“All right, Merlin. Just ‘Aloy’ is fine.” Though it’s spoken with a shrug, Aloy can’t help the bemused curl at the corner of her mouth. M’lady was certainly a new one. Better than motherless chuff, to be sure, but not necessary. “And I wouldn’t say they’re alive, exactly…” Yet she’s behaving as if this one is, placing a soothing hand on its flank as she feels its circuits ceasing to function—as if to comfort the DYING.
She’s about ready to give up on the Sawtooth when he extends a hand to touch one of its plates and then—something happens. A swell of energy shoots through the metal, and Aloy jerks her hand away from its torn side just in time to avoid a nasty shock. At the same time, she watches blue-laced chords woven through its frame flare with new light. With LIFE. “Whoa, whoa—easy, there.” Aloy reaches out with little hesitation, both hands on the Sawtooth’s side as it struggles to rise, too damaged to stand. She barely even hears Merllin’s comment.
“How—how did you DO that?” Aloy grabs his wrist, perhaps a little over-eagerly, expecting to find some new device of the Old Ones’ design. “I’ve never seen tech do that before.” And she’s seen it do some wonderful, terrible things.
eyes are every bit of green as the resonating magical glyph pon’ merlin’s hand. each point for the star, forever encircled, power beseeches knowledge hidden from thee eye of mortals. temporarily, his own index finger taps aloy’s forehead- activating the third oculus; the third eye in which mortals cannot unlock. without fret- this touch only allows her to see whichever the elder wizard cannot explain so easily.
“ tis’ magic and thoust now know i am man with b l e s s in g s to purpose. i’m sorry, lady aloy. i do not mean to frighten you .” tongue slips an old and forgotten formal language much like shakespeare. focus is key, yet all he can hear is an odd static. nothing of this nature had ever been recorded by the masterminds of his time. “ how much do you know ?” presently speaking, merlin must know the gist of this world’s sorrows before lifting hands to veil from further corruption. there’s always whispers vibrating from every which end of the scholar’s consciousness. but everything is writ in metal.
charms and harmless enchantments swirl around the wrist that simultaneously contains scars from a long ago time; men of royalty, knights and drunkards harmed those assumed to be out of place. a peasant. ambrosius played the cards of life to his favor, a normal beggar in a world of famine. && twas’ a lonely life it was- to pretend to be normal in a body that is anything but o r d i n a r y. “ what is this place? and why do they call her thee . . ‘all mother’ ?”
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