@Orthoclase-Alpha

her divulgence earned her nothing more than an acknowledging grunt. about what she'd expected, really. by all appearances, damask had given it as a by-the-way aside, and it had been treated as such. an afterthought, a debt repaid; transactional, like everything else about this encounter ... on its face, if not underneath. hopefully they'd at least remember her name — yeah? not that it ... mattered, very much. ultimately, this was all meaningless, right?

but — oh! alpha did have something to trade. "what magic do you carry?"

whoa, was that a question? it was only their second to damask's ten-and-counting. she blinked at them, did a double take. for a second there, the inquiry was pleasantly surprising. bona-fide intrigue? in this, in you? well, well, well! but a certain kind of eagerness glinted in those neon eyes, cryptic as they were; she'd seen how they wore earnest curiosity, and this wasn't that. it was more like hunger. not so easy, see. remember: you can't trust them. that's out of bounds. also, do you have any idea how weird you just were? she shook that thought away. "dead or alive, predator or prey," they'd said. that was what they cared about: the presence or absence of a threat. and which one was she? hunter, or hunted? both, in ways — but to alpha, neither, and she knew how to prove it. with a slow, measured breath and a spark of the knife, (yes, thank you, finally,) she gathered the air and shaped it into a shimmering wall.

"this," she said, toying with the barrier. on command, it built and frosted, smearing the face of the colossus into acid and shadow. tick, tick, tick, let the demo sink in, and then it relaxed. alpha's eyes swung dizzily back into place, hazy and haloed as the accipiter continued. "wind, sound, and pressure. but the magic we carry isn't always the magic we choose — something you already know."

a lesser conversationalist might've flipped the question. damask knew better. she switchbacked, pressing against the spell's muffling effect. "you mentioned dragons, plural. could you identify them in red, an entire cave away? maybe your tactics would differ, depending: avoid one, confront another. if you zero in, you might see injuries, weaknesses, hidden strong suits. details matter." sure they do, nerd, but she wasn't just schooling them; all of this was strategic. think, alpha, think.

Learning about magic in controlled — safe — environments may very well have been the only skill that the orthoclase developed on its own. The future would bring a blunt attempt at socializing it and a lucky, fateful promotion, but this? This was an achievement and path carved independently. Not that it had the awareness to be proud of itself. It was innate curiosity and knowledge-seeking. Business-like and to the point.

So, Alpha watched the space in front of the monochromatic hybrid, and immediately found reason to seize: a blurred wall manifested. The shimmer of heat warping the air before a gout of dragonfire. Shoulders hiked up, quills pricking. It expected the destructive glow of raw flame, but seconds passed to no result but a demonstrated intensifying of the windy shield; Damask's figure smearing and clarifying. A muffling of voice explaining what was already visible. Show-and-tell, but with plain wind. Monoceros could sweep a beast off its feet, but wind. It elected to not bother dissecting the second half, tossing the sentence into a mental trashcan.

No sooner than that train of thought was thrown, it recycled itself into another confused murmuring. ... what? Radioactive gaze flickered to and fro, the reflection of them shifting minutely. Quills pricked. Altering tactics depending on the presence of dragons was the clear step to take after sensing them, but - "yes." It could sense one a cave away. That was what the point of seeking blood was... ?

Perhaps the direction its stream of conscious took wasn't the one Damask manicured and intended.

The orthoclase blinked, eyes widening some. As close to a doglike quirk of the brow as it could get. Quills pricked as it considered and rocked to its feet to pace. A few feet later, and it came to a peculiar conclusion: it wished to keep its magical cards close, in the event of weakness and vulnerabilities being found, and yet had a compulsion to show off. Overcompensate, maybe, for the prior fit and show of complete ineptitude. There were definite similarities between the windshield and its own form of protection.

It traipsed a few feet backwards. A moment of focus and — ah-ha! Dust swirled at its feet, then spread a foot or so ahead of it. The amaranthine earth formed a brief wall, and flashed harshly. Each and every particle was forged into shards of glass. A glimmering whirlwind formed — sharp, pointed, dangerous. One hundred knives spinning through the air in demonstration. It wasn't as dense a wall as it would have liked it to be, but potentially lethal nonetheless.

Alpha displayed for about thirty seconds before abruptly relinquishing its hold on the cast and causing a cacophony of shattering glass. It glanced down at the glittering mess for just a moment, then expectantly at the hybrid.

@Damask

@Orthoclase-Alpha

yeah, judging from that reaction, damask had gotten them to think — just not in the right direction. "yes," or in other words: pass. that line of conversation had reached a dead end. see? nerd. somehow, she wasn't entirely convinced that they'd understood the question. she was talking skill, finesse, artistry, and alpha struck her as more than a little lacking in that department. if only they would've listened to her, she could've shown them, made them see ... don't push it. right. better to take the hint. she rolled her shoulders, looking every bit the part — a gracious salesman refused at the door. "sure."

the colossus took a moment, pacing, considering. (looks like the two are approximately synonymous, in their case.) a few steps left, a few steps right — backing up, backing up — and they arrived at a halt, fixed on the ground at their feet. the young accipiter watched in silence as an invisible lasso kicked up sand. was that her kind of magic? for a second, it might've been. no, though; this was something else. on alpha's orders, the dust rose and built into a wall that crystallized, then burst into splinters, dancing and whirling. ah — ! damask's windshield went solid, fully prepared to ward off a projectile attack — (... hey, have a little faith, remember? ...) — only to slacken after a few seconds, unopposed. she peered through the screen, eyes sharp, head cocking back and forth to catch every detail. the cyclone was tight, controlled, kept well apart from monochrome bystanders. a sort of shield, she realized. like hers, but sharper, harsher, wilder. cooler, you mean. the way you want to be, but aren't. she blinked, squinted, shook her head. right on time, the storm blew over — and with it, damask's brief lapse in professionalism. again with that look on alpha's face, expectant, quizzical, almost ... childlike? nah, that's too much of a reach. they hadn't asked for information this time, nor anything else, and some of her skepticism faded away. maybe this wasn't a bid for leverage. maybe they only wanted to learn.

forget the barrier. no longer necessary, and she'd proven her point. in its place, a gust of wind swept along the floor, stirring the glass back into motion. she guided it into an obedient line, spun it around, and finished with a stylish loop-de-loop as arcs met. the result: a glittering ring around her perch, spiraling, radial. the spell was offhand, a little slow, a little lazy, idly cast as she spoke.

"impressive," damask said, something of a gee, whiz! in her enunciation. "good defense, good offense — stop an opponent, cut 'em up too. you could've tried using me for target practice. i appreciate that you didn't." even though you might've liked to. "however ..."

she paused, talons tapping as she sought out a toxic set of eyes. what is it about them? (them, is that right?) not that, not that ... twice they'd slipped up; twice she'd seen through them, caught and corrected. that can't happen very often with them. was this all scientific, or was it something else? it's whatever you say it is, kid.

someone had asked her a question once, but they hadn't given her space to respond, to prove herself to the fullest extent. giggle had assumed that three spells (count 'em, three) was the best she could do — that her answer was yes. alpha would not be done the same disservice. a half-smile tugged at the bird of prey's lips, flaunting the tip of one canine tooth. a challenge.

"i have to say, i'm left wanting more. now, is that all you've got?"

how's about a snappy little fade right around here? ;]

Pass, or more like completely missing the point Damask was attempting to edge onto it. Too subtle, and the orthoclase wouldn't know that unless it smacked it upside the head. All the subtlety it knew was zeroing in on every little microaggression in another's posture; gave it a keen eye for when to settle into fighting stance and brace for assault. Perhaps too keen of an eye. It predicted advances too far ahead in the future that the timeline'd change completely before it got there. Alpha stared down those rolling shoulders before ruling it as a noncommittal enough gesture.

A subtle wind framing words? Cause for reaction.

Hooked claws scraped dust up into a billowing plume, as if it was getting ready to chase down those precious shards of glass; but, it stayed in place. There wasn't a need to displace itself, even with the knee-jerk rearing. That'd just been in response to sudden movement. Nothing embarrassing and fool-making as the tunnel had been. Quills prickled, and it settled for pacing around the newly-acquired defenses.

Its glittering, radioactive eyes traced the bits of glass. In the heat of the moment, it could rush over them with little difficulty. Hm. Alpha's head tracked upwards, stiffly locked onto the monochromatic bird. She could have been a target, and flight might not've saved her from the rain of broken glass. Yet - "it would've been a waste." Just as much as flaunting magicka was. Its claws tapped out an idle rhythm on the dusty floor, stalking halfway around the perch. Hell-bent on proving its worth as it was, the monstrous hybrid was not one for the spotlight or performing for an audience.

Damask's challenge — her bait — went without another demonstration. It stuttered to a stop to glare at the snaggle-toothed, cocksure grin. Four eyes narrowed, and its quills rattled in time with the shake of its head, "it's not." A huff rumbled through its throat. "Stay wanting more." Alpha grunted dismissively and resumed pacing. Some of its cards had to be kept to itself. A magician (or, in this case, an one and a half-ton kaiju) never reveals all their secrets and party tricks in one go.

@Damask

@Orthoclase-Alpha
thanks for killing my fade, you big rascal, you!

another false alarm: the slightest touch applied to the trigger, withdrawn just short of firing the shot. one more glitch in a pattern thereof. damask hadn't meant anything by the display, cast more as a throwaway flourish than anything else. couldn't just leave broken glass lying around, right? might as well clean it up, and throw in a little style while she was at it. evidently, even that was enough to get alpha bristling. it's defensive, they think. dangerously close to an act of war. as they circled sharklike around her perch, the bird of prey tracked them in kind, head swiveling by avian measures, ears attending to what her eyes couldn't. best to hold steady, keep her feet where they were. this was a real highwire she was walking, with a long, long fall from here to the ground ... but not a lethal one. (or at least, it shouldn't be.) and damask wasn't scared of heights.

that thing about target practice? it'd been an aside, same as the spell. she hadn't expected much in the way of a response: maybe a grunt, if anything at all. instead ...

"it would've been a waste."

what? record scratch. the accipiter stiffened and bit down hard. a sting of pain at her lower lip — ah. blood welled in beads from the spot, and a bright rivulet trickled down her muzzle for a moment, glistening in the cyan light of the cave. then, in the space it took to blink once, she licked it away and pushed her jaws together. toothless, this time.

alpha's path drew to a standstill, and with it the orbit of damask's regards. the angle between them left her head craned over her shoulder, pupils ever-so-slightly constricted as her gaze seared back into theirs. the words that followed were grudging, standoffish. moments ago, they would've come as a profound disappointment; this was one instance where she'd been too direct, too brazen, where she should've gone sideways. and "stay wanting more" — that's the kind of thing you punctuate with an exit. and yet, once again, they didn't. six massive feet lurched back into motion, resuming their course around the perch. tethered there, as if by gravity, magnetism, some kind of leash — social convention, possibly? the simple rules of conversation? not possibly, probably. you need to quit kidding yourself.

a long pause followed, occupied only by the striding pace of the colossus, damask watching every move. finally, she said, "a waste of what, alpha?"

taken out of context, that question might've come across as fishing; but it really, truly wasn't, and it showed. all that spirit had gone out of her in an instant, leaving nothing but the salty taste of copper on her tongue. her voice came softly, a trace of honest confusion tugging at the edges, spoken through a frown with both brows raised and one eye narrowed. stumped.

Burning-bright eyes narrowed at the start-stop of motion, the line of blood illuminated, a tongue flickering out, teeth hiding again behind a thin, pitiful little muzzle. It started back into its shark-like pacing — or, maybe it was more like a seal? Drifting around a flightless bird on an ice floe. Infinitely more deft and agile, armed with dangerous tools that would prove lethal if its quarry didn't react quickly enough. Sharks (or Redfangs, as their equivalent in the Caves were) were a bit stupid and mindless in their hunting tactics: surging assault and retreat when it was unsuccessful. Alpha thought it was a little more calculating than that, even now —

"A waste of what, Alpha?"

— its head canted, and it listed away a single foot before starting in again. The knee-jerk response was, of course, "effort," but anyone that'd ever let magic grace their fingertips knew that was complete bullshit. Once the initial cast was made, it would've taken one step and gutted anything standing before it, monochromatic and feathered or not. The orthoclase's head tilted away for that careful moment of consideration. A eye glinted in view, though, keeping Damask in its periphery. Movement was best noticed there.

She'd not had the conscious intention of spurring thought this time, but it did so anyways, all on its own.

Alpha's teeth had graced many things in its short lifespan, and it knew they would inevitably sink into more — be dyed by sanguine and have a cycles-old stink of copper and sinew embedded into them. They buried into flesh and tore at it remorselessly until that stuttering last breath would be the next. Images flickered briefly into its mind: a white dog, bloodied and impaled on glass; Lessers turned inside-out by putrid fungus… It didn't regret the first — the disgusting animal hadn't died — but all those deer and callers and other creatures… ?

Quills clattered against one another and the chitin of its shoulders as it turned back for Damask, took back that foot of extra distance, and grumbled, "and a waste of something's being alive." Killing to eat was far different than to vent one's rage, or to prove a point. It was so easy to slip into, but with no one to witness it, was there a point… ? If it didn't serve a greater purpose for the self, then why bother destroying potential?

…

Suddenly, that statement didn't seem so morally virtuous, but it was a start.

@Damask

@Orthoclase-Alpha

damask's inquiry read like a mad lib. pull the vocative, sub in a full stop, replace the what with an underscore about six letters long. what's a noun that fits right here? the answer was very easy, very obvious, and in alpha's case, it was practically a given. lo and behold: "effort." once again, a given. the real question was whether they'd give any more. she knew it wasn't a matter of motive or energy, and she knew that they knew as much, too; it hung between them, understanding unspoken but mutual nonetheless. they twisted away to deliberate, and yeah, she could hope that wasn't the end, but she was done pushing. her features fell back into cool neutrality, if a slightly imploring form of it — expectant, motionless, opposite that lonely green eye.

it didn't make sense. somehow, somewhere, their stance had changed. back in the tunnel, when the two of them had been talking about that link — remember that? remember when it mattered, before this became something else? ... back then, alpha had told her it wouldn't be worthwhile. now, it was a waste, and the difference was subtle, yet significant: one implied nothing to be gained; the other implied something to be lost. so ... what? seriously, kid, you're starting to sound like you want to get — hurt. hurt. sure. but what's the big deal? they're not gonna do it. let that be enough. not a bad idea to cool it on the psychoanalysis, while you're at it; try asking about likes, dislikes, maybe their favorite color or something ...

a shuffle of quills, all six eyes back on hers to face her head-on — staredown-exclusive, no pacing, no fidgeting. damask leaned a little closer, talons curling around her perch.

"... and of something's being alive."

oh. her brow relaxed from furrowed to not. now, there's a plot twist.

"you're not a killer," she noted quietly; and in that moment, her eardrums were a two-way street, her verdict thought and spoken at once. the word came out with a certain weight. of course alpha's fangs were for more than just baring — they were a hunter, same as she was — but her tone made it clear that she didn't mean lessers. now, she could've said more: that when others first looked at them, (or at least when you did,) a killer and a monster was what they saw; that she had this feeling someone wanted them to contradict themself, destroy despite instinct; that maybe all of this, the paranoia, the posturing, came from some mismatch, those perceptions and pressures versus whatever it was that hid underneath, but — ... no. they'd heard the word you far too many times.

damask appraised them, eyes like scalpels, digging under their skin. a breeze through her teeth, more careful this time, surgical — and their amalgam anatomy lit up in perfect, painless red. she envisioned a soldier in the upper sect of the torso, heart working hard, a muscle if she'd ever seen one; a hungry predator in thick ropes of viscera; a survivor in twin sets of lungs, each at the ready to compensate if the other should fail. strong, efficient, unbreakable. but she wanted to believe they had more to their name than hotblooded hardness — a soft little center in the midst, battered, shivering. an invisible orphan.

all right. just one more thing in second person ...

"i see you."

with a light scratch of claws on quartz, the young accipiter turned away. black-and-white wings unfurled from her sides and stopped at half-mast, just short of liftoff. it was a near-exact echo of not so long ago, but where that had been a gesture to follow, this clearly was not. here, a pause — waiting up for a word, a heavy footfall one way or the other, or protracted silence in lieu of the two. the way you hold the door for a beat before it swings shut.

"You're not a killer."

Wasn't that contradictory and false? It threw claws through skin and hide; took teeth to the flesh of others. Taking life was equivalent to killing; ergo, it was a killer.

But, that thought process ran precisely counter to what it'd just mentally unravelled and dispensed. Murder was senseless and wasteful: Orthoclase-Alpha's skillless cover-up for that sentimental part of it that quailed at the thought of… something as profound as being alive. It'd be cycles before it connected the dots marked bland Gembound existence and deepest yearnings with a single string.

Until then, it smothered that wondering—wondering about what could've been, had it not been born in Tunnel P with but a designation; and, it kept telling itself what it'd said before.

Her voice'd lilted differently around those words, the black around quicksilver eyes lifting. There had been some sort of… shift, but Alpha couldn't identify anything but the physicality of it. Damask looked no different than she had before, stance just as composed as it had been. No amount of its vicious attitude had broken a threshold and evoked an aggressively reactive response. It'd slipped to a cornered defensive twice, and it was talked out of it twice. Wariness pricked at its jugular. She'd barely demonstrated the extent of her abilities…

All this computing was exactly visible in the subtle shifting of its weight. Always with the weight — that was its tell. It adapted a different stance to posture from, and narrowed its eyes. Quills pricked with a split-second tilt of the head.

Damask further mired it in its confusion with a single roving gaze and three words. Claws adjusted on the stone, but they did not belong to the orthoclase. Not a single sound belonged to it, in fact. Let that door swing shut, for it was too baffled to walk through it. Under all circumstances was it seen. When eyes weren't on it, the Caves saw it. That was the entire basis of being… well, in existence.

The orthoclase grunted an instinctive affirmative. Then, it stood there a while, jaw set tight to keep befuddled grumbling from escaping it. Quills flared in uneven rhythm. If there was nothing else from Damask—clearly on her way to releasing it from this dead-end back alley of a conversation—Orthoclase-Alpha stiffly turned and moved off in classic, slinking fashion.

She was allowed one minute to convince it otherwise.

exit at last! exit at last! god almighty, exit at last!
@Damask

@Orthoclase-Alpha

damask sent one last look over her shoulder, appraising, unreadable. the colossus was motionless beneath rippling quills, silent after a singular grunt of assent. something played at her lip on one side, not quite a smile, not quite a frown. so, what's a good word for this little parting of ways? sudden? unimpressive? anticlimactic? come on. now who's giving up and walking away? (flying, technically.) fine.

but what else was left? here was the problem: what she wanted from them, they didn't want to give her; and what they wanted from her ... she couldn't say. staticky unease prickled under her feathers, her own small voice an echo in her ears. a waste of what? yeah, that's a real question for the ages. really? you had to ask? you've got a serious confidence issue, kid. a momentary giveaway, small enough that alpha (being alpha) couldn't have even caught it — and even it was enough to nag at her, a trace of the vulnerability she'd been working to conceal. that little slip was a fraction of what she'd gotten out of alpha, of the rankling discomfort they must've been feeling on her account. now let's review what we've learned today. they couldn't bear to resist a challenge; they bristled at any trace of a threat, any implication of weakness or inadequacy; they were insecure, irrational, afraid of this place and of ... dragons — and of all the unknown. somehow, she got the impression this was more than most had on them. ergo —

"if anyone asks, we never met." read: hey, i can keep a secret. i can keep a secret, just so you know.

do you want to quit? yes ... (are you sure?) ... and yes. this wasn't a game, nor some scientific study — all of that, it had been a mistake. deep breath. "i hope you find that thing you were looking for." and with a sweep of her wings, damask let the door sway to a close at her back.

that hum of electricity in her veins — was it the same energy she'd felt when she'd crossed the threshold, or was it partly something else? she climbed higher, eating up altitude, slinking footsteps fading into nothing below and behind her. polaris at large was a frontier ahead of her, all its attractions awaiting exploration. she'd stay a while, maybe. get the lay of the land. after all that time stalling, the prospect excited her, it really, truly did — and yet, and yet, and yet ... it wasn't the core's ethereal blue tattooed to her eyelids; it was a quartet set of neon lights, glowing in radioactive green. you don't know them, damask. promises and deepest inner workings aside, could you tell anybody how they really live, where they come from, what they do? you've got a designation; you've got a description; you've got confidential information you've sworn not to give away. and that's it.

but knowing and seeing were two different things, and she had seen them — seen this enigma, puzzle, mystery, this being by the name of orthoclase-alpha for who they really were.

not what.

who.

exit