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Thirteen they are,
They who chased the flame
After all was said and done—dealing with the aftermath of Irontomb’s ascension and downfall with every faction vying for something (ignoring the implications of that for now because he wasn’t as spry as he used to be)—Welt found himself by his lonesome.
The rest of the Astral Express were asleep in their respective rooms, Dan Heng, March and Stelle most especially exhausted. Leaving him in the dimly lit parlor car, it was to save power of course, but with how much power they gathered from Amphoreus rendered that point moot. It was nice to allow his old and weary bones a moment of respite away from the demands of the Trailblaze. It was enough for Welt to truly feel the weight of all the years on him, try as he might, he wasn’t growing any younger.
Leaning back further into the plush couch—he was reminded of that fact in the way his body seemed content at rest rather than motion. The streak of white adorning his hair at the edges of his vision, the wrinkles that he knew were on his face. Even before his arrival at a place so far away from home, he just knew.
Now, Welt wasn’t a vain man, far from it, his style of dress stood testament to that. But it was in moments like these that he could understand the appeal.
A moment passes
then-
A whisper for no one in particular,
“Hm, now isn’t the time to be caught up like this,” scarred fingers gently wrapped around a book, “if tonight is that of Remembrance, let it be for them.”
What Welt held between his hands was ‘As We’ve Written’ detailing the story of Amphoreus so it wouldn’t be lost to the sands of time.
(a memory inserted itself inside his mind, of a time long ago yet not of a woman doing the same for heroes of a bygone era. he allowed it to settle for however it needed to before carefully sending it one its way)
Even though this one was one of countless mass produced copies, Welt couldn’t deny the pull that even just the cover page seemed to have on him. Perhaps, that one was for other reasons.
Slowly and methodically as to engrave every page and every word into his being, Welt read of heroes. Sometimes there were illustrations of those brave souls, each one giving him pause (some more than others)
There were terms, stories, faces and myriads of things that gave Welt a sense of nostalgia for a moment that never was really his. Only doing as he did now—doing his part to ensure they would never be forgotten.
Thirteen Chrysos Heirs
The Flamechase
Khaslana
A person with a resemblance to a woman he knew of had told him this as they discussed the past, letting the present be pushed aside for a scant few seconds.
In these worlds, there are innumerable people who look alike, yet don’t.
As he sat in that quiet little piece of time once again, Welt only had one thought,
Even if they are not—they may still tread on familiar paths