Aamu
He finds it curious to suddenly be the one soothed: her manner as if she truly is the eldest sister of them all, and he turns aside to hide the answering slight smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. He thinks no one has done that for him in a long time, save the Voice. "Don't worry about it." He wishes he could tell her more. He wishes he could write down document upon document of details, about himself, the Ascended and their upgrades, the Voice and those like her, the Order, the war...
The best he can do are some strange memoirs about himself, and some very specific quirks of the world he's left behind. He hopes more memories will come back, and at the same time fears it will. Perhaps it'll be easier to settle into a new time and age if his past expectations won't hang quite so heavy around his neck.
Aamu's eyebrows rise as she reveals blades of her own. Clearly, more offensive. More damaging. Aamu's are a last resort, a quick way out of a sticky situation. "Impressive," he murmurs, reaching out to touch a pale fingertip to one of the sharp blades. He doesn't doubt they have seen much use.
Wessex is proud. Wessex is confident. Aamu can appreciate this. He thinks she is the one who makes the hard choices because they need to be made, and no one else will make them. "Maybe there will be more," he says softly. "When the need arises—as before." He's not sure, but he gets the feeling they were not made as weapons, but as .. art? No, not quite. Creation; science. Exploration. When times grew harsher, so did the Ascended.
He wonders what else he could do.
The best he can do are some strange memoirs about himself, and some very specific quirks of the world he's left behind. He hopes more memories will come back, and at the same time fears it will. Perhaps it'll be easier to settle into a new time and age if his past expectations won't hang quite so heavy around his neck.
Aamu's eyebrows rise as she reveals blades of her own. Clearly, more offensive. More damaging. Aamu's are a last resort, a quick way out of a sticky situation. "Impressive," he murmurs, reaching out to touch a pale fingertip to one of the sharp blades. He doesn't doubt they have seen much use.
Wessex is proud. Wessex is confident. Aamu can appreciate this. He thinks she is the one who makes the hard choices because they need to be made, and no one else will make them. "Maybe there will be more," he says softly. "When the need arises—as before." He's not sure, but he gets the feeling they were not made as weapons, but as .. art? No, not quite. Creation; science. Exploration. When times grew harsher, so did the Ascended.
He wonders what else he could do.
You are the night-time fear
You are the morning when it's clear
You are the morning when it's clear
