The static around Vox pulses gently, like a held breath. His form flickers—momentarily upside down, then not—and when he speaks again, his voice has lost none of its strange cadence, but there’s something softer tucked in between the frequencies now. A tremble in the signal. "They asked us to leave," he says. "Politely, actually. But they meant it. Your people—Caido people—they caught our Reaper." A ripple of sadness warps through the air around him, distorting the light. "They pricked her with a thorn. A real one, I think. From a rose."
He glances down—though it’s not quite clear which of his eyes is the one looking—and taps a tentacle idly against the shore, kicking up a small burst of pink foam. "Now she’s not one of us anymore. All her lovely sharp edges are gone. The thorn took them. She’s soft now. Slow. Frail." His voice lowers, a hush layered with a hundred whispers. "The only way to make her whole again is to bring her back into the Void. Back to the dark, where we're all one."
Vox turns a little, his many limbs folding inward like seaweed caught in a tide. One of his mouths speaks alone this time, as if sharing a secret the others are too shy to repeat. "Dorian would do anything for the Family, you know," he murmurs. "But especially for Dahlia."
He rotates slightly. An elbow grows where a shoulder was. His expression—if one can call it that—shifts into something curiously solemn. "He doesn’t say it," Vox adds, tone brightening into something that sounds almost fond. "But it’s love. I’ve seen it. It coils around him like thread, tugging him toward her. Love is such a strange infection. It makes people...ridiculous." His laughter is brief, soft, and distorted—like a corrupted lullaby.
"I understand it less than everything," Vox admits. "But I know what it looks like." And then, almost shyly, one tendril twitches in her direction. "I see it when I look at you."
He glances down—though it’s not quite clear which of his eyes is the one looking—and taps a tentacle idly against the shore, kicking up a small burst of pink foam. "Now she’s not one of us anymore. All her lovely sharp edges are gone. The thorn took them. She’s soft now. Slow. Frail." His voice lowers, a hush layered with a hundred whispers. "The only way to make her whole again is to bring her back into the Void. Back to the dark, where we're all one."
Vox turns a little, his many limbs folding inward like seaweed caught in a tide. One of his mouths speaks alone this time, as if sharing a secret the others are too shy to repeat. "Dorian would do anything for the Family, you know," he murmurs. "But especially for Dahlia."
He rotates slightly. An elbow grows where a shoulder was. His expression—if one can call it that—shifts into something curiously solemn. "He doesn’t say it," Vox adds, tone brightening into something that sounds almost fond. "But it’s love. I’ve seen it. It coils around him like thread, tugging him toward her. Love is such a strange infection. It makes people...ridiculous." His laughter is brief, soft, and distorted—like a corrupted lullaby.
"I understand it less than everything," Vox admits. "But I know what it looks like." And then, almost shyly, one tendril twitches in her direction. "I see it when I look at you."
vox
