What nonsense is that fool talking about? Damn, cursed, life-threatening, gibbering mad prince, he deserves to be dragged into the lake of drowning by the supreme and corrupt heaven, stuffed into the boat without sails, and put him Throw him across the sea and fall forever, never speak a word again, never utter a prophetic syllable, cut off his hand, tear his paper, and prevent him from making a pattern worthy of death!
Morse took a breath, calmed his breathing, and put the pen that had been hanging for a long time back on the pen holder. The pen holder collapsed due to stress.
He knocked on the table, and the ink, the broken pen holder, and the broken quill automatically recovered one after another.
Andos didn't know what to do, and he even regretted taking Morse to meet his crazy brother.
Although he didn't know what crazy words Cruz and Morse said, the craftsman couldn't control his emotions. Not to mention that he had never seen it, I'm afraid his apprentice Perturabo had never seen it either.
"Mr. Morse," he struggled to speak, controlling his volume very carefully. Perhaps he didn't have such concentration when carving the smallest objects, "my brother is a madman... no matter what he says, Whatever it is, please...don't take it to heart."
"Do you know what he said?" Morse leaned back, and the wicker chair suddenly fell back. After a few shakes, it stopped worryingly.
His eyes were staring straight at Andros, making the prince's heart tremble.
"Did he say something offensive?" the prince asked worriedly. "Cruz is always like this. He has a set of prophecies that he claims to have? He will say a few words that are impossible to happen, such as the wolf will eat the wolf. Please don’t take these words too seriously, Morse.”
Morse quietly placed his index finger on the center of his eyebrows, placed his thumb on the side of his temple, and placed the other three fingers along the bridge of his nose in sequence, with his little finger resting on the tip of his nose.
After a long time, he opened his eyes, and he seemed to have regained his previous calmness and even coldness.
"He said something deeply offensive, Prince," Morse said dryly. "Something that deserves to be cursed a thousand times. His prophecy negates everything I have done."
His hands dropped from his face, hanging down naturally, along the edge of the desk and drawers to his knees. Stored in one of the drawers are the fleeting records he has written over the years.
"I don't think there is any possibility of what he predicted happening, Prince; any unauthorized speculation about the future is a clear insult to my craft."
If that was the future, did he die in the process?
Is he doing nothing by allowing his apprentice to be taken away, defeated, and corrupted?
Or maybe in that historical section, he was never resurrected after his first death - that would be great!
"Since it's just nonsense from his hysteria, there's no need to worry about it." Prince Andros persuaded him kindly.
Morse exhaled again, maintaining his superficial rationality.
Yes, he didn't have to be consumed by rage.
This was not his first encounter with a prophet; how to extract potentially valid information from the prophecies and ignore those irrelevant branches of events should have been something he had already become proficient in.
"You're right, Andos." He tasted a trace of unresolved anger deep in his words. "Nothing is going to happen."
Andos still couldn't make up his mind. His ability to empathize tells him that Morse still has a lot of burning anger in his heart, but his noble sense of morality does not allow him to leave just now.
Even though he knew full well that it was Morse who had first questioned the ceremony they were hosting, and it was Morse who asked to see his mad brother.
"Let's talk about something else, Mr. Morse."
Andos persuaded softly, his eyes roaming around a small area in the room that did not involve privacy, and finally picked a topic that he thought would never cause any further complications.
He looked at the bottles of paint on Morse's desk: "What craft work have you been doing recently, Mr. Morse? You know so many things that I rarely guess correctly."
"Some miniature models." Morse picked up a small sculpture about one finger high from the table.
The color on the sculpture was only half-painted, and was thrown aside by the creator according to his impatient routine, so that the model was only distinguished by the main colors of each area, and neither light, shadow nor material effects had yet to be processed.
"Do you want to take it to see?"
Andos took the model with both hands and observed it carefully.
Even if the creator was particularly good at quitting things halfway, Andros was still fascinated by Morse's own basic skills that would make anyone amazed and ashamed.
The prince laughed and asked sincerely: "Can you allow me to try to finish the coloring process?"
"Have you finished the draft I gave you last time?"
"Not yet, I always feel that I can't handle the intersection between the waves and the rocks in that painting..."
"Forget your inherent colors, prince. Think of the environmental colors. As a hint, the shadow of the left half of the rock is purple, and the shadow of the right half of the rock is green."
Andos's eyes lit up, and he felt very happy about the new artistic inspiration: "I will try it when I get back, thank you."
Holding the slender little model in his hand, he was anxious to go back and complete the exercise he had been worrying about for a long time. However, his mood did not get much better after seeing Morse, and he really couldn't leave.
If Perturabo were here, Mr. Morse should be able to regain his mood quickly: when they are in the same place, they can often achieve a natural harmony through two-way sarcasm and dislike-but the Perturabo people are here. Outside the city wall, when he was about to fight for Lokos, Andos knew that he could not win over this savior.
In the spirit of giving it one last try, Andos set his sights on a new piece he hadn't seen before.
It looked like a semi-finished coat of arms, with zigzag walls made of iron forming a circular shape with gaps, and in the middle were inlaid gold gears, steel hammers and emerald mountains.
The most noteworthy thing is that there seems to be some mysterious characteristic on the work. He can't tell what it is. He only feels that the coat of arms seems to be covered with fascinating sacred power, which is cold but clean.
Morse did not stop his observation, which emboldened Andros to ask his question.
He asked as politely and without being overly pretentious as possible: "Is this your latest idea, Mr. Morse?"
Morse's intriguing look gave him a chill.
"You are indeed obsessed with art, prince." He said, picking up the coat of arms with his fingertips wrapped in black cloth, and handed it to Andos himself.
"Touch him, Prince."
Andos complied without knowing why.
The moment his hand came into contact with the emblem, a cold but pure power suddenly penetrated his whole body. He bathed in it and felt that his body and mind were purified, and all the few distracting thoughts were burned. Clear.
When he came to his senses, the drop of water dripping from the water clock told him that not even a second had passed.
He handed back the coat of arms and asked curiously: "The feeling just now... was it a gift?"
Morse nodded, and his gaze finally made people feel the usual warmth: "Just take it as such, Prince."
Morse chatted with the prince for a few more words and then sent him away.
Things finally puzzled him completely.
If Andos, who is addicted to art, has not been contaminated, and Cruz, the crazy psyker, is safe and sound, then who will suffer the catastrophe?
He picked up the coat of arms and played with it in his hands, Cruz's prophecy still weighing heavily on his mind.
The prophecy itself was not taken to be true. Regardless of whether the content was reasonable or whether it was going to happen, he only did what he was supposed to do.
Morse propped up his chin and placed the coat of arms on the table.
The real problem that needed to be taken seriously was that he had smelled too many annoying evils everywhere.
The essence of prophecy is the erosion of reality by the vast ocean. This is the most important piece of information among all.
The curtain of evil thoughts has quietly been lifted, and he must find the damn gap.
