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Telamon tapped his fingers on the edge of the Heights' tallest platform. Talons scraped into the metal with a harsh screech, rubbing away paint and revealing iron underneath, suspended in the air with only what magic he could summon.
That mortal was on his mind again. The one who had stolen one of his swords. Not one of the replicas; he had managed to get his hands on the Darkheart itself.
Telamon had yet to seek out the mortal, but the loss of the sword pained him; as the swords were an extension of his being, it was as if a wing had been severed from his back.
Telamon had no desire to seek out the mortal, but he lifted his grand wings and teleported to the experience he lived in. He could feel the sword, singing songs of ice rather than his fire, and it sent irritation into his veins.
This would be over soon.
He grasped the handle of the Illumina and stormed into the mortal's residence.
It was lonely here. Telamon understood the feeling. Pictures, portraits, they hung up covered in dust. Listlessly, that mortal that had carted off a part of him sat on the couch, barely even looking up as he stared down mournfully at another picture.
His hair was blond, long, gorgeous in every way; he donned a crown of some sort of crystalline blue. Similar to Telamon's own fabricated visage, he had yellow skin.
He did not weep, but the sentiment was there.
Telamon took another step, and his head shot up to greet him. Ice-blue and piercingly exhausted eyes, bags under them so large it was as if he was going on a trip.
“You're here to kill me.”
The mortal said factually; Telamon mentally noted how, perhaps, he should know the mortal's name before doing so.
”He is.”
“Then why haven't you done so? Get it over with.”
The unspoken was obvious: ‘put me out of my misery.’ Telamon resolved not to follow any request of a mortal, and instead sat down on the couch.
“What is the mortal's name?”
“iTrapped.”
“What troubles iTrapped?”
Telamon reminded himself that the only attraction he felt towards the man was caused by his possession of the Darkheart, that the second he had it back iTrapped would be just another mortal whose life would fade to dust.
“It doesn't matter.”
Telamon peered over his shoulder at the picture; ITrapped was younger in the photo, arm wrapped around a smiling figure with grey skin and a fedora.
“Was that iTrapped's lover?”
“No. He was just a way to get what I wanted.”
And, with genuine curiosity, Telamon responded.
“And did ITrapped?”
ITrapped's face went hard as stone and sharp as talons. He grabbed the Darkheart and pointed it at Telamon's chest, stern anger in his eyes spurned by the sword.
“No.”
Telamon knew one of his own blades would never betray him; he stood and even dismissed the Illumina without fear. He held iTrapped's face in his talons and let his own unravel. He hid such things from mortal eyes, for it terrified them; layers of feathers and teeth and eyes and a single terrifying sharp tongue on a face that was in no way Robloxian.
iTrapped dropped the Darkheart and scuttled back, primal preservation instinct taking over as he looked at the fourth dimensional being who promptly restitched his face.
“Allow Telamon to be clear. He is the one in charge here. Now, what happened between you and that mortal?”
The tale came in fearful bursts, ITrapped's heart still racing and sending a desire to hunt into Telamon's veins. To take ITrapped and claim the mortal as his own, as his treasure.
Telamon smiled when all was finished.
“That was not so hard, was it? Telamon will be back tomorrow.”
Before iTrapped could protest, Telamon had already left and flown out of the door.