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He approached the object and knelt down toward it. The so-called phylactery, whatever that meant. The voices wanted him to grasp it? How the hell...?

Maybe...

He used both hands, summoning multiple tiny paths at once. In truth, they were more like bubbles than paths, and he tried to coat his palms and fingers in them as he moved to grab the object.

Oddly enough, it seemed to work. It jostled wildly in his grip, both because the bubbles were constantly appearing and reappearing and because the phylactery itself was continuing to shift. It hovered there haphazardly within his grasp as he did his best not to drop the damn thing.

"Good, good!"

"Yes, chosen! Yes!"

"Become one and see!"

"Breathe and see!"

"Return it! Return it!"

"No, keep it! Keep it!"

"Hold! Hold!"

"No, return! Return!"

What in the goddamn hell was happening, he wondered? These contradicting messages weren't helping. And they were just getting louder and louder, too.

"Who are all of you?" he said aloud. "Why are you talking to me?" It was just an impulse that made him speak up like that. He didn't actually expect a response.

Which was good, because he didn't receive one. Not directly, at least.

Instead, the voices fell suddenly silent.

The rest of the world still sounded comparatively muffled, however. The howling wind was the most prominent noise again, and yet it was scarcely louder than his own breathing.

Had they not expected him to say anything to them? Had they not thought he could hear them? He was quickly getting sick of all these unanswered questions.

"Are any of you Malast?" he tried again.

No answer.

Of course.

The phylactery, meanwhile, was gradually settling down, he noticed. It was getting easier to balance within his hands. As if it were calming down--or his own bubbles of destruction were, perhaps.