#laesarus

[shepcdr]

SHEPARD HAD BEEN THINKING THAT the SR-2's felt awfully empty. Though that, he supposes, might be a personal problem — for the majority of the crew, this has been a delicate, multiyear process at last reaching its long-awaited culmination. For him, it has been less of a process and more of a violent uprooting. Passed from the hands of the Alliance into the vastness of Amada space and into the emptiness of cold, suffocating death; then between the hands of Cerberus scientists and lab technicians ( well, probably more like through their hands, given the alleged state of Shepard — what was left of him — when they found him ) ; then thrust, with disgustingly little ceremony, back into life and into the flames of a crumbling Lazarus research station. And then back into command of a ship too eerily familiar to reject as the one that was once his ... but still too jarringly — despite the obvious and overwhelming human presence — alien to be the real thing.

He had spent the past days tracing new routes through the ship, angling around the instinctive paths tugging him towards his old crewmates' stations. The room that Liara had made into her temporary quarters/office was no more. And he had realised, when Gardner's patience ran out and the mess sergeant had actually snapped at him, that he was staring through the man and at the spot where Kaidan used to linger. Admittedly, he's been avoiding the once-populated hangar, too, where the rest of his crew so often gravitated. The Normandy SR-1 had operated with barely a skeleton crew before its steady accumulation of additional allies once it had passed into Shepard's hands; the SR-2, though bustling with more than thrice that, felt far larger and far more lifeless than its predecessor.

He was hoping to change that quickly, once he'd checked in with now-Councillor Anderson — he owed that much to his captain and his old mentor — and could set course for Omega. Fill the ship with not his people but, at the least, still people he can perhaps afford to trust.

... Wishful thinking. No, that isn't it. This is some sort of terrible, divine, malicious wish-fulfilment.

Captain Revan — they're a pleasant and more than welcome addition. A familiar face and a reassurance: a sure ally amongst a team thus far made of Cerberus' top picks.

But Saren Arterius? Once the Council's most prized Spectre, turned traitor to the galaxy and fanatical crusader for synthetic-organic fusion at the hands of the Reapers? That's another story, and after their last exchange — well. Shepard hasn't even begun to think about where the hell they stand with one another after that shitshow.

Still, there's no use in pondering it, he figures as he slithers past the rest of the crew, through the CIC and into the elevators, and towards Starboard Observation. He'll find out when he sees the bastard up close, in person, for himself.

" ... Saren. "

Shepard casts a quick glance across the room. If not for its sole occupant looming in sight, it looks remarkably untouched. Silence wells for a moment, thick and awkward in the space between them. The air, despite Starboard Observation's temperate conditioning, is frosty against his skin. Shepard wets his lips, twists his mouth in a half-grimace of a failed smile.

" Hope there's no hard feelings. " A little humour couldn't hurt. And he would have been fine if he stopped there. But, of course, he doesn't:

" What with the, uh — well. Telling you to kill yourself. " ... " ... you know. On the Citadel. " ... " ... back then. "

@laesarus

[anarkissm]

SPECTREs bear a great burden,   nihlus remembers the words; platitudes and speeches spilling over him like a cold tide, as he stared up at the galactic community's council, inaugurating him into the citadel's SPECTRE forces from their proverbial pedestals.  they are protectors of the galactic peace. both our first  and last line of defense.  the safety of the galaxy is theirs to uphold.

if there is any truth to those words, carefully pieced together like glass puzzle pieces, sharp and translucent, nihlus does not find it in the eyes of a furious, injured batarian slaver, green blood in his mouth and seeping out of his eyes; dark, shiny, mostly pupil, they stare up at him with a cultivated hate that nihlus does not care to understand.

@laesarus's commentary is dry, dark with humor, “the world ends around us everyday.”

"of course," nihlus tilts his head in an acknowledging bow; his green eyes are warm and luminous against the dark plates of his face.

the batarian hegemony maintains a sociopolitical entity of slavers and spies and aggressive propaganda campaigns; they are rarely interested in galactic peace.

it makes his job harder. he remembers that, as he lifts his pistol (and the burnt, branded skin of the hegemony's victims, the blisters around their shock collars, as nihlus helped them out of small cages). gently curls his talon over the trigger, as the mercenary begins to fear, begins to beg.

nihlus watches the bullets, bright and burning, as they burst out of the weapon and sear into his face. kills him.

nihlus has seen many, many worlds end, many lights leaving many eyes. only feels the recoil.

"but there are certain worlds that i do not mind ending."

[anarkissm]

a bright, blinding light is the first memory that he can visualize with perfect clarity, the fleeting silhouette-shapes of figures and objects filtering through his corneas, as he slips in and out of consciousness; coalescing with the harsh ringing inside his skull, the muffled echoes of voices, strangers, speaking over his supine body. it feels like the sun; as if nihlus kryik has spent too much time in the dark.

as he becomes more hyper-aware of his surroundings, weeks and weeks after that, the light feels more and more like the dull glare from a hospital room’s table lamp. it reflects across the salarian doctor’s chrome data-pad. and the supernova-red pigments of shepard’s hair.

​ @laesarus says: “I wondered when you were going to wake up. You almost didn’t survive.”

“a turian spectre is hardly worth your thoughts. we’re a dime a dozen. now, if it were blasto… i’m sure there would have been a parade.”   he offers a confident, self-deprecating joke. feels the strain of his voice in his throat, and winces. “besides. it would have saved me the embarrassment of being seen like this.”

[lerecueil]

A LARGER SHIP MAKES IT NO EASIER TO FIND EVEN A SCRAP OF PEACE WITHIN. if anything, freya has a more difficult time than ever finding anywhere to be alone, up to and very much including her own cabin. after all, if she chooses not to answer her com, that's the first place anybody would think to look – or to simply hail her that much more disruptively in the confines of her own living quarters. so instead, she seeks the strange in-betweens, wherever she can find them, rare as they are. the persona she's built allows her at least some plausible deniability. after all, who would expect to find the great commander shepard in the normandy's most infrequently trafficked storage hold, tucked on the floor between two enormous crates?

and among those who might believe that much, who could imagine her with a smoldering cigarette in one hand, leaning as close as she can to the nearest filtration vent?

one of the benefits of the lower decks is that the air filtration system hits these areas last. so while they maintain the foulest and stalest air, there's less of a chance of a whiff finding its way up to the bridge, or the crew deck. not to mention that blowing each thin line of smoke directly into the vent beside her minimizes any smell lingering here with remarkable effectiveness. she's practically made an art form of it. with a bitter sort of comedy, freya realizes how reminiscent of her youth this is, when she'd sneaked onto the roof of her father's building in the citadel to hide the one rebellious act which might cause him shame. she can't decide now if shame is what she feels anymore – or if she just wants to keep something for herself.

it's an ugly habit, she knows, and one of which she'd rid herself for many years before ... well, all of this shit happened. she managed to get through her time with cerberus without picking it back up, but she suspects that had more to do with a lack of time than any particular commitment. it had been house arrest that did her in, all her nerves and grief and fury and guilt and helplessness coalescing into hours of chain smoking while leaning out a window – in between pacing circles around her flat. unfortunately, that made vega one of the only crew members with a clue about this particular vice. more fortunately, he'd been remarkably easy to convince that she quit after reclaiming the normandy. she has no desire or intention for him to learn otherwise.

but of all the members of this crew – vega included – she expects she'd prefer that any of them to catch her here, rather than the familiar shadow that falls over her left shoulder.

" shit, " she hisses bitterly to herself, not even bothering glancing up to see whatever judgment, disdain, annoyance, amusement, et cetera that saren may be exhibiting with the weight of his gaze trained on her. of all the bloody– ... but it almost had to be, didn't it? and she had almost no doubt, even in that instant moment, that he'd sought her out.

god almighty, did she miss when he didn't give enough of a shit to bother.

" would've heard it on the com if there was an emergency, so I take it you've sniffed me out for your own reasons. congratulations, arterius, here I am. " for a moment, she considers stubbing out the cigarette as if to hide it – but there's no doubt he's seen it, so instead, she inhales deeply before blowing another delicate stream of white smoke into the vent. " might as well tell me what the hell you want. "

@laesarus ( as saren arterius ) gets a starter from freya.

[anarkissm]

the capital city of illium boasts a decadent nightlife, asari philanthropists pooling their resources together for an unforgettable night at THE METEOR GALA, a yearly event that gathered the highest officials of asari politics, asari military, and turian military hierarchy. the gala was set in the ballroom of the tallest building in the economic district, a spiraling skyscraper that allowed a clear, perfect view of the stars above them.

the windows to the ballroom lead into a yawning balcony that spanned the circle of the spire. the walls were gilded, shimmering with shades of sunflower yellow and gold. crystals adorned the decorative themes, mirroring the shine of the night sky.

nihlus holds a glass flute. turian champagne. absentmindedly swirling its contents in his hand as he observed the crowd.

he feels like his face is bare. like he is out of his element. in spite of the decorum that @laesarus had drilled into his cognitive programming, it felt more like a performance, and less like a real state of mind.

he eyes the asari that stares at him from across the room, adorned in an electric-green dress with an open back, pretending she is still talking to her salarian husband. glancing at him. smiling at him.

he sighs. wonders if she was worth the diplomatic incident.

but his eyes wander elsewhere. ignores her entirely. searches for saren.

he finds him. a silver sword in the midst of the gold. a sleek, towering figure dressed in the traditional turian robes. black and grey. accentuating his natural physicality and strength.

he admires his mentor. he envies him. saren does not look out of place, in the throng of other military officers. captains. generals. huntresses. but only nihlus can recognize the set in saren's jaw, the mark of annoyance that the turian male is clearly internalizing for the sake of etiquette.

he is as annoyed with the party as nihlus is.

nihlus approaches him. his aura is a smile, welcoming saren into a more familiar atmosphere. their friendship was useful for such occasions. their partnership was a boon for the sociopolitical niceties that they could not entirely relate to, as soldiers. as warriors.

"i'm sorry," nihlus intervenes, addressing the group of people saren had attracted. "but i must speak with your man of the hour, immediately. SPECTRE business."

saren excuses himself with the same solemness as if this was not all a lie, an excuse to leave the growing throng of people who fawned over the infamous SPECTRE.

they escape into the balcony, the wind blowing slow and heavy over them as nihlus inhaled, spilled the rest of his champagne over the balustrade. watches it shimmer as it falls from the impossible height of the building.

nihlus laughs at him, soft and carried over the breeze. "that was exciting, hm?"

[ HIDE ] - our muses are hiding out together at a party they didn't want to attend. + saren & nihlus !!

[lerecueil]

they'll see you coming, and kill you. + kyphelass 4 khyri

THE TRUTH OF IT IS WHAT HURTS THE WORST. that is what truly burrows beneath khyri's skin to make a home that itches and itches and has since her childhood. little more than a baby and adults drew back in fear even then. her mother had been able to shield her from some of it, careful as she'd been about who she introduced to khyri, where she brought her. but even the best protection could not keep her from noticing some things – such as the way others often cringed away, even crossed the street to escape a child no older than five or six. it should be something that no longer bothers her. yet the sting of it has buried deep through all these years, perhaps in the knowledge that, whatever she does, whatever kindnesses she grants others, no matter who she tries to be, the blood of her father will always haunt her.

does ky ( @laesarus ) notice the way she flinches? that, she cannot say. it has a way of knowing that she still can't entirely wrap her mind around – not that she's ever been particularly lauded for her cleverness.

the hand at her side, closed around her bow, tightens just slightly, the knuckles of it going a slightly paler green as she does. she cannot begrudge it the truth, or say she does not want to hear it. besides, should she not sit grateful that, at least, it does not fear her? would it call her friend, she wonders? would she be pathetic enough to ask?

" ah, " she manages, somewhat a grunt of acknowledgement that strangles its way from her dry throat as she casts it a sidelong glance, wearing the mask it chooses to make itself blend with the rest of their world. khyrielle has never stated her envy outright, but she doubts it's any secret, even if it does not come with resentment. " not all of us can change our skin to suit the situation, so I suppose there isn't much to do about that. "

were she another being, perhaps there would be an edge to her words, some sort of tacit barb of defensiveness in her own sensitivity. but instead, they hold only resignation. she knows what she is. and no matter how she may wish as much, she will never be able to slip unnoticed beneath the radar.

" you will have to collect the reward for the beast, then. the guards manning the fort are understandably wary and you can certainly appear less ... menacing, I suppose, than I. and I wouldn't want them taking aim at pip, either. " her gaze flickers briefly toward the copse concealing the giant badger, who audibly snuffles in the bushes in search of a snack.

with her free hand, she proffers the head of the giant boar, cleaned and tended by now. the best cuts of meat have been saved, and most dried, for the journey ahead. " I hate to see it die for the humans' fear. but at least silvanus knows its body will go to good use with us. "

THE LAST GOODBYE. accepting!

[lerecueil]

[ REFILL ] sender refills receiver's drink before they can ask or do it themselves + saren @ freya

" THIS ISN'T THE SORT OF LIQUOR THAT'LL KNOCK A HUMAN DEAD, IS IT? " there's a wry humor in freya's voice that makes clear she knows better than to think the turian would take such rash action, at least at this point. but a willingness to sit in his company – to nearly treat, so to speak – shouldn't be mistaken for trust. she's never been the sort who needs to be loud about her reservations. open defensiveness provides little but unnecessary friction ... and a spotlight on one's own vulnerability. she knows better than to think showing her teeth to saren arterius is any better of an idea than granting him her confidence. he could certainly be useful, as foe turned friend, but his motivations remain shrouded in mystery.

he may still want to kill her. but he's too smart, too resourceful, to do it here on the normandy in full view of edi and with no chance of escape past her crew.

she rolls her wrist as she picks up the tumbler, moving the amber liquid within in a slow circle, glancing down at the leftover half-melted large cube of ice in the center. it would be stranger, she thinks, to share a drink with somebody she'd killed two years ago, if she herself wasn't supposed to be dead, too. taking him aboard the ship has certainly caused some ... disquiet amongst the crew, but at least for now, she's fostered enough trust to maintain their support, even if somewhat hesitantly.

" settling in? " an edge of sarcasm, again, even if delivered with a smile – if only because she knows far better than to think he's been welcomed. " I'd say let me know if you need anything, but, uh ... " the words you still have your life and haven't earned anything else yet linger unsaid on her tongue, washed down by a swig of liquor. " resources aren't unlimited. "

freya looks at him then, one brow lifted slightly at its corner, conducting some unspoken analysis. " you should lay low, arterius. everyone's looking for a reason, and I won't stop them. "

CASUAL YET INTIMATE SENTENCE STARTERS. accepting!