The Storm Clouds Come.

She reflects faint remembrances of Isardis; though undoubtedly different, there are similarities that beam beneath the amethyst of her gape and the weave of her lungs. He is aware of her pregnancy ( spawn writhing beneath a gold-paved womb ), however not principally interested; surely of his business, but a dealing that matters little to a mind of such cosmic breadth. “Jigsaw,” is his simplistic response, a voice that threatens to overlap her own speech; as if he had predicted her question. The pet name his brother had been so persistent with had stuck, few sought to call him Kuvio, and hence he rarely introduced himself as such; a twisted identity. “Kuvio by birth,” it is a crude confirmation; Roman may have only encountered him as a youth, and hence may know him by the christening formally delivered by his parents. 

Isardis’ influence continues to bleed from the words that unfold her salmon tongue, an almost mesmerizing manipulation that seemed to loiter long after his departure. Ah, Kyarst. But he bothers little to question the extent of Roman’s peak, there is poor interest in exchanging messages between kin; he would speak with Kyarst when it came time – and hence, his lips simply pleat in a mysterious expression of dwindled recognition, a vague simper. “Anything more?” a vague suggestion of his looming departure; he had already established what was needed, and had little desire to linger.