Post by EmperorMyric on Dec 16, 2017 20:26:44 GMT
I imagine it is a fairly common feeling, remembering where you were when something life changing takes place. Where you stand when you find out your parents have died. You remember the thoughts you had the moment before finding out something has happened, and you remember the feeling of breath on your skin, your own breath, as it is sucked away by the shock. I say this with empathy, but it is worse I believe for those who can go back to those moments than it is for those who only must pass through them once; memories, as painful as they can be, fade in time. It is not the same for one who can come back to them, for one who is compelled to come back to them.
I paralyzed the guard quietly, and none saw; I never learned their name either. He would die in the next three minutes with or without my intervention anyway, and while I can be sympathetic with some sympathy has its limits. I’d lured him into the back of that great chamber moments before Chaw’Haust so brazenly intruded.
Truth be told—and I rarely give it entirely, so savour this moment if you can—I do not remember if I apologized to them as I carefully punctured the back of its neck with a phased needle tip. I do remember the sudden warmth as blood began rapidly draining out of him; pumps in the instrument I wielded drained him dry in a matter of seconds, tendrils of it spinning down my arms as I carefully altered my posture so as to keep my body free from the warm embrace of these rivers of life.
I am not a monster. I repeat these words silently to myself as I do monstrous things. Chaw’Haust is in the center of the room, well entertained by the defiant speech Prime Admiral Dorin is giving about there being no gods. I am not a monster as I drain the guard of every drop of his blood, his paralyzed body twitching slightly as I begin pouring back into him the rivers of life from another soul. Garren, that leader with a lack of heart on his own part, had given me his heart’s contents after I spared him from further torturous existence at the hands of whatever Sotek is. Really, I thought idly as I distracted myself from pouring Garren’s blood into the guard’s veins, there are a surprising number of monsters in this galaxy. I suppose the Asendancy would politely point out, were they to converse at all, that all of these monsters came from Beyond; they were parasites atop the backs of invading civilizations, though I do not think the Ascendancy necessarily knew of Sotek as yet; at that point his name meant very little to me either. But they, they would point indignantly to the mess surrounding them and declare that, had it started here, under their domain, it wouldn’t have started at all. They would have seen to that.
Chaw’Haust skewers the guard with his tail.
I am not a monster, I repeat to myself as I rapidly cauterize the wound, and the guard with his blood drenched back is freed; I send him gently into the crowd as weapons begin to materialize.
This is a moment which, if time smiles upon its ministers, will be mourned even after the Ascendancy ceases; the assassination of Dorin, the betrayal of Dorin, being akin to the murder of Caesar for my people. Dorin was a flawed leader, much as any leader is; she feared terribly what reality would do to her people if it had its chance, and she feared justly given what the monsters were willing to do to her. I suppose she was a flawed leader in that she was willing to charge forward with blade in hand towards those that threatened her children; the mere thought that the Tenebraen’s timecasters might in two hundred year’s time wage war upon her people was enough to merit preemptive action. She, of course, was not alone in this; the Council of Five had agreed, and then retreated to the safety of those Silent Bastions to let Dorin do their dirty work. I wonder if they knew about her fate.
But ultimately, Dorin should be mourned by you. She should be mourned by all, much as we should mourn our mothers when they cease to be. She was willing to die for her children, and her children were more than willing to let her.
The time drake rears up as Dorin begins to charge, a small blade in her hand gleaming in the dim light. The Heraldic guards are opening fire now, and chunks of singed flesh begin to be torn from the time drake’s enormous bulk by dozens of weapons; the demon’s size renders these multitudes of fire woefully ineffective. And Chaw’Haust’s timecasters are striding into the room, doing their best to make a massacre of the thing; one day epic tapestries of this day will hang in vast and distant rooms, but today it is madness. I move slowly, careful to obscure myself to the times with every ounce of my being. Historians will carefully examine this moment, and I do not belong here.
Then again, I don’t really belong anywhere.
Chaw’Haust flinches momentarily in the fire, hissing violently; the pain must be severe when one is shot at once by dozens. But the demon has passion, and he pushes past the pain as he must—time has ordained it—and moves to meet the Ascendancy’s leader.
The crowd is writhing; blades are meeting, bodies withering, time buckling and paradoxes unraveling. The room is being destroyed by chaos as timecaster impales on the blades of the Heraldics and as Heraldics are reduced to geriatric husks and swiftly dispatched by the minions of the demon. It is a scene out of a classical painting, the Rape of Dorin; her body is no longer her own, and her people scream silently with her through pulled triggers and extended blades.
“You know what they say, Dorin,” Chaw’Haust explains maliciously as smoke pours out of his wounds, and he extends his wings in defiance of the many small holes rapidly being burnt into them, “youth is wasted on the young,” and he grabs her, his wings outstretched…
History shows the rest. He puts something into her, a part of his master the Lord Nagaetros’ and then he throws her gently aside like a doll, and he begins grabbing the Heraldics; mine, mine is grabbed too; two Heraldics, and he takes mine. I suppose I am lucky in that, I suppose.
On the floor, Dorin is screaming in pain at the transformation beginning in her body; the Heraldics surge forward, impelled by the travesty that has befallen in spite of their weapons, and the followers of Chaw’Haust begin to falter. The demon himself does not abide long enough to enjoy the fruits of his labours, nor does he ever recognize my presence their that day. I remain in the shadows, watching dead gods give life to the old heroes.
Dorin’s body thrives as she cries, and as the room is cleared of the last remnants of Chaw’Haust’s kind, her body is healing from all things. What was once withered and dry begins to swim in unseen seas; the cold and weathered angles of the old admiral’s form are slowly changing into a thing much more alive than near death. I think she grew six inches taller in that moment as her body corrected the gradual slump that comes as one grows old, and her skin was becoming smoother; the curves to her form gradually reasserting themselves. Fat returned to where skin and bones had been intimately close for so many years. Youth was returning, and it frightened the Heraldics.
The fact that the Heraldics had a cryostasis chamber waiting in the wings for this moment should tell you wonders. They knew Chaw’Haust would come, and they accepted this. To them, Dorin was a liability; she had attempted to initiate an unthinkable relationship with the Centum, and on her account their civilization’s carefully protected secrecy was falling into ruins. In a sense, they were grateful for Chaw’Haust’s malice, for it let them keep their hands clean.
And for that, even as I am not one of them, even as they would erase me if they ever realized I breathed, I feel shame. So I retreat from the shadows, my arms decorated with thin ribbons of blood, having watched the first of the two great atrocities Chaw’Haust must commit upon my people. The tragedy here is that, should I prevent him from committing them, time unhinges to a point where I am not likely to exist as I know myself too; he must be a monster so I may have a chance to be a martyr.
I am not a monster.
--oOo—
I do not to this day know who replaced Prime Admiral Dorin. But the Heraldics declared her killed, assassinated by the demon Chaw’Haust, and that she had sacrificed her life for her people. It is very convenient to turn the people you let die into heroes. Your children will praise them with you, I suppose; that is, if the Heraldics ever let themselves have children.
She was sent away, though; I do not know to where. It would do no good to have the body visible, for then the deception would be apparent. Someday I would like to lay flowers on her grave, and some day later, when it is safe, I would like to find a way to bring her back to the waking world.
But I do not know who replaced Dorin. The Heraldics must have decided on it amongst themselves, for the Council of Five remains sleeping in their Silent Bastions. If they realized how out of control this war was growing, I think they would have wept for their children just as much as they would have mourned their own predicament. I am not close enough to my own parents to know their minds now.
But after Dorin, I must admit I wandered a little. I listened. I watched. That is what I do you know, I watch without eyes and I listen without ears to the hum of a countless stars. This is how I am preparing for Chaw’Haust. I am studying him, and I am watching his breath dissipate in cold air when he pretends to breathe. I am studying the contours of his bones when he discards the flesh he wears. I am listening to the way he talks, taking note of the things he drinks, observing the company he keeps. Echo still does not remember our arrangement, and still he quietly resent Chaw’Haust. This will prove useful. I am keeping track of how long those chunks of flesh that the guards removed from his body take to heal. I am immaculate. I am implacable. I am not a monster. But I am preparing to take vengeance upon one.
…and yet I still have blood on my arms.
--oOo—
When the Immortal Empire, guided by the Ascendancy, launched their breathless invasion upon the Tenebraen territories, it was their sincere hope that they could bring the conflict under control. But Chaw’Haust or those with similar madness decided to bring ruin upon all.
--oOo—
“You are not expected.” The emissary said softly, her eyes glancing over my eyeless face and her mind beginning to theorize about just who I answer to.
“No, I am not expected.”
Her chambers are small, comfortable—they remind me of the chambers the emissary to the Union of Worlds held. I have forgotten his name—oh, my…what a sin that is! He was the first Flux I had to kill on my path to end this war, and to end Chaw’Haust’s reign of terror over this galaxy. Emissary Dalyth’s robes are still as she stands in the threshold, questioning if I am a threat or not, and I struggle to remember the man’s name—I ran him through with a timecaster’s weapon, in hopes that it would appear as if Chaw’Haust had returned before he had truly begun to work. Alas, my people did not understand…
“You are Flux,” she says slowly, stating the obvious—of course I am Flux, I am of their blood, “and you are Heraldic...but you are not…not quite altogether…”
“The war goes well?” I ask at last. Her eyes narrow, scrupulous and calculating in their intensity.
“You would know, if you were of us. Who are you? Give me your name, ‘chaw. You may yet be an agent of Chaw’Haust. I must know who you are, and who sent you to me.”
“I have none,” I answer slowly, putting one foot in front of the other and taking slow, incremental, short steps into the room, “because I was a shameful creation. Heraldic, as you said, but not quite altogether. I come to you today to petition you to treason, Emissary Dalyth. It is a simple as that.” I speak boldly here—Heraldic do, after all, dissent from time to time; they decide that, for instance, a prime admiral is more trouble than she is worth, and act accordingly—but normally they speak in shadows and inferences. Simple truth surprises. “The war goes well?” I ask again.
Dalyth falls silent, her eyes falling to the ground and then rapidly back up to my scarred eyeless face. She wants to ask, I think, how I came to be less than whole. Less than perfect.
“Chaw’Haust assassinated Prime Admiral Dorin, and we’ve commenced our invasion of Tenebraen territories. The threat of Aberration weaponry will drive the Sciastenos Centum from this galaxy within a month. Emissary Darrus to the SHEATHES entity failed to contain our information in her research, causing…” she pauses here, and I confess I have not heard of Darrus’ name before…
“…causing setbacks. The war is hard, stranger,” Dalyth reveals, “and while we are keeping the enemy at a stalemate, it is a taxing task.”
“Who leads us now, sister?” I inquire gently. “With Dorin’s death,” here I perpetuate the assumed truth of the matter, “does the Council of Five return to command us?”
She shakes her head slowly at me, a look of distrust spreading across her face. I am not a convincing deceiver to my own people—to others, I am the devil incarnate, but to my own? I am a dysfunctional child.
“You are not my sister. A sister of mine would not need to ask these questions—what did you do that lead you to be outcast? Why do you exist even, the Ascendancy should have corrected—“
“Are we going to have a serious disagreement over the facts of my breathing here emissary?” I chime in politely, and she falls silent. “The Ascendancy is about to become involved in this war in ways they can hardly imagine. We, you and I and the rest of our family in arms, we’re never going to be the same after this conflict.”
“Of course not,” Dalyth answers, “we are Flux. We are never the same one day to the next.
So no answers as to who is running the show now. Disappointing. If I had the time, and if I did not need her, I would have worked on her until she told me.
“The Ascendancy can perpetuate stalemate indefinitely. But to succeed in our original ambition here is…implausible.”
She stands unfazed by my statement, her face blank and calculating, “Your lack of faith in us is remarkable, chaw’. You must have been gone from us quite some time.” I think…I think she is bluffing here. It is difficult to tell, but I have studied her; she is a doubter.
“Yet our people—“ I begin to speak but she curtly interrupts me.
“My people, chaw’. You are not one of us.”
The words bring pause to my thoughts for a moment. No. No I suppose I’m not. There is some pain here…
Necessary evils, of course.
“Attribute the word to heritage, if you like. Nostalgia. But our people are in a strange place, emissary; providing technical assistance to those in our command, delving into the supernatural,” I say as I wiggle my fingers mischievously, “old gods assassinating admirals; all varieties of oddities surround us. Our name is becoming a whispered thing in dark corners, Dalyth. You know the way rumours travel. Surely you find the times remarkable, do you not?”
Dalyth shifts uneasily. She doesn’t trust me. Actually, that’s…strangely wise.
“And if the times are not remarkable, then I must make them at least curious. Nameless eyeless chaw’ appears without warning, knows far too much and encourages treason. I’m likely an enemy, aren’t I? But if you felt confident enough about that you would have already summoned the Heraldic guards to absolve this place of my presence.”
“…what I’m suggesting,” I conclude delicately, proposing what might be the most…moral decision of my life, “…is that this can be solved through less forceful means.”
“The treason you speak of?” She finally asks, and I nod. She frowns slightly. “The war is long, chaw’, but betraying my side will not cease it. I do not know who you represent, but you as someone who once belonged must know the futility."
“The Heraldic guards are running the Ascendancy, emissary, far more than they were ever intended to.” And I gently extend a hand containing one of the Flux’s holographic projectors towards Dalyth, inviting her curiosity. “Dorin’s…untimely fate,” I say, careful of revealing too much here, “was because they did not trust her. Now this means they no longer respect the will of the Council of Five who appointed Dorin before falling back into the silent bastions, and this means,” I conclude, “that the Heraldic guards, who are leading OUR people into increasing warfare…are themselves treasonous.”
My arm remains outstretched towards the emissary, the disc loosely grasped between my fingers. She hesitates, and I shake the disc gently.
“I don’t mind if you don’t believe me,” I add, as she slowly extends her hand to meet mine.
I paralyzed the guard quietly, and none saw; I never learned their name either. He would die in the next three minutes with or without my intervention anyway, and while I can be sympathetic with some sympathy has its limits. I’d lured him into the back of that great chamber moments before Chaw’Haust so brazenly intruded.
Truth be told—and I rarely give it entirely, so savour this moment if you can—I do not remember if I apologized to them as I carefully punctured the back of its neck with a phased needle tip. I do remember the sudden warmth as blood began rapidly draining out of him; pumps in the instrument I wielded drained him dry in a matter of seconds, tendrils of it spinning down my arms as I carefully altered my posture so as to keep my body free from the warm embrace of these rivers of life.
I am not a monster. I repeat these words silently to myself as I do monstrous things. Chaw’Haust is in the center of the room, well entertained by the defiant speech Prime Admiral Dorin is giving about there being no gods. I am not a monster as I drain the guard of every drop of his blood, his paralyzed body twitching slightly as I begin pouring back into him the rivers of life from another soul. Garren, that leader with a lack of heart on his own part, had given me his heart’s contents after I spared him from further torturous existence at the hands of whatever Sotek is. Really, I thought idly as I distracted myself from pouring Garren’s blood into the guard’s veins, there are a surprising number of monsters in this galaxy. I suppose the Asendancy would politely point out, were they to converse at all, that all of these monsters came from Beyond; they were parasites atop the backs of invading civilizations, though I do not think the Ascendancy necessarily knew of Sotek as yet; at that point his name meant very little to me either. But they, they would point indignantly to the mess surrounding them and declare that, had it started here, under their domain, it wouldn’t have started at all. They would have seen to that.
Chaw’Haust skewers the guard with his tail.
I am not a monster, I repeat to myself as I rapidly cauterize the wound, and the guard with his blood drenched back is freed; I send him gently into the crowd as weapons begin to materialize.
This is a moment which, if time smiles upon its ministers, will be mourned even after the Ascendancy ceases; the assassination of Dorin, the betrayal of Dorin, being akin to the murder of Caesar for my people. Dorin was a flawed leader, much as any leader is; she feared terribly what reality would do to her people if it had its chance, and she feared justly given what the monsters were willing to do to her. I suppose she was a flawed leader in that she was willing to charge forward with blade in hand towards those that threatened her children; the mere thought that the Tenebraen’s timecasters might in two hundred year’s time wage war upon her people was enough to merit preemptive action. She, of course, was not alone in this; the Council of Five had agreed, and then retreated to the safety of those Silent Bastions to let Dorin do their dirty work. I wonder if they knew about her fate.
But ultimately, Dorin should be mourned by you. She should be mourned by all, much as we should mourn our mothers when they cease to be. She was willing to die for her children, and her children were more than willing to let her.
The time drake rears up as Dorin begins to charge, a small blade in her hand gleaming in the dim light. The Heraldic guards are opening fire now, and chunks of singed flesh begin to be torn from the time drake’s enormous bulk by dozens of weapons; the demon’s size renders these multitudes of fire woefully ineffective. And Chaw’Haust’s timecasters are striding into the room, doing their best to make a massacre of the thing; one day epic tapestries of this day will hang in vast and distant rooms, but today it is madness. I move slowly, careful to obscure myself to the times with every ounce of my being. Historians will carefully examine this moment, and I do not belong here.
Then again, I don’t really belong anywhere.
Chaw’Haust flinches momentarily in the fire, hissing violently; the pain must be severe when one is shot at once by dozens. But the demon has passion, and he pushes past the pain as he must—time has ordained it—and moves to meet the Ascendancy’s leader.
The crowd is writhing; blades are meeting, bodies withering, time buckling and paradoxes unraveling. The room is being destroyed by chaos as timecaster impales on the blades of the Heraldics and as Heraldics are reduced to geriatric husks and swiftly dispatched by the minions of the demon. It is a scene out of a classical painting, the Rape of Dorin; her body is no longer her own, and her people scream silently with her through pulled triggers and extended blades.
“You know what they say, Dorin,” Chaw’Haust explains maliciously as smoke pours out of his wounds, and he extends his wings in defiance of the many small holes rapidly being burnt into them, “youth is wasted on the young,” and he grabs her, his wings outstretched…
History shows the rest. He puts something into her, a part of his master the Lord Nagaetros’ and then he throws her gently aside like a doll, and he begins grabbing the Heraldics; mine, mine is grabbed too; two Heraldics, and he takes mine. I suppose I am lucky in that, I suppose.
On the floor, Dorin is screaming in pain at the transformation beginning in her body; the Heraldics surge forward, impelled by the travesty that has befallen in spite of their weapons, and the followers of Chaw’Haust begin to falter. The demon himself does not abide long enough to enjoy the fruits of his labours, nor does he ever recognize my presence their that day. I remain in the shadows, watching dead gods give life to the old heroes.
Dorin’s body thrives as she cries, and as the room is cleared of the last remnants of Chaw’Haust’s kind, her body is healing from all things. What was once withered and dry begins to swim in unseen seas; the cold and weathered angles of the old admiral’s form are slowly changing into a thing much more alive than near death. I think she grew six inches taller in that moment as her body corrected the gradual slump that comes as one grows old, and her skin was becoming smoother; the curves to her form gradually reasserting themselves. Fat returned to where skin and bones had been intimately close for so many years. Youth was returning, and it frightened the Heraldics.
The fact that the Heraldics had a cryostasis chamber waiting in the wings for this moment should tell you wonders. They knew Chaw’Haust would come, and they accepted this. To them, Dorin was a liability; she had attempted to initiate an unthinkable relationship with the Centum, and on her account their civilization’s carefully protected secrecy was falling into ruins. In a sense, they were grateful for Chaw’Haust’s malice, for it let them keep their hands clean.
And for that, even as I am not one of them, even as they would erase me if they ever realized I breathed, I feel shame. So I retreat from the shadows, my arms decorated with thin ribbons of blood, having watched the first of the two great atrocities Chaw’Haust must commit upon my people. The tragedy here is that, should I prevent him from committing them, time unhinges to a point where I am not likely to exist as I know myself too; he must be a monster so I may have a chance to be a martyr.
I am not a monster.
--oOo—
I do not to this day know who replaced Prime Admiral Dorin. But the Heraldics declared her killed, assassinated by the demon Chaw’Haust, and that she had sacrificed her life for her people. It is very convenient to turn the people you let die into heroes. Your children will praise them with you, I suppose; that is, if the Heraldics ever let themselves have children.
She was sent away, though; I do not know to where. It would do no good to have the body visible, for then the deception would be apparent. Someday I would like to lay flowers on her grave, and some day later, when it is safe, I would like to find a way to bring her back to the waking world.
But I do not know who replaced Dorin. The Heraldics must have decided on it amongst themselves, for the Council of Five remains sleeping in their Silent Bastions. If they realized how out of control this war was growing, I think they would have wept for their children just as much as they would have mourned their own predicament. I am not close enough to my own parents to know their minds now.
But after Dorin, I must admit I wandered a little. I listened. I watched. That is what I do you know, I watch without eyes and I listen without ears to the hum of a countless stars. This is how I am preparing for Chaw’Haust. I am studying him, and I am watching his breath dissipate in cold air when he pretends to breathe. I am studying the contours of his bones when he discards the flesh he wears. I am listening to the way he talks, taking note of the things he drinks, observing the company he keeps. Echo still does not remember our arrangement, and still he quietly resent Chaw’Haust. This will prove useful. I am keeping track of how long those chunks of flesh that the guards removed from his body take to heal. I am immaculate. I am implacable. I am not a monster. But I am preparing to take vengeance upon one.
…and yet I still have blood on my arms.
--oOo—
When the Immortal Empire, guided by the Ascendancy, launched their breathless invasion upon the Tenebraen territories, it was their sincere hope that they could bring the conflict under control. But Chaw’Haust or those with similar madness decided to bring ruin upon all.
--oOo—
“You are not expected.” The emissary said softly, her eyes glancing over my eyeless face and her mind beginning to theorize about just who I answer to.
“No, I am not expected.”
Her chambers are small, comfortable—they remind me of the chambers the emissary to the Union of Worlds held. I have forgotten his name—oh, my…what a sin that is! He was the first Flux I had to kill on my path to end this war, and to end Chaw’Haust’s reign of terror over this galaxy. Emissary Dalyth’s robes are still as she stands in the threshold, questioning if I am a threat or not, and I struggle to remember the man’s name—I ran him through with a timecaster’s weapon, in hopes that it would appear as if Chaw’Haust had returned before he had truly begun to work. Alas, my people did not understand…
“You are Flux,” she says slowly, stating the obvious—of course I am Flux, I am of their blood, “and you are Heraldic...but you are not…not quite altogether…”
“The war goes well?” I ask at last. Her eyes narrow, scrupulous and calculating in their intensity.
“You would know, if you were of us. Who are you? Give me your name, ‘chaw. You may yet be an agent of Chaw’Haust. I must know who you are, and who sent you to me.”
“I have none,” I answer slowly, putting one foot in front of the other and taking slow, incremental, short steps into the room, “because I was a shameful creation. Heraldic, as you said, but not quite altogether. I come to you today to petition you to treason, Emissary Dalyth. It is a simple as that.” I speak boldly here—Heraldic do, after all, dissent from time to time; they decide that, for instance, a prime admiral is more trouble than she is worth, and act accordingly—but normally they speak in shadows and inferences. Simple truth surprises. “The war goes well?” I ask again.
Dalyth falls silent, her eyes falling to the ground and then rapidly back up to my scarred eyeless face. She wants to ask, I think, how I came to be less than whole. Less than perfect.
“Chaw’Haust assassinated Prime Admiral Dorin, and we’ve commenced our invasion of Tenebraen territories. The threat of Aberration weaponry will drive the Sciastenos Centum from this galaxy within a month. Emissary Darrus to the SHEATHES entity failed to contain our information in her research, causing…” she pauses here, and I confess I have not heard of Darrus’ name before…
“…causing setbacks. The war is hard, stranger,” Dalyth reveals, “and while we are keeping the enemy at a stalemate, it is a taxing task.”
“Who leads us now, sister?” I inquire gently. “With Dorin’s death,” here I perpetuate the assumed truth of the matter, “does the Council of Five return to command us?”
She shakes her head slowly at me, a look of distrust spreading across her face. I am not a convincing deceiver to my own people—to others, I am the devil incarnate, but to my own? I am a dysfunctional child.
“You are not my sister. A sister of mine would not need to ask these questions—what did you do that lead you to be outcast? Why do you exist even, the Ascendancy should have corrected—“
“Are we going to have a serious disagreement over the facts of my breathing here emissary?” I chime in politely, and she falls silent. “The Ascendancy is about to become involved in this war in ways they can hardly imagine. We, you and I and the rest of our family in arms, we’re never going to be the same after this conflict.”
“Of course not,” Dalyth answers, “we are Flux. We are never the same one day to the next.
So no answers as to who is running the show now. Disappointing. If I had the time, and if I did not need her, I would have worked on her until she told me.
“The Ascendancy can perpetuate stalemate indefinitely. But to succeed in our original ambition here is…implausible.”
She stands unfazed by my statement, her face blank and calculating, “Your lack of faith in us is remarkable, chaw’. You must have been gone from us quite some time.” I think…I think she is bluffing here. It is difficult to tell, but I have studied her; she is a doubter.
“Yet our people—“ I begin to speak but she curtly interrupts me.
“My people, chaw’. You are not one of us.”
The words bring pause to my thoughts for a moment. No. No I suppose I’m not. There is some pain here…
Necessary evils, of course.
“Attribute the word to heritage, if you like. Nostalgia. But our people are in a strange place, emissary; providing technical assistance to those in our command, delving into the supernatural,” I say as I wiggle my fingers mischievously, “old gods assassinating admirals; all varieties of oddities surround us. Our name is becoming a whispered thing in dark corners, Dalyth. You know the way rumours travel. Surely you find the times remarkable, do you not?”
Dalyth shifts uneasily. She doesn’t trust me. Actually, that’s…strangely wise.
“And if the times are not remarkable, then I must make them at least curious. Nameless eyeless chaw’ appears without warning, knows far too much and encourages treason. I’m likely an enemy, aren’t I? But if you felt confident enough about that you would have already summoned the Heraldic guards to absolve this place of my presence.”
“…what I’m suggesting,” I conclude delicately, proposing what might be the most…moral decision of my life, “…is that this can be solved through less forceful means.”
“The treason you speak of?” She finally asks, and I nod. She frowns slightly. “The war is long, chaw’, but betraying my side will not cease it. I do not know who you represent, but you as someone who once belonged must know the futility."
“The Heraldic guards are running the Ascendancy, emissary, far more than they were ever intended to.” And I gently extend a hand containing one of the Flux’s holographic projectors towards Dalyth, inviting her curiosity. “Dorin’s…untimely fate,” I say, careful of revealing too much here, “was because they did not trust her. Now this means they no longer respect the will of the Council of Five who appointed Dorin before falling back into the silent bastions, and this means,” I conclude, “that the Heraldic guards, who are leading OUR people into increasing warfare…are themselves treasonous.”
My arm remains outstretched towards the emissary, the disc loosely grasped between my fingers. She hesitates, and I shake the disc gently.
“I don’t mind if you don’t believe me,” I add, as she slowly extends her hand to meet mine.