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.

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'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.

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?

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.