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Post by ElegaicRequiem on Aug 31, 2013 8:55:12 GMT -5
More filler while you wait.
The general sat upon his posting, a stone outcropping jutting forth from the main wall of his domain. The fire beneath him flickered in the evening light, reflecting a warm orange glow off his sooty hands. As he surveyed the part of his world that he could see from here, he noticed his subordinates settling down for the latest radio broadcast with glasses of wine in hand, snuggling up to each other to stay warm in the bitter cold. Even the fire didn’t fully block winter’s spite at this time of year, and a bit of alcohol and close company was a better way to fight back than most. Atton, the man under his charge, glanced up at the general for a moment, then to the woman, Garvaun, before draping the blanket over the both of them and waiting for permission to activate the receiver. The general was satisfied with the day’s events and played the short song that gave permission to activate the radio. A quick kiss to each other, then a flick of the dial started the device’s ritual of hissing and sputtering static for a moment before settling down on the voice of Calvach Adela-Mariano, the Grand Minister of Nymea.
The general listened to the weekly update with his troops, proud to serve under a man who would so punctually transmit - and personally, too! - an update on the month’s major events and political landscape in the sector at large. It seemed that further economic improvements have been made domestically, while stronger relationships were being established with the other industrial worlds around the sector. Tuning out mundane details that only really mattered to poncy rich types, the general waited for any important news about the sainting of Valeria, the martyr who captured the sector’s greatest criminal.
Vasani the Reaper had taken years to find, and some of the best warriors Valeria could muster from Nymea’s only crusader house, the Nymean Rose, had lost their lives alongside her to bring the monster down. The general slowly brought a hand to the top of his face in silent salute for them. Alas, there was no news of the Ecclesiarchy’s decision on the matter.
As punctually as it had began, the broadcast ended, and Atton flicked the dial that turned off the radio just as the general gave the order to bed down for the night -- eight chimes. Atton and Garvaun shared one last, quick kiss before adjusting the baffle on the fire, then heading to the bedroom. The general was pleased with the discipline of his troops, and rested assured that they would rise on his next order in the morning with his customary six chimes.
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Post by ElegaicRequiem on Oct 19, 2013 10:16:05 GMT -5
A Lament for an Uncompleted Task
Brighid, light your fire of wrath, Join me in my hunt to kill. My sinner’s blood is shed once more - This home soil defiled.
Brighid, light your fire of warmth, Join me in my quest to save: Chained in Darkness, the Dancer spins. The light orbits freely.
Brighid, light your fire of loss, Join me in mourning the damned: The fallen who have lost their names; Those whose names were stolen.
I call upon all of you, My weakness has let them down: My one true love - and Feath’ry light. All that saves us is Hope.
Loose your arrows fiery! Tumbling into twisted, Criminal abominations, A righteous punishment.
-One who was once of Camaril
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Post by ElegaicRequiem on Feb 11, 2014 18:18:08 GMT -5
I've decided to continue sharing.
As far as it knew, the river had always existed. It had no memory of forming, it had simply always been flowing from the area of high plains, down past a series of mountains, to finally empty into the sea. As far as it knew, it might be the largest and longest river that existed. It also might not be, but the river didn’t really care about the difference. It just continued to flow from high ground to low, start to finish. Then back again when the water returned to the plains in the form of rain and snow. The river had a sense of time, being able to tell the passage of season and years. It had cycled water countless times before it first noticed the creatures that were starting to settle along its path. It paid them no mind. It was a primordial river, untamable, and it raged on.
The beings continued to settle, eventually catching the river’s interest when they gave it a name, just as they had named themselves. The ksord’ra referred to themselves as hunting warriors, but they had given the river a better name; it had never had one before, and considered the moniker. Verrae, which in their language meant River of Life. They measured the depth and length, made drawings, and labeled all of it, calling the entirety of it Delana. The river was flattered by all the attention as it watched settlements grow into great cities. Soon, more than just water was moving within its banks - waste, refuse, blood - these things had always been part of Verrae’s flow. They were natural, and the river saw no need to complain. Verrae watched in silence as the ksord’ra battled each other for reasons the river could not understand. They were large, vicious, and clawed, with thick scaly hides; they were obviously meant to fight in order to survive. Verrae did not judge them for their ways of survival, and washed their blood and their bodies to the sea.
The reptilians continued to fight, effectively making a religion of their brutal warfare. The mountain range by the sea eventually became known as the Eastern Death Mountains, or Rerksom’dsr in their tongue. The river was interested that a mountain of death bled the dead into a river of life, and wondered what sort of influence that had on their view of their own life cycle, or beliefs in an afterlife if they had any. Soon after the mountains were given their name, the ksord’ra began to use terrifying devices that made fire and air move with great force and violence, scarring their landscape with craters. One of these struck the mountain furthest inland, changing Verrae’s course. Now, instead of going directly to the sea, the river flowed among the Rerksom’dsr that remained. Before long, the mountains were washed into the sea along with the blood and bodies. The river’s name was changed to Azerra, which meant Mover of Mountains, but had a slight negative connotation, as if it had been the river’s fault. Azerra had never intended to move anything except the water. However, be it bodies or mountains, the river would take it all to the sea. Azerra erased all traces of the Death Mountains and all the fighting that had taken place to control them.
Snow continued to melt as seasons passed and years groaned onward, Azerra faithfully performing its job. It was no longer a river of life, but one of change, and many changes were happening to Delana. Something the river couldn’t remember ever seeing before happened: stones from the sky rained to the ground. The river wondered if this was some new task, and would now be required to move rock as well as water, having proven to be so adept at it. To its relief, this was not to be. The falling stones struck the ground hard, sending up burning dust and opening holes into the molten parts of Delana below the surface. The fighting that the ksord’ra were so fond of now redoubled, as if they were somehow desperate to drive themselves extinct. The dust hid the sun, making winter too harsh. Snow now mixed with soot and powder and the rain was full of ash; the fish and plants that kept Azerra clean and fresh choked and died. The river once known as a giver of life now ran with dirty, foul water. It was insulted by the difference between now and what it had always been previously, but needed to continue sending everything to the sea.
Something stirred from the stones that had fallen, and it praised the efforts of the ksord’ra to kill each other. It struck some of them down, but rewarded others with great power to slaughter. It told them that it was a horned hating spirit, which the now depraved lizard beasts translated as Kra’ae. Azerra feared that this new creature would bring an end to the world. Unlike the fighting that had been happening, the bloodshed that Kra’ae begot was not natural. Strange energies tugged at Delana, sending storms across the sky. The ground split and shook as if in fear while the great cities that had been made began to crumble. The terrible spirit beast started and ended wars at a whim, delighting in the incessant conflict, the worship, the death. It would collect the blood of the slain in order to bathe itself, growing ever more appalling. The river could not complain even if it wanted to. It was just a river. All Azerra could do was to wash away the bits of a dying world to the sea.
Time passed before the sun was once again seen from Delana’s broken surface. Its full glory now working to heal the wounds caused by the long winter, it was as if at last spring could finally bloom with rejuvenation’s blessing. Kra’ae’s power waned slightly as the ksord’ra took time to rebuild enough of their ruined civilization to ensure their survival. A bridge was built across Azerra’s widest spot so that vast armies could easily travel from one side to the other in a single day. It was called the Verkvom’bredsa – the Great Eastern Span. Once it was finished, the otherworldly martinet commanded more and larger battles to be fought in its name. The ksord’ra were only too delighted to comply. They began to use new methods of conflict that they had not fully considered before: in the sky, in the oceans, above the clouds, below the waves. Even far beyond the sky, their battles raged. Azerra watched as the sky burned as it had when the stones first rained. The river wondered if the sea could ever be filled as it flowed, doing what it could to take this new set of detritus far away.
Then came O’arru. She descended from the sky in a craft like the ones used by the ksord’ra to kill each other above the clouds. Unlike the stones that had brought death and demons, O’arru brought life and healing. The ksord’ra trembled and hid as she battled Kra’ae for Azerra knew not how long. They were gods before the mortal lizard folk, reforming Delana with the power behind their exchange. Volcanoes erupted, creating new contours for the source of the river. At its mouth, Azerra sunk into the land, pushing against a wall of a lava flow. Gradually, a new mountain rose to replace the one that had been washed away so long ago. O’arru’s strength was formidable, but Kra’ae had grown powerful from the crusades launched in his honor. Nearly sacrificing herself, she shattered the hating spirit into seven pieces and sealed them into the surface of Delana. Having defeated their dark god, O’arru turned her attention to the ksord’ra themselves. She changed their bodies and the minds so that they could enjoy a life free from the shackles of constant warfare to which they had so eagerly bound themselves. She gave them new knowledge and new purpose. She gave the river a new name, Al’neakh, the Appointed Path. Using it as an object lesson, she taught the new people how they should live in harmony with their surroundings and each other. Al’neakh, for its part, was impressed by the amount O’arru was able to heal the broken world. It did its best to wash the last of the blood away and help restore Delana.
O’arru stayed for a time, then left. The ksord’ra had been remade in the image of their savior; they were now more upright in stature, smoother and more graceful in form, covered with tufted, downy feathers instead of rough scales. As O’arru ascended back to the heavens, she gave them a new name. No longer were they hunters, they were guardians of her message. Examples of blessing, they had become fursima, those who had the light of fortune shine down on them. They never worshiped her, for she had commanded them not to. But they felt the weight of their debt too deeply, and afforded her a place in their memories quite close to divinity, translating her name as Hope Bringer. Following her teachings, the fursima advanced their knowledge many times over. No longer did they concern themselves with warfare of conquest above the clouds, they sought to understand the otherworld that had cursed them with Kra’ae’s presence. It was with this mystic science that they were able to see the coming of another vessel. It was similar, yet much larger than the one that had borne O’arru to Delana. The ship encountered the magnificent storms that still lingered somewhat in the uppermost parts of Delana’s sky, and crashed hard into the sea where Al’neakh had pushed up the new mountain. The river was thrown into chaos as water flowed the wrong way in an artificial tidal bore which subsided over the next day. The survivors that emerged were similar in shape to the fursima, but differed greatly in appearance. Lacking a means to retain their body heat, they wrapped themselves with animal hides, plant fibers, and materials stranger still. They varied wildly in hair and eye coloration, and spoke a language completely alien. As they began to interact with the fursima, the two peoples began to learn each other’s language. They called themselves terrans, which meant they were from the planet called Terra. Al’neakh washed the unlucky ones ashore, where respects were paid to the dead.
Enough time had passed since the fursima had welcomed the terrans to Delana that the two races had long ago begun to bear certain similarities to each other. One of the leaders among them was mostly, but not entirely, terran. This young woman ruled over the valley surrounding Al’neakh. She had been given the name Aratr’kdae, which meant One Who Shivers of the Sky Clan. She was first to discover that several more ships were on the way. The river wondered just how many times Delana would be visited from the stars as the welcoming preparations were made to receive the newcomers. Guidance systems that sent atmospheric data were constructed. Efforts to make contact were made. These met with no success, but still the people of Delana made ready to safely greet their visitors. They arrived in force, fielding armies the likes of which Al’neakh had not seen since the bloodiest days of Kra’ae’s reign. They were welcomed, but they were uninterested in being invited. They were terran, the river could tell, but they called themselves human. The humans were immediately disgusted by the terrans and how they had assimilated both culturally and genetically with the fursima. The humans were ready, and quite happy, for the battle; the terrans and fursima had forgotten what real armed conflict was, and had no defense against the systematic genocide save for staying hidden. The humans had a general who led the extermination, Warlord Vran. Al’neakh didn’t know what his name meant, but assumed the meaning was something akin to Ruthless Conqueror. Vran set fire to the marvelous bridge, the Verkvom’bredsa, and seeded the river’s source with toxic materials to poison the water. The river remembered when it had been called a River of Life. Not even the savage ksord’ra had dared to taint a water supply. Al’neakh vomited out the corpses of all that touched its waters, and rushed them to the sea.
Vran’s purging of the terrans and fursima that were unable to hide underground was very nearly absolute. Al’neakh did not know how many survived in hiding, being strongly avoided now by all those that wished to remain alive. The humans had begun building a massive structure on the surface of Delana, very close to where the ruins of the bridge remained. They had refused to use any of the extant words for the names of things save the planet itself. Insisting on giving meaningless names to everything else, they gave the river a designation; it was now Waterway 14C. It bitterly considered that a misnomer, given that all it ferried to the sea was a poisonous rot that the humans purified for their use. Being so close to them afforded the river a chance to see that the humans were fractious, always trying to outsmart each other in a deadly game of treachery. Vran was their hero, but he was not exempt from participating. He had a mistress that demanded much from him, and all those around her. She took various measures to ensure that she got what she demanded. In a sense, Waterway 14C believed that she was the true ruler of the humans that now dominated Delana’s surface. Through a certain series of events too complex and too temporal for the river to understand, she did make herself the official ruler, betraying the once powerful warlord. All of Delana would bow to her mercurial whims, save the river. The river continued to flow from high to low, regardless of what anyone did to it.
The betrayer woman began to construct some of the oversized foundations for the towering human cities over the spots where O’arru had sealed Kra’ae. It was as if the humans knew exactly where to go to take control of the sites so that they could eventually release the fell tyrant. The river knew that that would be unwise – Kra’ae had killed his followers as a reward just as much as granted them boons of power. The mistress was clearly capable of controlling her own people, but she was not as adept as Vran at subduing enemies or maintaining control of what she had. With Vran’s genius absent, the fursima began to return to the surface to reclaim small pieces of territory that the humans would not miss. In order to stop the slow death of their world, they silenced the wellsprings at the source of Waterway 14C, drying the river. They called the wasteland riverbed Al’rukh, meaning The Way has been Lost. As the river evaporated, it wondered if there was no hope left for Delana. Then it was no more.
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Post by ElegaicRequiem on Mar 10, 2014 14:07:16 GMT -5
Falling Apart
Brighid, listen closely. I would have you respond As I bare my form; the form Of my words: my heart.
Glori’us Feath’ry light Which would bring us Hope! I am forever wrapped in The sound of your embrace.
The collapsing sky, Under the falling stars Gives white testament: Your eternal purity.
To taste the temp’rature Of your pale flesh. To speak at your funeral. I invited you there.
Already forgotten, You’ll never know them. Locked safely away; My words never existed.
You’ve stained me the color Of your unending love, Seeing your smile for The first time once more.
Your voice bridged the gap, And our bodies became one. The silver radiance Only shines like you.
Become a world for Me: you, in my hands; I trace it with my finger Until I know its form.
You annul my hatred; I can’t help my love. Make me whole - bring me to life - This world is bitter.
You taste of summer. Gentle, light, and warm. I can only taste of Autumn: golden but dying.
And you were Culhwch, I was your forty tasks. Who was your Olwen? You made me into Grainne -- Forced me to that dark promise.
-One who was once of Camaril
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Post by ElegaicRequiem on May 18, 2015 11:29:56 GMT -5
Vran sat upon his horse, surveying the battlefield below. In his hand was an apple, a single slice removed from it to be lazily chewed upon as the aides de camp petitioned for his attention. He gave it not, for his attentions were fixed solely on the glorious scene spread before him like a picnic blanket upon which were arraigned bodies. Bodies meant victory. It was a natural law that victory should mean his continued existence in the service of the most beneficent Emperor.
Vran felt no happiness or sadness at the carnage, no pride in his success – some gratification that he yet lived, perhaps – but nothing for the dead who had fought against him; nothing for the living that followed him. That was how he had always felt, but he knew it was not normal. On impulse, he dismounted and brushed aside the blubbering idiots that demanded his time.
With a sweeping gesture, Vran drew his sword and made a horizontal slice on his right cheek, and knelt on that unnamed hilltop. Crying out his prayer, he was heard at every corner of the battlefield, and both sides paid respect to the authenticity, the purity of his prayer. Vran just wanted to know who he was and why this had happened. As he prayed, soldiers from both sides laid down their arms and knelt in order that they might echo Vran’s singular wish.
Vran named the hill Enitur, which means, “Awaiting the answer” in a language long forgotten.
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Post by ElegaicRequiem on Jun 26, 2015 9:13:46 GMT -5
What about Layn?
“I wonder if you have a moment to listen to a story about a girl I knew, and about how she died. If so, sit down and listen; I’m curious to know your opinions about all of it.
“She was born about two and a half years ago - well, I should clarify that for you - she was created, not born. The Ecclesiarchy had rescued her from a slaver ship and nursed her back to health, but they thought she’d been too badly broken. So… they decided to mindwipe her and give her a new personality and memories. Makes sense, right? So she was given the name of Layn and a chipper personality designed to make her pleasant, and a dream of being accepted into the Sisters Dialogus because she loved writing. I’ve no doubt they made that her goal in life so that they could continue to keep an eye on her. Also, increasing the numbers of your own organization never hurts, I’m sure. I’ll bet they did that with all the women they found, or at least most. Anyway, she was placed in the care of Sister Lupi of the Order of the Bloody Rose.
“She set to work immediately on writing, gaining a good bit of skill, as constant practice is wont to do. She was the author of several books within three months. Mostly seedy novellas and gutter-clogging paperbacks that sell for a dirty gesture and a favor, but that was only her first foray into the world of literature. Before long, she was recognized and allowed to take over the famous General Hammerfast franchise. I judge from your expression that you’re familiar with it. It’s true, for most of the series to-date, it’s also been considered unfit for reading by anyone with pretensions of propriety, but Layn would have liked to think she made something more of it. I think she did. At any rate, it was with this qualification that she was recommended to Lady Ariana Fireheart to be the official chronicler of the ‘exploits and adventures of Mina Chevalier.’”
“Oh, how fun! Chevalier’s quite a keeper; those eyes alone are worth more than all the gems of Berryl. It must have been hard to travel with someone like that.”
“I’d like you to keep any sarcastic remarks to yourself, alien. The only way your name will be remembered is as a supporting character in her story. And same for me, so don’t bother with a comeback. Now shut up and listen. And keep your pants on, damn you.
“So she starts her new life of being dragged along wherever Mina goes in order to keep an official written record so that it can be published to supplant the drivel of fiction that crops up around the famous. I take it from your undignified expression that you’ve read some, or are at least aware of it. And it was fun for her to go from place to place; seeing things she never would have seen in her old life, meeting important people around the sector, and generally getting to expand her horizons. Layn basically never put down a stylus, writing multiple things at a time. The Hammerfast series continued at a rapid pace with new, first-hand knowledge about planets and cities around the sector and getting to meet people from other walks of life. But most important was getting to know Mina and her close friends. It’s very likely that they were the real inspiration for the character of Grace in the Hammerfast series after she really developed. She was the one who… Nevermind. This isn’t about a fictional character.
“So Layn’s first real taste of Mina was on Sunfall, on the outskirts of Corra. A dinky little mining world with just that capital city to brag about, the people there were struggling to make the quota for mineral export set by the sector government. They were overworked and their respiratory safety equipment was failing, and therefore, they had more problems than the usual broken limbs and whatnot that goes along with mining operations. The waif watched Mina tend to them. Miraculously. All glowy and everything. She flew from group to group, healing broken limbs, clogged lungs, ragged wounds, everything. Her canteen of water was bottomless. She had one canteen of water, and it slaked the thirst of hundreds. And then she struck down the heretical priestess on Sunfall with a blast of pure golden light. There were other events between the healing of the crowd and the slaying of the witch-monster, but they were boring and I’ve no doubt you wouldn’t care anyway.
“So what was this poor wretch of a girl to do in the face of such a holy presence? Write harder. And that’s what she did, neglecting her health to write more, faster. Her intake of stimulants reached dangerous levels so that she could stay awake to write through endless nights. You’re aware that humans need sleep to continue being healthy, right? Good. Shut up and listen. Layn would finish two Hammerfast books each week while also keeping detailed notes of everything Mina did, of everything she said, of interviews with the people around her, of the history behind the places they visited and what reasons there were for Mina and entourage to visit. It was a lot of writing for her to manage, but she did it. She was starting to crack under the pressure and the lack of sleep, but she figured that it would just be one more day’s work and then she could rest. But it was never enough. There was always something happening, always something more to write or research.
“It was here on Delana when things started to come apart at the seams for her. In the upper hive, Mina was staying at the estate of one of the nobles, Cuzah Charmion. A dangerous woman, but a loyal citizen of Delana and of the Imperium. I wish she had been a little more dangerous, because it’s indirectly her fault that Layn died. There was an assassination attempt on Lady Fireheart, one of Mina’s companions. With boring stereotypicality, the group of assassins came in the middle of the night, infiltrating Charmion’s security with devices that were either heretekal or proscribed for use by anyone outside the Mechanicus. They used them to pass through walls and murder guards until the alarms went off. By then, of course, Mina was already up and aware of the intruders. She didn’t make it to Layn’s room soon enough, though. Layn had been billeted with the pilot, Sayo, who had heard something and kept her bolt pistol ready, but an assassin’s blade still found Layn. Don’t worry, she was only injured. But that’s what killed her. The shock and the injury was what caused her to remember that something was wrong.
“Over the next week, after relocating to a rental hab in the mid-hive, Layn was plagued by half-remembered images of scenes around Delana. It was as if she’d been here before, even though she knew she hadn’t. But just to confirm, she took a trip one day. Being in Mina Chevalier’s party was a ticket to go anywhere and do anything you wanted to, and Layn made full use of that to go up to a certain spire in the hive’s upper reaches. She didn’t quite know what she was looking for, but she had an image of the letter H in her mind. After an hour of wandering around, she found it: a small manse of the least of nobles. When she saw it, she remembered the name of the owner, Amarillius Papandrillus Hekron. Hekron. And that was the exact moment Layn died.”
“I’m confused now. This girl just died on the spot?”
“Are you being an idiot on purpose? Haven’t you figured it out, yet? Layn was me. Layn died, and I remembered everything. I am Hekon’s daughter. Remember the beginning of my story? Layn was rescued from a slaver ship and mindwiped? That came undone. Normally, it wouldn’t, but I’m a special case. Oh; Eleftheria Hekron. It’s… interesting to make your acquaintance. Don’t touch me. I said…! Good. You stay over there.
“So, about the specialness of my case. For this, we have to go all the way back to the slaver ship. While I was held captive there, amidst the other fun daily activities in which I participated, I also had the chance to spend my time alone. Also bleeding. As an outlet for my frustration and ebbing sanity, I would write on the walls. So here I am, locked in solitary confinement with nothing to do but whimper and use my own life’s fluid to scry out a story of someone else’s life - obviously one much better than mine - on the walls of my cell. It was naturally washed away every day once they realized what I was doing. Bastards. But I got the chance to really practice that way; I had more space to continue. The problem was that my ink was needed in a different place: inside me. I had to spend a few days… I actually don’t know how many days or how often it was. I had to spend a few days in the infirmary because they didn’t want me to die before they sold me. I remember that when they stopped beating me or doing various other things that made me bleed, I would bite my fingers to get more writing supply with which to paint my walls in soothing fiction.
“It was on one of those little infirmary trips that I first met the sidhe. Fedlem was her name. If it is a ‘her.’ It looked female, but who knows. This little sprite of a person visited me when I was alone and offered me a contract: I would keep writing, which would somehow feed her, and she would protect me. At that point, I wouldn’t have known if this was a hallucination or not, and I didn’t care. I accepted that offer, because at the very least, it was something new to write about -- something I could focus on instead of my captivity.
“So let me reiterate: here I am, kidnapped, tortured, losing my sanity, and finally help comes in the form of some unknown creature with a questionable story, who can’t or won’t rescue me, but will ‘protect’ me. Doesn’t the thought of it all just make you laugh? And here’s the kicker: when the Ecclesiarchy finally did take all the slaves back and mindwiped them, they were being led in the action by Mina Chevalier. Full circle. But after all that, the one who actually did rescue me and kept me safe was Fedelm. Not the Ecclesiarchy, not even Mina. Well, she definitely helped. But Layn is gone. The poor thing. I liked her. But she should never have existed. Rather than try to rehabilitate any of the captives, the Ecclesiarchy just slapped a memory graft onto everyone, gave them personalities that would eventually lead them to join the ranks of the church, and called it a day.”
“So you think the Ecclesiarchy is at fault for this angst you feel? Or should they be held accountable? What do you want me to say?”
“Alright. You think someone else is to blame for it?”
“Well, I suppose that if anyone was at fault for it, she was. If she was that weak, did she deserve to live? And why should I care what your church does? Normally, I would say no one is to blame for the death of someone so weak and insignificant. Why should blame be assigned? The universe doesn’t operate on the Rule of Fair, like you humans so dearly wish it to. It works with no rules. No logic or feeling, no accountability. The living die; why should anyone be blamed for it. But you want me to say who is to blame, so she is. She allowed herself to be created, she allowed herself to die. And if you really want to impose the sort of divine providence of your Emperor onto the cause and effect brutality you see around you, he’s at fault as well.”
“You…”
“Heretic? Nonsense. I was never a believer in the divinity of your emperor.”
“I should not have bothered telling you all this, xeno. But I’m glad I did. Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Shut up and go away.”
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Post by ElegaicRequiem on Oct 15, 2021 2:39:42 GMT -5
The fire crackled next to the broken hab structure, giving off a meager heat from burning the collected refuse. It didn't smell particularly good, either, but what little warmth it gave off was enough to at least prevent Seika’s fingers from aching in the frosty morning air. She had trekked out to the far reaches of the hive’s outer layer in search of forgotten food or water supplies, or at least something she could forage. Street lights still received power and dimly lit the abandoned ruins. Farther east, the skin on the hive beckoned, a distant stab of sunlight leaking through a tear wrought in the monolithic structure by age and stress of poorly checked urban growth. She knew from listening to Papa’s stories about the times before they lived here, that in another hundred years this area would be completely leveled and rebuilt, reincorporating it into a functional area of the hive, with a new outer wall in place.
Farther ahead, the sodium lamps gave off a slightly yellow light, painting the crumbing buildings shades of ocher and bronze. Luminescent lichens faintly pulsed to a slow rhythm according to the temperature. Small, mutated mammals ran about their lives, squawking in the distance to warm pack members of Seika’s approach. They rushed to hide in a mostly intact building behind a wrought iron fence – probably once a hab for higher income hive workers. She made a mental note of their nesting grounds for later to check if they were edible. Perhaps there were also some valuable items to be looted for trade. But seeing the outside came first.
She awoke to the pitter-patter of rain falling on the sheet of corrugated steel she’d propped up as shelter while she took a brief nap. Rain in this part of the hive wasn't as dangerous as other places, but it was slightly acidic. It would sting her eyes if she were to continue her trek without goggles, so she would have to wait it out. Thermal pumps and public water systems for the level above were the likely culprits for the local clouds. It would only take a few minutes for the moisture to be exhausted or blown away by currents near the domed roof of this level. In the meantime, Seika played word association games by herself.
As she approached the out layer of the hive, it was just turning 0700, and the early morning chill was starting to give way to the unbearable heat that would be in full force by midday. She was pleased she had timed her excursion so well. Interestingly, this far away from most denizens of the level, the structures were in better repair. Perhaps because most people didn't want to risk coming here. Perhaps the weather conditions were too uncomfortable, save for roughly 40 minutes out of each day. A blast of arctic wind rushed past her, causing a shiver that racked her as though it had picked her up and bodily shook her. She paused, holding her makeshift torch a bit closer. It was only another 100 meters or so until she’d be able to see the framework of the hive’s skin – put together almost like the hull of a ship. Then the hard part of the trek would begin.
It was a latticework of support beams and access gantries and catwalks. Not all of it was ever intended to be walked upon, certainly not in this state of disrepair. Papa would tell her to turn back after seeing this. He had worked with construction teams that rebuilt areas of the hive and new buildings for rundown districts. Seika imagined that her father was very capable navigating an environment like this. She decided that she needed to prove to herself that she could do it too. The rusted iron bridge groaned with the weight of the first person it had seen in centuries. The slight sway in what should have been a more rigid structure did not inspire Seika's confidence. She looked around and saw another bridge about a kilometer away. She’d have to hurry and hope that route was better if she didn't want to start to bake in the heat of midday on her return trip.
There was a sickening groan from the braided steel cable right before it snapped with a screeching crack, as though an angry god had decided to end her life with a snap of his fingers. Seika immediately let go of her doomed portion of the cable and struck out with the claw side of her hammer at a reinforced hook where scaffolding would have been anchored to the catwalk for maintenance. It landed and caught her fall before she had gone more than two meters, but it still hurt her shoulder to catch all that weight at once. It was difficult to climb up the shaft of the hammer while maintaining her balance by keeping the hammer braced at an angle until she could push and pull against the edge of the catwalk with a free hand. She pulled herself up and over to rest on the metal grate. After she caught her breath, she took the chance to sit up and look around. At least she’d be able to continue from here. However, she now had an injured right shoulder, several scrapes along her chest and stomach with matching cuts in her clothes, and she had wet herself from the sudden surprise descent. Could have been worse. She cautiously peered over the edge where the cable she’d been climbing was still falling for all she knew.
Finally, she managed to get to the outer layer of the hive. It was brighter than she’d expected. The sun was impossibly bright. It took a minute to adjust to the point where she could actually look out across the wind-blasted icescape. It was white in the distance, gradually becoming more gray the closer she looked toward the foundation of the hive. The sky loomed overhead, threatening her with its vast emptiness. The sunlight was bright enough that no stars were visible, but parts of framework for the docks and shipyards directly over the hive sparkled with reflected sunlight. The entire facade of the superstructure she was leaning out of had started popping and pinging as daylight began to heat the metal. A few rivets sheered free and fell, skittering along the slightly angled surface to land in the wastes at the base of the monolithic city. She’d heard that people lived down there. She couldn't imagine how, though. Looking around one last time before heading back, she wondered if this trip had been worth it.
Deciding to suffer a bit of extra heat on the way back in exchange for increased peace of mind, Seika had taken a much longer and safer route back through the inner and outer hulls. Unfortunately, this meant she was well outside the territory of the local gang that knew her. She removed the red and yellow bandana from her left arm and stowed it in her pouch. She was in Blighter territory on the other side of the Dragons’ turf from her home. The Blighters were cowards and urine-ants, but she’d be less likely to be attacked if she didn’t have any visible colors. She kept a hand on her hammer’s grip all the same.
Seika tried on the pair of boots that had moments ago belonged to a Blighter scout that had tried to shake her down for money. The idiot. He had been completely alone, and had had the off-kilter swagger of someone who’d had too much alcohol. The boots would fit with a bit of padding, and also had the benefit of giving her room to grow into. They were nice: some type of leather and almost new. She was about to leave when she noticed a shiny, round shape protruding from the sleeping man’s jacket. She snatched it before heading off, checking what it was as she went. It was a crude firebomb made from filling a glass bottle with accelerant and plugging it with cloth. Molo-something. She didn’t remember the name. But now she had one. It wouldn’t be very useful to her, but she could certainly trade it for something that would be.
Back at home, she checked to see if Papa had returned yet. He hadn’t. He had left shortly before Seika had decided to leave. She went to the broken footlocker she used to hold her supplies and dug around for disinfectant. She removed her shirt to spray some on her newest cuts from the fall earlier before putting on a new shirt and stowing her new boots until she could find some materials that would be comfortable to use to pad the insides. She took some time to watch another vid on her slate, trying to piece together what she could of value without any audio – the speakers of the slate were broken. Only garbled static came out of them, so she kept the volume turned off. After getting bored of that, she decided to head out to see if she could find Chops, or one of the other Dragons to trade her firebomb for something she could use.
She’d not been able to find Chops, but she had found Olren. He’d traded her a ghillie suit for the Molotov, he’d called it. It was a bit heavy, and wouldn’t conceal her as well as cameleoline, but such fancy gear was well out of her price range. She decided to test her new stealth gear out by observing the mammalian creatures she’d spotted this morning. They looked like some type of rodent with thick fur hides. They had a pack mentality, and seemed to be able to communicate information among themselves. Maybe she’d be able to domesticate and breed them. A steady supply of meat and fur hide could be quite profitable. She cautiously approached one to see if it would be hostile. Waiting a bit until it noticed her, she slowly extended a hand with a muddle berry as an offering. It didn’t startle as she had expected, rather, it gave her a curious look before inspecting the berry from a distance. It let out a mewling noise, followed by a squeak, then scampered away towards its kin. Seika was about to surrender to disappointment when it came back with several others. They chittered among themselves for a bit, making Seika think they were having a heated debate over whether or not to trust her.
After several attempts to convince the rodents that she was at least trustworthy enough to not flee from her outstretched hand ended in failure, she headed home. Papa was waiting for her there with all his stuff gathered into a new-looking locker for transport, along with Seika’s thing arrayed to be packed. He looked both nervous and excited, and it put her off her guard. She frowned while he explained, then she simply gathered up her belongings and arched an eyebrow as if to declare herself ready to leave.
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