The lights dimmed. It must be late.

Nails bitten down to the quick, dark circles underneath her eyes. In one hand she held a book with its pages decorated in cursive writing-- or squiggles, to the illiterate --and the other was lifted to her chin as she worked on biting the nail of her thumb.

It'd been hours. She hadn't left the Palace since she woke up and she was beginning to miss even the taste of the "fresh" air found around the Nest. Her shoes had been kicked off long ago, but the relief of cool stone against her brought some strange comfort.

Her eyes were starting to glaze over. She was hoping one of these books-- most were fictional, it turned out --would spark her memory a little. So far, nothing bar what she already knew. She remembered the sky, the smoke in a wooden cabin. She knew that little cat, with no gemstone, who never spoke, but not his name. She remembered a woman and perfume hanging in the air.

Their names? No, that'd makes things just a little too clearer for her.

Bastard.

At last, the Valkhand collapsed on a fainting couch, book falling shut. Her arm planted over her face and she exhaled all the air from her lungs.

She definitely wouldn't be sleeping tonight, no matter how tired she was.

@Obieth

Obieth had--at first--taken her Mistress's comings and goings at face value. When Obieth was dismissed, she went about her own business. If, that was, one could call "stalking Lessers" and "lounging in the orb-lights" anything remotely resembling "business."

In any case, she'd never really wondered what Aethril did in those private hours. It wasn't her business; she honestly held absolutely no interest. It was, to her mind, a world and status quo that had existed long before her arrival, and a steady constant that had nothing to do with her.

Lately, that had changed. It might have been the subtle changes in Aethril herself, really. Longer hours spent alone. The dark circles under her eyes when she called Obieth back. It wasn't that it was always in the library; just that sometimes, Obieth could tell that something was... different. It wasn't a status quo. It wasn't a steady constant. Something beneath the surface in Aethril's life was a fluctuating variable, and she seemed... Not herself.

Obieth would have, had she considered it, been surprised at her own sense of concern. While it was true that caring for Aethril in turn safeguarded her own palatial lifestyle, Obieth was starting to care more about Aethril, and for Pollen, than at first she had expected. It still wasn't the warmth of a creature that didn't carry the urge to rend and destroy everything, but it was... there, and it was something.

It was concern, right now: a concern that made her hesitate where she stood, that made her hollowed ears scoop away before sweeping back. It was concern that left her watching Aethril in silence for a long moment, before at last approaching.

No greeting was immediately given; but she made no effort to hide the soft thud of her paws padding forward toward the Valkhand. Instead, she paced straight to the couch, and shoved her black skull beneath the hand that wasn't draped over Aethril's face.

"Mistress-?" she tried, her hoarse voice a low and questioning purr--tentative, more than anything. "Are we staying here the night?"

What she was really asking: would Aethril linger, all night, awake and exhausted and rife with some unknown tension-? Or would they go back to the room, and try at least to sleep? Obieth did not mind, for herself; but somehow, she wished that Aethril would rest. That somehow, this would fix whatever it was that had been troubling her.

@Aethril

Had she drifted? Aethril hadn't noticed Obieth coming closer, she hadn't heard her, until the Valkhound's head was under her fingers. Even then, at first, she mistook her for Eggbert until she noticed the hard ridges and finally picked up on Obieth's voice. She shifted, then, pulling her arm away from her face and looking over.

"No," the Hand's voice was soft, and her blunt nails went raking into the back of Obieth's skull, where her head met her neck. There was some comfort in this-- at least for Aethril. The Valkhound wasn't as cuddly as she remembered other cats being, but even the mere act of just petting her was enough to satisfy that little urge. "No, not all night."

Just most of it, perhaps.

Aethril sat up again, spare hand rubbing at her eyes. A part of her wanted to confide in Obieth-- she just wanted to tell someone, anyone what it was like. In some ways, she was scared of what she couldn't remember, but was that something Obieth would even understand? If she told Obieth how many books she'd trawled for looking for answers for questions Aethril barely even knew she were asking, would Obieth... sympathize? More importantly-- was it worth it?

No. The Valkhand had to move on. She knew this.

She was picking up the book dumped near Obieth's paws as she straightened herself out on the couch and folded one leg over the other. "Do you enjoy your time around the Palace?" Aethril asked, more out of placid politeness than a genuine interest. She could only imagine Obieth terrorizing the ivory mice scuttling away from her and into the walls day in and day out. "I hope there is enough for you to do, for entertainment."

@Obieth

She gave a low rumble, close approaching a purr, gravelly and bass in her chest. And she stood there, motionless (eyes half-lidded) as Aethril stroked her head. This pleased the big cat.

Then Aethril was sitting up: rubbing her eyes, questioning Obieth. 'Do you enjoy your time around the Palace?' The Valkhound considered this. Did she..? She knew, instinctively, that without anything to compare it to she couldn't give a very good answer. But she was... content, enough. Bored, sometimes; but she did love to lounge, and rest. Had someone dropped her in Eridanus or in Canis for a day she'd have been in her element, perhaps--hunting, slinking through shadows, among the darkness entrenched between the jungle or the bones. As it was, Cepheus was... too manicured, too Orderly, for her liking--but she didn't have enough experience of other places to put this into words.

So far as Obieth was concerned, the entire world was just a little bit too Ordered.

"I am... all right?" she suggested, glancing to Aethril as if to ask whether this answer was quite correct. Her tail flicked, a teal glow briefly illuminating the tip as if in thoughtful gesture. "I rest. I watch the show. I eat. I hunt." She didn't kill much--not in Cepheus. Too much was off-limits for her. The weird broom-things. The ivory deer. The Hellswans. She had only chased down a couple stray rats farther out in the cave, and a bird or two that had drawn too close.

She didn't know why Aethril was asking, but... conversation was tit-for-tat, and so she offered the same question quietly back: "Do you... enjoy your time here? Is there enough... to entertain you, Mistress?"

@Aethril

The Hand hummed a little. Obieth would run out of episodes soon enough-- Pollen already had and was plotting on scalping Danger into making more --but at least this Valkhound seemed to appreciate smaller details. Obieth wouldn't get bored on re-runs, as long as there was enough for her to notice on a second or third viewing.

But, was Aethril entertained? Was there enough? "It can be stifling, sometimes," she admitted. "There is plenty to do, of course, but I do find myself craving... more." Not more, perhaps, but the elf was quickly reminiscing.

Obieth would love the skies. Did she even have the slightest concept of fresher air, of an infinite sky? "There is much more out there than this Nest," she said softly, tone edged with something resembling grief. "So much more. It's not healthy to linger, however." Thinking about being trapped wasn't going to make Aethril feel any less trapped.

She was moving onto a new idea, craning her head back to look at the bookshelves. "I should take more time to read, perhaps. It's what they're there for. In fact," she was pushing up, bringing the book in her hand with her. "Would you like to listen to a story?"

A hand beckoned Obieth with her as she strode to the bookshelves, almost gliding through the air without her feet touching marble. "They're always good before turning in for the night," she explained. "And some have pictures in them, like the show does."

@Obieth

Craving more-? Obieth pulled back, as Aethril stood--and padded along behind her, soft paws rasping on the marble. A new sound accompanied her, too: a quiet whispering that Aethril might hear about now, sign of a new magic she had spontaneously developed.

"I will listen... to a story," Obieth agreed, though it was fairly indifferent, on her part. If it was what Aethril wanted, she would indulge her Hand; she was sure she'd enjoy it, regardless. She always (mostly) liked whatever Aethril pushed her way, be it food, or beds--everything but milk, it seemed.

"What... more? Are you craving?" she asked, wondering what Aethril could have meant, by this. Food-? Walking? And what more was outside the nest; and was the palace the Nest?

Obieth hesitated--she didn't wish to pepper Aethril with too many words whilst the Hand focused on the bookshelves--but she wanted to ensure her own education, too. She was a Hand's guardian; she should not, she reasoned, be ignorant, particularly of what sounded like basic information. "Is this palace the nest?" she asked.

And then, a rare admission: "I would like to see more. I would like to... learn."

Because while the Valkhound was mostly content lazing about and indulging herself, who knew what else was out there-? What other wonders might tantalize her senses; what knowledge lay beyond her limited experience? She wanted to be worldly, and knowledgeable, rife with hidden secrets that no other creature possessed. If someone had offered her the full knowledge of the universe she'd have taken it in a second. She wanted to be that Black Queen lying on her pillows, with the power to grant or deny information to any who approached her.

But right now? Right now, Obieth knew of nothing but the path between only three caves, and beyond that, the world, in her mind, was empty: a blank space, a fog of war, where anything might linger.

@Aethril

Aethril was picking through the spines of books, nail brushing through embroidery. She knew many of these stories-- they were for the younger, with more pictures than words. This one about a fish giving away all its scales, one of sailors looking for treasure. One she particularly liked was the story of a man who avenges his brother's death by killing a bear, but in turn is killed for it. The last time she read it, however, she had cried so hard she threw up. Not the impression she wanted to leave on Obieth.

"Everywhere you can walk is the Nest," she said, looking over. "This Nest is the cave system-- you won't be able to leave it. The Palace, Draco, everything beyond-- it's all part of the same one. Beyond that is where I come from. Where I was born." The Hand plucked one book from the shelf, a sort of dusty green with gold threading. "I don't remember much of it, mind you-- but the trees changed with the seasons. They'd be full and green in the summer, brown and gold in the fall. In winter, they'd lose it all-- and by spring, they'd reform. They'd grow pink petals that would fill the roads."

A pause. "It's... difficult to explain the appeal, I suppose. Perhaps we all just have nostalgia for the places we were born in." Aethril was pulling a cushion down onto the floor from one of the couches, now, and took a seat on it, opening the book. "Speaking of, however, perhaps we could take a look around the caves, if you'd like. I believe Pollen wants to go near Usra to try to find Rodd Danger."

Her only concern about that was that he'd be terrible to her. She set the open book down on the marble floor for Obieth to get a look at-- to look at the thin pages, the smell of Book, the faint tang of ink. The current page it was turned to had nothing special on it aside from some black squiggles on the very face.

"This story is about something called the Moon."

@Obieth

Obieth listened in silence, considering Aethril's pleasant-voiced words. The whole world, then--as far as the Valkhound was concerned--was the nest? And there were things beyond, places she could not go. "Why can I not leave?" she asked, but it was a question more of curiosity than protest. She didn't have the concepts, the experience, to consider it stifling or a trap--a cage.

And then--"Why did the trees change color? ...Was that magic?" She imagined it--the petals on the tree flowers changing colors now and then. It sounded... pretty? It was probably for decoration, she reasoned; maybe the palaces outside, there, liked to change things up a little. (Obieth assumed that it was the flowers that changed, and not the leaves.)

As for Rodd Danger, her whiskers twitched. She hadn't liked him, much: he was loud, and his music was bad, and the thunder sounds annoyed her. She didn't want to find him and have to listen to them again. (The concept of sound effects added in post? Completely beyond the cat.) "I'd like to travel," she said, tentative, "but I don't want to listen to Rodd loud noises." Not entirely a grammatically correct sentence, but there it was.

Ahh--but it was story time, now. Aethril was sitting on a cushion, on the floor, and laying a book across the ground.

Obieth leaned up onto the same couch, and grabbed a cushion in her jaws--pausing, with a glance at Aethril, to ensure this was something allowed, something she wouldn't be scolded for.

Then she set it near to Aethril's own, and flopped across it, peering closely at the book.

"What is a Moon?" she asked.

@Aethril

"There's no way out," she answered. "Not that I can remember, at least." And this wasn't to imply that the list of things Aethril could remember was particularly long. "And no, not magic-- the world outside the Nest doesn't have much magic in it. They just do it."

She turned the page and she was considering. "He's likely quieter in real life," she offered. "But you don't have to meet Rodd Loud Noises if you don't want to. It's Pollen's thing." The next pages were awash with colours; faded dark blues and whites decorated them. They showed an infinite sky, dotted with small, glittering stars. A woman with very long white hair sat underneath the sky in a garden of pale star-shaped flowers surrounding her. A crescent moon was planted in the sky right above her head, though it was distinctly grey in comparison to the iridescent colours.

"The Moon," and she pointed to the grey shape, "is a sort of light. Outside of the caves, it lights up everything so that we can see. The Sun does the same during the day-- but neither of those are very important to the story."

The Hand settled, and then she began.

"Once upon a time, the Moon was dark and gloomy. No one liked to look at her, and because of this, it made her very sad. The only things that would look upon her face were the stars, and she told them, 'I do not like being the Moon. I wish I were a flower, where women would praise me and put me in their hair. I wish I were a flower that the birds would sing their sweet songs to.'

The Stars said, 'We do not know how we can help you. We live always in one place and performed our duties to make the night sky beautiful and bright.' They smiled at the Moon, and the Moon had an idea." The page turned.

The Moon-- or more accurately, the nice lady --was walking away from the flowers that surrounded her. Wisps of fireflies followed her in long, delicate strokes of orange. Above her, the crescent moon was gone-- but the sky was blended between dark blue and pink-orange as she strode off to brighter territory. "The Moon decided that she would help the Stars light up the sky-- so she travelled across the skies to find someone who could help her shine brighter. She had to find the Sun."

@Obieth

On the surface of it, this was a beautiful story, and Obieth was rapt.

The faded, but delicate, paintings drew her eye; the softly musty odor of the book soothed her, somehow, though she'd never smelled the scent before. The colors, too, were beautiful and her imagination ran wild--but it is necessary to mention that her ignorance shaped some of her meandering thoughts.

Obieth, of course, did not know what Stars really were--or a Moon, or a Sun, or even fireflies. To herself, she had been making quiet mental notes as her Mistress softly read her story. The Moon, she thought, is a defective orb-light. And also a Hand, she reasoned, eyeing her over: she looked enough like Aethril that it seemed a reasonable assumption. The Stars live in the ceiling? And the Sun--day? An orb-light that isn't broken, she decided.

Thus, as her mind was gradually taken by the lulling rhythms of the tale, her imagination did not paint quite the same picture as would a child's thoughts. To Obieth, an orb-light had become a Hand: taken Hand shape, and walked among the flowers, with what must be flaming embers glowing around her. And this broken Orb-Hand would travel to find an Orb Light that was not broken, moving through the flower fields in Valkhand form.

Obieth leaned closer, sniffing the page, as if hoping to catch the scent of the flowers or the Moon. But the page only gave off the ancient smell of paper.

"-Is she trapped in the paper?" Obieth asked, an unintentional echo of her fundamental misunderstanding of movies a cycle or two prior. One massive paw reached out, and hesitated, its two soft toes poised above the page--claws sheathed, but it was clear she'd intended to pat the paper... maybe to see if she'd fall in.

@Aethril