@solhunt said: "i don't get it," she says, out of the blue. “why wear their banners if not in warnin’? why honour them like that? those bugs've done nothin’ but harm since they came — they kill our people and pillage our former greatness and — an’ i don't know everythin’ they've done before my time but — but — ” i see the aftermath; the howling poltergeist, the wandering ghosts, the horror they leave in their wake. “i just ... don't get it,” she finally says, quiet and subdued. (for cybel uwu)
he lets her rage sometimes. lets her whet her thoughts against his weathered surface. not because he thinks her childish ( though there is youth in her energy despite her age ) or ignorant. but because she is a like a flowing stream, clogged with pain and fear and hatred at times. best let her expel those things herself, so that she can see the rest. the truth.
the fire in front of them crackles and flames cheerily despite her confused and angry words, popping and sending sparks up through the hole in the roof of this deep cave. far above them the stars move in their hazy spirals. the smoke is but a thin stream by the time it reaches the yawning hole, and is quickly whipped away by the winter winds outside. this is a good place they’ve found. likely if they explored deeper they’d find some other hunters’ stash of goods, but he is not so interested in that right now.
his four arms are busy with her sword. one hand holds the handle steady and flat against a knee. another two draw an oilstone against its curved edge in turns. the fourth occasionally comes through with a rag soaked with mineral oil when he feels more is needed.
cetus, he thinks quietly to himself, and feels the warmth of his ghost in one of his palms. come and translate for me please.
the ghost appears in a small flurry of light which trickles down between the sharp blades of his shell to scatter across the floor. he comes to rest in the space between cybel and sol, sharp spines flaring between the blades as cybel speaks and he listens.
‘ i used to see only the evil, the destruction. after twilight gap i wanted nothing more than to rip out the heart of every dreg and vandal i came across, to tear the limbs from captains and kells and archons. i almost joined saint-14 on his crusade, but i knew my talents could be put to better use, so i decided to go deeper into their territory, deeper than most have ever dared. i spent years observing them, trading information with other ghosts, staying hidden. no easy thing for one my size. ’
the sound of the oilstone against the steel sings with the crackling flame and the distant fury of the winter winds around the bend of the cave. he pauses, and thinks, and cetus waits patiently for him to continue, listening for a time as cybel’s keening exospeak echoes around them. sol has learned to wait, to hold fast and listen carefully ; she does so now, and it fills him with some small measure of pride.
‘ i watched them fight each other over ether, over dead ghost shells, over armor and arms and ship parts. like jackals. and it reminded me of when i first woke up to this broken world. when many of us called ourselves war lords and fought over this or that, wantonly destroyed and killed and took. but i saw other things too. i saw kelekh’s--babies--born and raised. i saw vandals here and there sharing their ether with dregs. and dregs sharing their either with each other. i saw baronesses so old they could barely walk weaving such beautiful cloaks. ’
he sets the stone and rag and swords carefully aside, sweeps his cloak from his shoulders, turns to face sol head on. points to a piece of deep blue fabric with the white markings of the house of wolves on it. ‘ before their collapse which they call whirlwind came, this was the symbol of the mraskilaasan. it means gentle weavers. ’ his hands softly turn through the cloak to where a tassel of glass beads hangs, all of different colors and intricate shapes. ‘ this was made by a vandal whose grandmother was from a house that no longer exists. in our tongue they would be called jeweler of stars. ’
he sweeps the cloak back around his shoulders, securing them by their clasps. next he raises his lower set of arms for her to inspect. they are well crafted, the hands made in imitation of eliksni hands, which had taken him many years to learn to use well. ‘ these were made by house judgement. before the whirlwind, they were peacekeepers between the houses. but the houses splintered. and house judgement dwindled in size and power. variks means to see the eliksni survive, and find their lost culture again. you will meet him soon, maybe. ’
his glowing optics flick to meet sol’s gaze, his expression not unkind. he leans to the side, scoops her sword into his hands, and passes it to her, shining and sharpened anew. with his hands now free he signs as he speaks, cetus disappearing once more. ‘ you can hate them. and fight them. i still kill many eliksni enemies when i have to. but they are not cabal, who are just a single finger of several mailed fists, seeking to expand their bloated empire. they are not hive. they are not vex. they are more like us than you might want to believe, sol. ’
