datadiving | catchall for hk shenanigans

They've walked a long way. Time doesn't mean as much when you're not as subject to its effects, so they don't mark the days passing unless something eventful happens. Distance, too, leaves no mark on them, except perhaps on their cloak, which is kept with as much care as they can manage.

They have only a few things that are theirs. So they should take care of them.

It's green and bright and squishy here, and the last part of that is what interests them the most. They spend some time distracted by the softness of the moss, and in truth they're still distracted when they come across someone who's...

...

She looks bad. They don't have a lot of medical knowledge, but they're pretty sure spikes don't go there.

This bug doesn't seem very concerned, though. So what should they do?

The Knight peers at Lace, head cocking in a near-universal expression of curiosity. In response to her question, they merely shrug.

They have no concrete direction, so perhaps they are lost. But they have no particular goal or desire to reach a certain place, so on the other hand, they are not.

...The stoic type, huh.

Actually, she isn't entirely sure what this bug's 'type' was- they certainly don't look like a lot of things she's seen. Traveler's cloak, a near-featureless mask (it has to be a mask, it's too still). Young, maybe- there's something childlike about their body language, she supposes, the attentive, inquisitive (?) way they seem to be looking at her.

Or looking at the spike, as it happens.

"Oh, are you worried about me? Aren't you a darling. I'll put you at ease, though, this really barely hurts." She hardly had much of a shell to break. "I suppose I could part with it, though, if you insist."

She had a sneaking suspicion this bug was not liable to speak up and insist on anything anytime soon. But such words were basically meaningless; idle pleasantries, circumlocutions.

Stoic is really all they know how to be. It tends to come naturally when speaking is something that's never been available to them. And communication is sparse on the roads they've walked.

It really barely hurts, she says.

They've heard that before, usually through clenched jaws and tense voices. This stranger seems much more casual about it, and has none of the signs they've learned to recognise from other bugs in pain; no stress or trembling. No strain in the body, no wrongness in the voice.

Still...

They can't insist, not in the way she asks. They can't answer her with words. But they step forward, closer, even though this might be a trap or bait from some larger predator.

If something is in distress, and they can help, they will do so.

They touch the iron spike, examining it carefully with as many of their senses as they're able.

It's rusty. Old. They could probably break it if they tried, but it's probably better to pull it out. They vaguely remember that it's a bad idea to pull out something that's impaling someone else, but...

...they don't know how to ask if she's got...blood. If this is going to be bad for her.

So they grasp the spike and tilt their head inquisitively at her, once again. Does she want this out?

What an odd air this little thing has. As they approach, she notices the darkness behind those eyes. Do they seem a deeper black than most?

Shifting her lean slightly, she hums a snatch of something before the sound is cut prematurely- casual as she might play it, the weave of her body is at least solid enough to rebuke being shorn through, and trying to move her chest too much around it courts further tears.

But they've moved in enough to grasp the thing, though they seem to be waiting for some other cue.

With her hands- since she can't exactly twist to look- she investigates the edges of the rip at least on her front. The metal's old, but only a few strands of her caught on the edges, and she can either free those, or deal with the negligible tearing that will come with them being pulled free. "Should be fine, go ahead."

They notice that uncomfortable shifting, and they're careful not to move the spike any more. Or, at least, they try. They're doing their best.

Physical strength applied with their hands, not at a nail's point, is not their strong suit. But they've wandered enough that they understand a little of how to give themselves better odds at cleanly removing something (this sort of situation is not the first time they've had to do such a thing).

They wrap their hands with their cloak to give themselves better grip, before they abruptly yank it out. Luckily, the spike doesn't prove too much of an obstacle, and it comes free fairly cleanly.

They tumble backwards, head over heels. It takes them a few rotations to stop. The spike has flown off somewhere into the moss.

...Maybe they used too much force.

They stare silently at the faraway heights of the grotto's ceiling (or they assume a ceiling of some kind, anyway). They have very little concept of embarrassment, but they do feel like they'd rather lie here for a little bit than get up immediately.

It comes free, and she comes down, catching herself on her feet, though it takes her a moment to straighten.

The exit wound fortunately is a lot smaller than the entry, and it's not arduous to use a bit of resonance to pull some cursory strings across the gap. As quick-fixes go, not a bad one, though her midsection's going to be looking a bit fragile until she can come up with an excuse for how she got ripped that warrants repair.

Grateful as she might be, she takes time to find her pin before she does her helper, and wipes it down with a handful of moss. There's dirt clinging to the weave of her back, but she'll deal with that later.

They're lying on their back, in a way that, with that impassive face of theirs, makes it ambiguous whether or not they're actually awake. She waves her free hand in the air in front of their eyes. "Hellooo? I know the moss is comfortable, but you might not like what happens if you fall asleep here!"

It is strangely comfortable, but they're not asleep; it's too bright for that, and besides, they don't really sleep normally anyway.

(They don't like the light. They prefer to rest in darker places.)

They sit up when she waves at them and talks at them. If they could blink, they might have; she has what she wants, so they wonder, a little, why she hasn't gone on her way.

Maybe she doesn't have much to do either. Who knows.

What she's holding, though...

They've never seen anything like it before. It looks like a staff, but it's sharp on the end, and yet it's not a spear, or a lance. They can't help but be curious about it, so they lean towards it after acknowledging she's spoken.

They just...stare at it (because a weapon is an extension of oneself, a steadfast protection against foes and the obstacles of the world, so it's rude to touch unless given permission). Staring seems to be a common feature of this interaction.

There's something so charmingly unguarded about this little morsel, isn't there?

Pharloom would eat them alive if given half the opportunity.

As it is, she doesn't have to think very hard to try and estimate the context behind that look. The pin comes up with an easy motion, to rest its length against her free hand. "Oh, admiring my pretty little toy, are you? Keeps a nice shine, doesn't it. Almost as good as its edge."

They're armed, too, she notices- a stout foreign weapon, with a surprisingly elegant silvery gleam to it.

Pharloom didn't like silver. It was much more beloved of gold, where it could use it- something about 'the likeness of false gods'. Odd to see such a treasure on an otherwise shabby little traveler, though. She can't help but comment. "You certainly seem like the type to have an interest, though you're rather small for a warrior, little dearie."

They nod. It is pretty, that much they agree. But it's sharp, too, clearly well crafted for its purpose, and they approve of that; it's both functional and beautiful, though they know which one they prefer most.

They draw the nail from its place on their back - they don't see reason to draw it unless they intend to use it, but it's fine, they think, if someone else asks about it - and hold it up for Lace's inspection.

It's well balanced, perfectly honed to the full potential of its materials, and gleams coldly even in the grotto's warm light.

You certainly seem like the type to have an interest. A taciturn nod, an acknowledgement of the truth of the situation. You're rather small for a warrior. They shrug, at that. It's not the first time they've been called small. It doesn't bother them; it has no bearing on their ability.

A fingertip ghosts over the surface of the blade. The blunt side- she feels if she touched those edges, even the silk she was made of would yield.

What an interesting, odd material. Unimpeded by the spike this time, Lace hums again, a handful of notes.

It's not merely the weapon that resonates, but, the entity holding it, though in rather different manners. There's a note of concord between little warrior and weapon, but, also, a grander, deeper echo to the former, than merely the cold, metallic ringing of the former.

The melody fades, and Lace tilts her head, eyes narrowing slightly. It's not without a more guarded note that she speaks again. "Well, now. Appearances can be deceiving, now, can't they dear?"

They're not really paying attention at first, to the sounds she makes. Sounds have always filtered through a little more slowly, for them; the mask clamps down on their senses.

Vision, and touch - those are unimpeded. But sound comes through a little strange, muffled, wrong. Sensations on the mask itself are barely able to be felt.

They feel the sound resonate through them, and even more - the darkness within them responds, a vibration too low to hear but enough to be felt. It rings within their mask, an echo of a voice they once had, and lost. It's enough to make them startle, jumping to their feet in shock - not hostile or afraid, just surprised. Confused, a little. Their nail is held loosely in one hand, not in a position of attack.

They nod, after a moment. Yes, that much is true. Appearances are deceiving; they don't look like what they are.

They would like to sing back, to return that resonance. But they don't think they can, and even if they could, they don't know how.

They don't know if there's an easy way to convey that they...liked? The notes. Or at least, they were fascinated by them, by her voice. Instead, they settle for patting at their own blank mask; covering the place where a mouth might be on an ordinary bug with a hand, then dropping it.

They can't ask her to do it again, really. All they can do is convey their lack of options to return what they see as something new, interesting, a favor.

At the sight of how much they startle, Lace buries a giggle in a raised hand. The idea of being able to catch someone off-guard with something as simple as that Song- well, they really weren't from around here.

And, as they indicate themselves, sound comes a bit beyond them. "A voice is an easy thing to have on hand for some, but not for others, I suppose." A bit of her usual airy tone is punctured; she has... some sympathy, for being fettered by design, she supposes. There's no real way to observe the total lack of a mouth and not understand that it isn't an indifferent oversight.

"There's plenty of workarounds, though, in a place like this, if you have a bit of ingenuity."

She supposes she can do them a small favor, spare a bit of time. They have helped her, and so amenably, they don't ask more of her.

"Song runs along the kingdom's veins, it echoes and finds purchase in anything that has the slightest freedom to move." A bit of rigid stone protrudes from the muffling blanket of moss; with a quick swing, she strikes it broadside with her pin, lets the two ring off each other even as the resonance travels up her arm. A voice of metal, a voice of stone. Different timbres and pitches. They call, disrupt the deep, damp stillness, for a moment, and then their waves fade, settle to silence again.

"Of course, not every movement is music. Bereft of meaning, it simply becomes noise."

They're being given a lesson. As always, when someone is trying to teach them something, they are attentive, focused in a way that blocks out everything else.

They cock their head to the side as the noises ring out. Metal, stone, chitin - all things to be surpassed, toyed with perhaps, ultimately cut through. The sound of the vast stone door being broken down, the clatter of the metal railings, the frenetic chime of the stagway's bells. Echoing footsteps through carven rock and rain.

They've never viewed it in this way before, not really. They'd found some amusement in the sound of bells and levers and switches, the recorded songs in the gardens and the trams, but that was all.

They look for a suitable stone of their own to strike their nail against, to follow her example. Their first attempt provides more of a cracking sound (too much force, they think). Not enough to cause a lot of damage, but it's not a sound that sings freely in the air.

They try a gentler approach, turning their nail's blade, striking the stone with a blunter edge. The combined sound isn't as strong as the one the stranger had made, but it's still a sound of some kind.

It's something new, something they haven't tried before. They try again, several more times, attempting to convey different notes in childish curiosity.

Edited 2019-06-24 10:29 (UTC)

She's easily prone to amusement, perhaps, watching someone make rudimentary steps in an area she's known since her weaving, but this isn't the pampered child of an aristocrat calling themselves the greatest minstrel known to bugkind when they can hardly hold a harp straight. As such, this is perhaps a feast of relatively unguarded sincerity from her, and yet, there's sincerity to their efforts, as well.

She watches them attempt (and what an arm that little thing has, easily taking a piece out of the stone, and the nail no worse for wear, every delicate-looking carving still pristine), reevaluate and strike again, and then they seem to get the hang of it, even with a weapon not really designed for resonance.

"Well, it certainly seems like you have an ear for it already." Useful, that this is so far out in the wilds. Closer to Pharloom's heart, making such a ruckus would attract... dubious attention. Out here, the only thing to hear them are moss beasts, really. Not much of a discerning audience, that.

She hums, flicking her pin upward in the air to the first position and calls a ringing butterfly out of the ambient light. It lands on her free hand, opening and closing its wings.

By the way they straighten their posture from where they're hunched over in concentration, it seems they're happy to have her approval.

They amuse themselves with the sounds a while longer, and they probably could have done it all day if not stopped, but the butterfly distracts them. They've seen bigger butterflies before, ones that sang and spoke. This one reminds them of the little winged lights that flutter around them, or the small companions called to existence, when they use certain charms.

It's magic they've never seen before, and thus is wonderfully new to them. It feels different to the soul they're used to wielding, the restless spirits of the dead; it hums and sings with its own kind of special resonance.

They leave off their music-making and sheathe their nail, tilting their head up in clear curiosity to watch the fluttering light.

catchall for hk shenanigans

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