Fissure smiled as Mark called him uncle. Until then, he had considered Diarow his only family, and they weren't even really related. "Well, I'll see what I can do. Earth never got in the way, but death is tricky." he said, glancing at Diarow. "There's hope yet, strangely. It's a different level of thinking, regarding when he died, just how dead he is, and several other factors. If he's Draknar's son─which I have no doubt he is─the sword under Diarow's cloak could give us as good a chance as any, being that his soul, like mine and Diarow's and our predecessors', is directly tied to the blade: anchored, so to speak. To my understanding, as long as Diarow holds that blade, he is far from succumbing to death. Would it be so weird to revive your father?" Fissure snorted, his nostril's emitting an intense wave of heat, and not smoke. "Either way, I'd like to find my dead brother." The dragon was quite ready to reduce solid rock to an empty whole with just a blast of flame. Perhaps the only thing that had developed as much as Fissure's size in all his years, was his flame...