Hiding in a swamp for many cycles had secured his survival.

But it hadn't done much more to further the task he'd been given by the White Creature he had seen after death. He'd preached his story to all the Children of Rot who would listen, to the few Bonebound and Seven he'd come across, but now-?

It was time, he'd decided, to stop hiding--to go out and offer his words to the world.

The black horse had made his way to Orion: to the room of stars in which he'd seen so many momentous events. And there he stood, and began to call out, to all of those who would listen.

"We are trapped here by our stones," he began, his voice a wavering one, threading out into Orion with soft echoes. The scent of burnt rock rose in flared nostrils. "Trapped in these caves by the Spire's magic, to rise again, and again, and again. Our souls can't escape this place. The Masters believe that they own us... that we're nothing more than accidents, accidents they can wipe out on a whim..."

His words continued, reaching out: though he didn't know if anyone would hear them.

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Khloros fell briefly quiet, his soft gaze turning to regard the eel that slipped from the shadows of the ruined buildings.

This one, he remembered; he had spoken, briefly, of all of this before it, before. But not at length.

"You were in Cetus," he observed. Had Opal been one of the Hive-? Khloros thought he'd been the one caught, cleansed, the very first--but he wasn't sure.

It did not matter to him, really, so long as no one tried to press that on him. "I remember... I told you I have met Astraea. The stag. I don't know if you heard the rest." His voice was soft, and he thought, for a moment, of how to phrase it. How to relive what had happened to him, yet again, in a way that told the story briefly, coherently. It was too mangled in half-myth and confusion, for him, too close to him to seem objective, but... he tried.

"I spoke out. He told me these things." He had told Opal this part before, but perhaps it bore repeating; an introductoin to the rest: "He has himself claimed us nothing but byproducts, unwanted, belonging to the Masters... to be discarded as they see fit." And was Opal even one of them, or was he something other-? Khloros didn't know. But again: it didn't matter. "I do not know if you heard the rest of it: that he forced me into the Spire. It killed me. I was reborn as this--this is not who I was, before. What I was. And I existed, beyond this place. A creature: white, gentle. It told me to spread my beliefs, and so I am: we are trapped here, trapped by stone, by magic. It is unnatural, and it is wrong."

The black horse paused, and then spoke further: "We do not belong to them."

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Brave, and stupid-...? Was it stupid, to say those things? Is it stupid, or for that matter brave, to speak the truth? To seek the truth?

"I did not know who he was, nor did he enlighten me... but he approached as nothing more than a monster. He feared--I know that. I don't know what he was afraid of, but there was fear in him." Khloros' take on it may not have been accurate, but he believed it, at least, fairly firmly. "But is it stupidity--or bravery--to say what's right, or to seek the truth? I don't think so," he went on, and it was in a thoughtful manner; he was giving his opinion, and certainly not stating fact. His tone reflected as much as he went on. "I think those who would stop you speaking--or seeking--truth are the stupid ones, or at least... that is not how the world should be." Khloros looked around again, his mind briefly wandering--the voices of the past, memories of this cave, knowledge granted, perhaps through madness, perhaps not knowledge at all, of the unnatural nature of this place.

Opal questioned him and he turned back, peering. "I saw someone, yes. I was torn apart by the Spire," he confirmed; "It was agony. I am certain that I died, and the being lay beyond. It was... white, gentle; it had a flatter face than mine, and more limbs. It was smooth, and shining-sleek, bone-white-..." Repeating myself. "It told me I would be reborn, and to tell others how I thought. If Astraea finds me again, I don't want that knowledge to be lost. I think the Spire must be destroyed." He looked himself over. "I was reborn. I did not look like I do now. And my magic is gone, now. Completely." He could heal himself, yes; but plague-? That was beyond him, now, as was any touch whatsoever to prokaryote life. It had been severed from him, though perhaps that was a small price to pay for the gift he had been given. Plague hadn't been working, anyway. Perhaps enlightenment of the rest of them would.

...Black? "It was black-?" the horse asked, puzzled. He did not remember a time it had been black; it had been blue, since his birth, and he blinked. "How long ago was this? You must be older than I am, if you saw it-? What happened to it, to make it blue?"

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"Army...? I am no soldier of the stag's," Khloros answered, peering at Opal quizzically. "No--I came from a stone, in a wall, with purpose of my own." To put an end to these cycles of entrapment.

Creator... Could he have? Khloros considered. He did not know, not for certain. He remained wholly oblivious to the approach of the spider, of Soumak's many eyes locked on Opal, as he answered. "A creator... perhaps? Perhaps it was death," he added, almost indifferently. He had since his hatching carried death. It made sense that death would greet him and return him, beyond actual death, to his task. But he didn't think this death could ride atop his back, as he had imagined it; then again, disease had always been the metaphor, hadn't it?

It was Opal's other question that gave him pause, and one that he addressed last, and only after long moments' thought. Why did he have an idea of what should be..? Was it ingrained in him, or learned? A moral sense? "When I was hatched, I heard voices, chanting. The wall spilled me out like a disease, and disease came with me. I saw..." and here, he paused; for explaining all the horrors he had seen was... well, it would take time. Too much time. "I saw these caves. The world we live in. It is full of horror. Pain, and domination. Slavery and control." Khloros knew little of the Masters, even; it was in other Gembound he had seen these things. Other Gembound who had manipulated, lied and tormented the others. "It is not how I would have it be. I think... it is wrong, that it is this way."

The black horse paused, again, thinking, staring off at nothing for a long moment. "The survivors may shape the world, but I find death is a mercy to those trapped in that cycle. That life--torture--pain--... Do I say it is not worth living? Perhaps; but it is those imposing it who should be destroyed."

He studied Opal, then, watching him intently. "What of you? How do you see it all? How old must you be, that you remember the Spire from another time-?"

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