we're all killers
He listened to her laugh, better than the grating notions of the past, spinning wheels and ruts in the way, gestures long since gone, forgiven, redeemed. He was capable of moving beyond it, this notion, but not so with many others; striving not to sneer or snort at the insinuation of Tembovu - or how he wished he’d driven him out of the mountains, sent enmity and death towards his soul instead of curiosity and intrigue. It could’ve solved a multitude of problems – but then there’d been diplomacy, politics, and war to consider. He’d refrained because of what the throne had made him – even when all he’d craved to do was run a sword through an ignorant sovereign’s chest. “I agree,” he laughed, a little lighter, less hollowed, less brutalized, less melancholy and anguished.
Rexanna’s musings were similar to his own – portals and the things that bound them, restrictions, access, to where, to when, to what; and though he could always surmise a system of tactics, methods, and intrigues, the unknown was too vast now, gaping at him from all sides. Perhaps at another time, he’d investigate the Atheneum, or pry some Loreseekers’ minds. “I have been told different theories and possibilities. Remi said there is a portal, but to the Greatwood.” He shrugged at that, finished off the dregs of his drink, swallowing until there were no biting, clawing, scathing ramparts down the back of his throat. The copses and glades were a short walk, not a bothersome distance, not enough to make him crave to meander back into the Spire’s fold. “Jigano suggested there might be others though.” And then, perhaps, if they ever saw them, they could begin to dream and wonder and peer, gaping in inquiry and curiosity. Or – if there weren’t any others, then how were they to reach other lands? If they kept exploring? If they kept diving headlong? If they kept tapping at borders, at bubbles, at fringes and boundaries? How much longer until another barrier fell?
We don’t breathe was a noteworthy indication that Lucas shouldn’t have had an issue in the stone tower’s thresholds; and yet, if his skin showed signs of dismay, did that mean the Ascended were victims of the world too? Hadn’t it been measured and designed by the Voice? The intonations didn’t quite make sense, didn’t come together as neatly as he could decipher – not enough, too ignorant, too involved in every other scattered remnant of their plots and motives. Rebel here. Fight there. Rescue a party that way. The Spire had been a distant thought until recently, until blights and poisons starting giving way.
He watched, another moment of bearing witness, as she went to demonstrate their lack of blood: she didn’t flinch, she didn’t hiss, she didn’t do anything as she committed to a laceration of her own skin (which meant no pain either, if he was to surmise anything else). The mountain’s gaze lingered on the clear liquid, not ichor, not crimson, nothing but a different pathway of life, tilting his head as the wound began to automatically heal. At her last notation, he wondered too. “Something must happen, if Lucas had an experience. Perhaps you do not react the same way due to your new composition.” Maybe they weren’t bound by the same codes, the same movements, the same measures, but there weaknesses within too – naught too perfect, all orchestrated and sketches on scales of checks and balances.
Rexanna’s musings were similar to his own – portals and the things that bound them, restrictions, access, to where, to when, to what; and though he could always surmise a system of tactics, methods, and intrigues, the unknown was too vast now, gaping at him from all sides. Perhaps at another time, he’d investigate the Atheneum, or pry some Loreseekers’ minds. “I have been told different theories and possibilities. Remi said there is a portal, but to the Greatwood.” He shrugged at that, finished off the dregs of his drink, swallowing until there were no biting, clawing, scathing ramparts down the back of his throat. The copses and glades were a short walk, not a bothersome distance, not enough to make him crave to meander back into the Spire’s fold. “Jigano suggested there might be others though.” And then, perhaps, if they ever saw them, they could begin to dream and wonder and peer, gaping in inquiry and curiosity. Or – if there weren’t any others, then how were they to reach other lands? If they kept exploring? If they kept diving headlong? If they kept tapping at borders, at bubbles, at fringes and boundaries? How much longer until another barrier fell?
We don’t breathe was a noteworthy indication that Lucas shouldn’t have had an issue in the stone tower’s thresholds; and yet, if his skin showed signs of dismay, did that mean the Ascended were victims of the world too? Hadn’t it been measured and designed by the Voice? The intonations didn’t quite make sense, didn’t come together as neatly as he could decipher – not enough, too ignorant, too involved in every other scattered remnant of their plots and motives. Rebel here. Fight there. Rescue a party that way. The Spire had been a distant thought until recently, until blights and poisons starting giving way.
He watched, another moment of bearing witness, as she went to demonstrate their lack of blood: she didn’t flinch, she didn’t hiss, she didn’t do anything as she committed to a laceration of her own skin (which meant no pain either, if he was to surmise anything else). The mountain’s gaze lingered on the clear liquid, not ichor, not crimson, nothing but a different pathway of life, tilting his head as the wound began to automatically heal. At her last notation, he wondered too. “Something must happen, if Lucas had an experience. Perhaps you do not react the same way due to your new composition.” Maybe they weren’t bound by the same codes, the same movements, the same measures, but there weaknesses within too – naught too perfect, all orchestrated and sketches on scales of checks and balances.
DEIMOS
