In contrast to Wreath's exploration, Skulduggery had been keeping a little closer to the coast. He'd tried exploring further in-land, of course, in both the Temple and the ruins, but there was something decidedly wrong about it all. Something Skulduggery felt he should know more about already, but couldn't quite put his finger on. Unfortunately, he must have asked the wrong person the exact wrong number of questions, because he was starting to receive glares wherever he went. Add to that his recent exploration of the woods stuck in perpetual darkness, and Skulduggery was perfectly happy skirting the majority of the ruins.
Or at least, that was what he tried to tell himself.
The walk became so mind-numbingly boring that Skulduggery actually jumped at the chance to step down to the water's edge and pick up something that the waves were trying to carry down the shore. It looked like a square. A square bit of cloth, to be a little more specific. A square bit of brown cloth. It was holding very solidly in the current, however, which suggested that it was more than simply a square bit of non-important cloth.
Skulduggery pulled the water underneath the solid brown object closer to him, picked it up, and turned it over. And had he been wearing a face, he would almost immediately have scowled.
It was a small portrait. An oil painting done at least three or four hundred years ago, created by someone with unparalleled skill - likely someone whose services were incredibly expensive. There were two people in it, and while one was much younger than Skulduggery remembered, it was still obvious who the waterlogged painting belonged to.
It was even more obvious that something in this dimension was trying to force more interaction between them.
You should still bring it to him, came Quintus's voice accusingly in Skulduggery's mind. Stop being so stubborn.
Skulduggery audibly grunted. The large psychic turtle had begged to come ashore with them; although last Skulduggery heard, he was staying with Gazelle. Maybe he was. Maybe his range and his perception had gotten better. Either way, Skulduggery failed to stop from sending a silent grumble in response, and then turned towards the ruins.
There was only one place a necromancer would be, after all. Even if Skulduggery's theory about the abandoned city was correct.
no subject
Or at least, that was what he tried to tell himself.
The walk became so mind-numbingly boring that Skulduggery actually jumped at the chance to step down to the water's edge and pick up something that the waves were trying to carry down the shore. It looked like a square. A square bit of cloth, to be a little more specific. A square bit of brown cloth. It was holding very solidly in the current, however, which suggested that it was more than simply a square bit of non-important cloth.
Skulduggery pulled the water underneath the solid brown object closer to him, picked it up, and turned it over. And had he been wearing a face, he would almost immediately have scowled.
It was a small portrait. An oil painting done at least three or four hundred years ago, created by someone with unparalleled skill - likely someone whose services were incredibly expensive. There were two people in it, and while one was much younger than Skulduggery remembered, it was still obvious who the waterlogged painting belonged to.
It was even more obvious that something in this dimension was trying to force more interaction between them.
You should still bring it to him, came Quintus's voice accusingly in Skulduggery's mind. Stop being so stubborn.
Skulduggery audibly grunted. The large psychic turtle had begged to come ashore with them; although last Skulduggery heard, he was staying with Gazelle. Maybe he was. Maybe his range and his perception had gotten better. Either way, Skulduggery failed to stop from sending a silent grumble in response, and then turned towards the ruins.
There was only one place a necromancer would be, after all. Even if Skulduggery's theory about the abandoned city was correct.