it's far more likely that he was either reciting sappy love poetry or telling dirty jokes. Blaine's afterlife is ever so entertaining.