ORIGIN - and this is your bed

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The water, too, was greeted with relief. Like any cat (or, well, large black leopard) Obieth settled in over the bowl with a crouch, and began to lap at it. What started with hiccuping, hurried urgency became a languid and content drinking after a moment, and she truly took the time to taste the liquid--her first drink, on the heels of her very first meal.

She glanced up as Aethril spoke, and assumed that her words meant she wanted to move on; Obieth thus stepped back, standing upright again. "This was good," she said slowly, and took stock of her own body for a moment. She felt... content; the walk to Cepheus had done her good, the meal and the drink were replenishing her.

What else would she need-? Ah; this seemed a good time to consult Aethril's wisdom. "I have... eaten, and drink...ed?" Drank? Drunk? -Obieth was unsure. "What else will I need?" She would attend to her needs properly, as was befitting a royal Valkhound; as it was, she was already slipping gracefully around Aethril to take up position beside her again, as she assumed a bodyguard should.

Her eyes cut back into the shadows up ahead, but she saw nothing--and the cleaning-beast was proving harmless, despite her suspicious (and slightly disdainful) glance its way. She looked to Aethril, then, studying her face for a moment. "Will you tell me... my exact... responsibilities?" The words were carefully plucked from inset memory. "I will protect you," she added hurriedly, as if to reassure her Hand that she hadn't already forgotten. "But are there... details?"

Obieth didn't have the life experience to know what details she might need, and so she didn't know quite what to ask. Working hours, perhaps. What sort of enemies to expect, and from where. She just knew that her instructions so far were vague; she hadn't seen anything as yet that Aethril might need protection from.

Maybe the Hand would know? She was the one who'd decided she needed a guardian, after all.

@Aethril

"Drank," Aethril corrected gently, picking up the bowl and walking along with her heels clicking. As she went, she rattled her mind for a list of basic vital activities, which was harder than you think, when they were all basic instinct.

Well, better go from the start. "You'll have to eat and drink a few times a day," she began. "And sleep a few hours a day. You can set yourself a routine for it if you'd like-- or just do them when you feel the need to. When the food... passes, do your business outside. You'll get the hang of it, it's instinct."

She hoped it was. She didn't want to talk Obieth through pooping.

The Hand turned a corner and pulled back long, silken drapes to open the balcony up. The alabaster stone was lined with stark ivy and pale, moon-coloured flowers. There was a little table and a bench and a lounger, for the purpose of doing Aethril's favourite activity: nothing.

The bowl was set down and she took a seat on the sun lounger, stretching herself out. "I was going to bring up the details, yes," Aethril said, but she was nodding towards the bench and the ivory railing. "Take a look at the view. A lot of cats like to survey." Assuming Obieth identified herself as a cat, of course.

Aethril got comfortable. "I was betrayed," the Hand began. "Not... personally, I suppose. Many of us were betrayed by the same people. They were rebels; working to disrupt the work of the Masters and the Overseers-- which involved creating things like you and training them for various work. They were violent, reckless, and without remorse."

"They killed hundreds. Perhaps thousands. People they didn't know, who'd never done anything wrong in their lives, and sometimes they killed their very friends who did nothing but care for them. I don't understand why," her tone turned a little grim. "And I don't think a majority of them understood why, either. I was trapped here, for thousands of years, because of them."

There was a long pause and Aethril was rubbing her fingers against her knuckles for a moment. "It's not that I'm afraid of the rebels," she said. "But I'm afraid of what they're capable of. I'm afraid of what they could do to do the people I love. I want you to protect not just me, but the people I keep my company with. I want you to help us if the rebels break through to Cepheus. Do you understand?"

Her voice was soft-- as it ever was --but it was edged with a new emotion: something not quite concern and not quite fear, but something that blended between the two. She took a very long breath and craned her neck backwards against the chair.

"It might be difficult to tell who might rebel or betray you," she clarified. "Some people I considered my friends turned their back to me. It's... difficult, to trust anyone anymore. It might be safer to stay wary of everyone you meet."

@Obieth

A languid padding of paws accompanied the click of heels, and Obieth noted that she very much enjoyed the harmony of those two sounds. Though, she did enjoy the sound of heels alone; something about their staccato rap on marble pleased her aesthete's senses.

She was, however, noting Aethril's words, though little more than a turn of an ear or a flick of her tail-tip signalled her attentiveness here and there. When food passes-? Somehow, Obieth had simply assumed she'd... absorb it all. All the power of the meat, and its coppery goodness. But some of it--passed? She pondered this, but dismissed the thought upon Aethril's assurance that would be all "instinct." Surely she'd figure it out.

The sweeping curtains brought her to a halt, her eyes lifting to regard the cloth (and the view beyond) with clear appreciation. Ears swept forward to listen to the quiet swish as the fabric was pulled back, eyes trailing along their shimmering folds. Then she stepped forward, as her Hand instructed (with but a glance Aethril's way as she spoke) and looked more closely.

Ivory and alabaster, freckled with the lively green of foliage, all of it gleaming in the unearthly Voidlight. The fragrance of the flowers struck her nose, and then that of the gardens beyond, and Obieth pulled herself to the ledge in silence to look down.

She did enjoy... surveying, she thought. She enjoyed it very much. And it wasn't just the view that it afforded: it was what it represented. She leapt up, then lay down along the rail (which was far too narrow for her, but she managed) and looked out over the grounds like a queen. She felt like a queen. Like royalty, looking down over a sweeping expanse that was open to her completely, hiding nothing from her prying gaze. And aside from that sudden sense of queenly superiority, it was pretty to look upon: the curling brooks and bridges, the white-blossomed trees, the pale and floating flocks of birds and herds of stark white deer. It was... perfect. Too perfect, actually. Part of her wanted to burn it black, to set its perfection on fire; it felt like it'd be a little better, that way. This irritation crept through her, twitching the hide along her back and setting her tail-tip to flicking with unsettled annoyance. It did occur to her that others could perhaps look up; and as a queen she would not have cared but as a bodyguard, she felt the urge to hide herself and Aethril. Magic flared up, shadows swathing the balcony, plunging herself and Aethril into near-hidden pockets of it. They could still see one another, but they were... dimmer, now; harder to see from below.

Ahh, but Aethril was talking, and Obieth turned to regard her, to give her full attention. The Hand was stretched out on a piece of furniture--something the Valkhound couldn't put a name to--and the start of her narrative, 'I was betrayed,' was a line worthy of beginning any novel. It riveted Obieth immediately; this, she knew, would be important.

So, she listened. She listened to the account of rebels: and notably, her ears pinned back, her whiskers flattening against her face as her lips twitched in a half-snarl. Something primordial, something baked into her very being, hated the idea of them. Oh, she loved chaos: destroy, yes. Burn. But not the other destroyers, the other-ones-who-burned. When Aethril pointed out that there was no known motive, she wondered--in a vague sort of way--if perhaps they'd been sick. But she didn't have the world experience to really ponder the possibility, and it was quickly forgotten, for now.

Now, Obieth's responsibilities were at least framed, if not laid out more clearly: she was to defend Cepheus, to defend those Aethril loved, and kept company with. She was about to ask how to recognize a traitor when Aethril explained that it was hard to tell, and that she might need to stay wary of everyone.

This was a good warning, for Obieth--while unlikely to form true emotional attachments--held still the naivety of youth, a blind acceptance of everything she was told. She made a note to not do that because, apparently, people could Lie.

She looked out again, thinking, eyeing over the palace grounds. Then she looked back to Aethril, studying her.

"Is it possible," she suggested, slowly, "to set traps?" To lay down... what, barricades, snares, for those that might intrude? It didn't occur to her that Cepheus was a hub of activity; that many innocent creatures also came and went. But perhaps Aethril could adapt the idea, somehow. "I cannot wait... if I can't tell who is an enemy--I cannot wait, to bite them. I mean..." she paused, and searched for words. "If I wait until they attack... it is too late. I will warn them... from getting too close to you. Yes? Unless... you trust them. I will stay between you... and others. Yes?" She hoped that these were good assumptions.

Tongue lashed over fangs, and she looked out again, thinking. Then, back to Aethril. Her words continued to be halting, uncertain, simply due to her unfamiliarity with them.

"Waiting... it is not my way." (And how the hell she had a way, being all of one day old, was unclear--perhaps, like pooping, it was instinct.) "May I... suggest," (and here, Obieth gave some nod to her acknowledgment of rank with a dip of her head) "...hunting them... before they come? Send someone... me, or another... to seek them out. To kill them... before they get here. If there were so many, well--pretend to be one... or find out what rebels smell like," (because in Obieth's mind they must have been a united species, with a similar odor--she hadn't seen a lot of creatures that looked like one another, bar the swans and the deer, so maybe 'rebel' was a uniting feature) "and... kill them before they come."

She studied Aethril intently, her tail twitching at its tip as she lounged--feline royalty--atop the railing. It seemed smart, to her: go and hunt them, kill them, before they had time to mass up and form a rebellion in the first place. It might be good, too, to at least know what was happening in the other caves.

It didn't occur to her that perhaps Aethril was already doing this; that nothing prevented the Hand from having her--well, hand--in multiple pies. So to speak. Obieth only knew what occurred to her, and so she spoke it, her mind revelling in the idea of hunting and killing (and eating! eating was good) these Traitors.

@Aethril

Darkness fell and Aethril was mulling over Obieth's words very carefully, with calculated, pinpoint precision. Her brow furrowed gently during the few beats of prolonged silence, but finally-- with one leg folding over the other and a switch of silken cloth --she was speaking again.

"You can set a trap anywhere, but it doesn't guarantee what you might catch. If we put them all over the Palace, we'd start snaring our own allies-- workers passing in and out. We'd be no better than the rebels in that moment."

"You," and with this she was leaning up again, craning her body towards Obieth to emphasize, "have an advantage. The minds of others are like open books to you; practice that, learn your magic, and when you begin to doubt someone's intentions or words, simply check. People lie through their teeth, but they can't lie in their own heads."

Aethril was leaning back again to get comfortable, shimmying against the lounger. "Rebels will smell just the same as your allies," came the half-warning. "But it's my intention to hunt them down before they can come to Cepheus-- the issue is trying to find out where they've went. Isra mentioned a Clearstone Spire in... Usra, was it? Mind you, she wasn't too concerned with it." Her fingers tapped against her knuckles rhythmically. "It will take time, Obieth, to find out-- but we have more than enough time."

She could have something made, perhaps, to go looking. A little information-gatherer-- something small, and quick, and clever. Her eyes glazed over Obieth for a moment, but found her too large and.. somehow much too vague and much too direct at the same time to be a fit for it. The Hand hummed.

"You can warn people you're wary of," she said. "But, you're going to have to become accustomed to waiting, Obieth. Reckless actions are what get good people killed."

And there had been enough good people getting killed for multiple lifetimes.

@Obieth

Aethril's explanation of why traps wouldn't work had Obieth wondering: why not just set better traps? If she'd suggested it--and been pressed--she wouldn't have been able to quite explain what "better traps" entailed. Luckily, perhaps, for her, she didn't have the chance. Aethril was leaning up a little, leaning in, and giving her some fantastic advice.

"Read their minds."

Obieth noted this down, eyeing her Hand with newfound respect for her cunning. But before she could comment on this (though she did shift her own lounging body to face Aethril a little more, one massive two-toed paw hooked over the other), Aethril had moved on.

"Rebels won't smell different." Lesson two. She noted this down, too, a strange and confusing lesson. Why wouldn't they-? Surely there was some "rebel" stink that would adhere to them? Maybe Aethril just couldn't smell it. She'd have to test this on her own.

When the Hand had fully finished, Obieth was left digesting it all and looking over it for questions, picking through the words like some carrion feeder.

"What is Clearstone?" was what she began with, slowly, at last. She'd never heard the word, and unlike many of the things she was learning, it conjured up no hidden, innate knowledge in her mind. "I will read their minds, then. And warn them. Maybe if I can't read their minds, at first. Then I can warn them. Until I can read them, and see for sure. I will not," she added, shifting in place again and with a somewhat reproachful tone and glance, "be reckless."

The very word was distasteful on her tongue. She was precision, after all; she was regal and patient, and pinpoint-focused. At least, she imagined herself to be, in this moment; and that was all that mattered, really, for Obieth was Cat.

@Aethril

Aethril stared quietly at Obieth for a few beats before offering, "it's a stone that you can see through. It's clear." She assumed, at least, that she meant the Spire-- and not just the stone itself. "You've seen the Oilstone Spire-- imagine that, but white and clear. It's entirely possible that someone is using it to make creations, and presumably, Dontacael is at it."

She tried not to worry too hard about it, as Isra hadn't worried. But, still. "It might be worth finding, sometime, but those are plans for another time. There is, unfortunately, a lot to do," the Hand sighed. "These caves are in a state of... disrepair. It seems like the only one doing work is Vargas."

Something about Vargas felt off about her, too, to top it off.

"Thank you, regardless. Things will get easier as time goes on and you get accustomed to a routine, and we figure some things out. Eventually, we'll be out slaughtering rebels." She smiled a little thinly, but a little dreamily.

@Obieth

To say that these answers didn't tell her anything was an understatement. In truth, they only created more questions. Obieth did not give voice to them straight away, however, instead pausing to savor the word "slaughter." The idea of it. Something about it felt glorious, poised unspoken on her tongue, or blood-salty in her mind.

Oh, but her questions-!

After this moment of dreamy silence, she spoke, eyes again focusing on her Hand. "This brings me more questions than answers," she began, simply. "The 'Oilstone' Spire... do you mean... that dark stone where I hatched? Does it serve a purpose?" she asked, and though her words held the slow and halting nature of a fresh hatch, they were carefully considered. "What are... creations? What is a Dontacael?"

She shifted in place a little, and--with the blunt assumption that it'd be an easier way to facilitate communication--flared up her magic again. The shadows around them fell away, and instead she reached her mind for Aethril's. Nobody had really explained how it might be an invasion of privacy, yet, and her mind attempted to speak into the Hand's: Easier to show me, this way? Perhaps?

@Aethril

"The spires are used for creations," she said, thinking. "But, yes-- the dark stone. That's its purpose. Master Vargas's purpose is to use it to create creatures for various purposes. Scouts, assassins, all sorts. He then trains them and Dhracia collects them for whatever she needs them for."

Tap, tap, tap, her nails rapped against her knuckles. "A creation is a creature that was-- created. Some creatures here, for instance, were created to clean the Palace, or to tend to the gardens. That's their purpose. You were likely created by someone-- not Vargas, it seemed, but someone. And we've been over what your purpose is now."

"Dontacael--" she paused, glancing between her hands and Obieth for a moment. She felt the presence ticking away at her mind, and a beat passed wherein she tried to retaliate-- and, somehow, with a hiss of pain, let Obieth right in.

Dontacael. The Hive. Gembound, Earth animals-- what did Dontacael want with them? Was Dontacael trying to recruit them? For what reason? To rebel? came the flood of thoughts, aggressive and overwhelming to a young mind. Who was working with them? Likely half the Masters. Where was Dhracia? Did she go back to the surface? Why wasn't Isra concerned about it?

Am I over-reacting? Why isn't anyone else worried about this shit? What happened?

How do we stop it? What am I supposed to do? Is this why I woke up? Is it my job to deal with this now? What if Dontacael has already taken up the minds of half the people awake right now? How do I-- stop it!

"Get out of there," Aethril snapped, lip curling into the brief approximation of a snarl. "If there's something I want to share with you, then I will share it. You don't have to go snooping around my own mind."

@Obieth

Obieth listened--by voice and by mind--as Aethril responded. She took it all in, pondering, and assumed all along that Aethril was making good use of the link by showing her details. Dutifully--interested, even--she tucked away each tidbit of juicy knowledge. And she found that she liked it--knowing things. These pieces of information were little treasures, like the diamond drop of dew on a leaf, or the taste of meat on her tongue. Not... quite as sumptuous, but worthwhile nonetheless. Perhaps this newfound interest would amount to something later, or maybe it would die away, but for now she paid close attention.

Spires are used for creations. Vargas uses it to create scouts and assassins. 'Dhracia' collects them. They have a purpose. -I had a purpose. I wonder who made me? But her next thought--arrogant, of course--dismissed the last. I have made my own purpose. It doesn't matter. Now, all of this was internal; she was not broadcasting it, though not out of a sense of secrecy. It was more... polite conversation. Aethril was speaking, and so she did not.

But the next, sudden flood of thought rocked her head back a little, eyes widening in surprise. The information came too fast: the words Hive and Earth; recruit and rebel; over-reaction and 'shit.' That last one gripped her mind and she hesitated, uncertain, so that she missed the significance of Aethril's overall concerns.

The Hand's sudden anger tensed her, so that she nearly leapt upright, and in fact was halfway there when she realized that Aethril meant to get out of her mind and not off the balcony. She wavered, unsteady for the moment, between jumping down and settling back into place. Slowly--very slowly--she did the latter, letting the link drop and flattening her ears completely back. Her eyes were wider, surprise taking her; she felt chastized, like a student before a teacher. She hated it, but more than that, she didn't know why she'd earned it.

Confusion flared and she struggled for some context, before at last trying a tentative question: "It is... like the bed, then?" she asked, quietly, as if afraid to offend Aethril even more.

Her only frame of reference, then, was The Bed: a place she could not go unless invited.

And then, she dared to push a little second question forward: "What is-... 'shit?'" This one hadn't been in her automatic vocabulary, like many words she'd heard today. It sounded--emphatic..? Maybe?

But moreso she watched Aethril closely, as if afraid the Hand might lash out. She did not like this new... anger.

@Aethril

Aethril was seething, brow wrinkled with ugly anger. The familiar presence of His magic was gripping her throat and for a split second she wanted to push Obieth off the side of the balcony, break vases and scream and cry and set anything that got remotely close to her ablaze. She wanted the taste of ash in her mouth, the heat of black fire scorching her fingers. She wanted to walk out of the palace as the ivory walls were streaked with ash and violet-black flames licked the very ceiling of the cave.

But Obieth was backing off. She seemed smaller, somehow, in Aethril's eyes; childlike, and with her question-- it is... like the bed? --she realised that's exactly what she was. Obieth was a child, created by some unknown force, for an unknown purpose. Aethril couldn't let herself be so furious with a child. She'd be no better than the other betrayers.

There was a moment of prlonged silence, but eventually Aethril began to lean back again, delicate fingers rubbing the crinkles out of her forehead. A quick ping of magic and she was beginning to settle down, regain control of her emotions. She began to realise how much of an overreaction it'd been.

The Hand took a very long breath. "I'm sorry," she murmured, and this apology was genuine-- her voice went soft again, albeit a little more focused than it usually was. "It is... like the bed, yes. I understand you don't have the experience to quite understand, but-- our heads, and our beds, are quite private. It's very invasive and unpleasant. You shouldn't do it to the people you like, or the people you have as allies."

"Shit is... things, bad things," her hand idly dropped, watching Obieth with tired eyes. "It's a bad word. Unpleasant. It's used to describe unpleasant things."

Pull yourself together, she was quietly urging of herself, lips curling gently downwards. "I didn't mean to frighten you," Aethril went on. "Can I make it up to you?"

@Obieth

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