SEVENTH SERAPH.

Just aren’t his style? Abel scoffs to himself, noting the way the smile doesn’t even register fully on his face. Dog materializes in plain view– either a sign of trust or a sign that Savage doesn’t think he can touch him. Covered in blades, too. If his previous partner had a ghost like that, maybe it wouldn’t have been snatched and crushed. Then again, Savage probably would have grabbed it anyways. Dangerous. Dangerous. 

He swears to himself. 

“No, nothing.” The casualness of the question irritates him. His blood’s still hot from the fight, and yet things have pivoted completely. Savage doesn’t even seem to question their new partnership, moving calmly through picking over remains. He won’t fool me. He can’t let him, or it’ll mean his life.

“You just planning on walking off into the sunset? What’s the next move?” Can I trust you? He feels like a child asking their parent stupid questions. It doesn’t help. He’s pretty sure the answers won’t either. 

The question pulls a dry bit of laughter from Sav’s throat, his eyes sparking briefly with amusement. The ridiculous picture in his mind keeps him smiling: a picture of them skipping together into the sunset, drawn in crayon by a child’s hand. Wouldn’t that be something? 

No, the path ahead of them is much darker, full of danger and treachery. He takes a step closer to the younger Risen, and another, and another, till he’s standing close enough to make out the small lines around Abel’s eyes, the near impetuous set of the line of his mouth. Pouty, he thinks with mild contempt, the barest stirrings of affection there too. It’s endearing, coming from someone that had broken a pair of his ribs not five minutes ago. 

“I’ve got a cozy little hideout, few hours from here by jump ship.” As he speaks Sav brushes past him, trekking easily through the rest of the carnage and out of the warehouse. Dog has already set the Hull to autopilot down out of the lower atmosphere and he squints through the sudden gust of sand and dust the thrusters kick up as the massive, hideous ship hovers off the ground. Without looking to see if Abel will follow, he heads towards it. Boots clank against the metal grates that lower for entry into the large cargo space, where a couple of sparrows and a pike are strapped down amid a few odd, unmarked crates. 

   Her crooked smile loses some of it’s confidence.  What brings you to this land?  Peace, she wants to say, though she knows that’s not an entirely truthful answer.  Eivor the Talker she was called, though her words had served her poorly over the years.  It was her axe that did most of the talking for her, and that … well, that seemed to be failing her of late. 

“  A debt that was owed. It has since been paid, but I find myself in no rush to return to my home.  ”   The best lies are always rooted in the truth.  A debt was owed and paid, aye, but it was not hers.  Paris crosses her mind, a dark cloud blotting out the sun momentarily, but it soon passes, and the sun shines once more.  She gathers herself quickly, and continues without missing a beat.   “  The weather in Francia is finer than England or Norway, and the people are finer here too.  ”

Kassandra’s own smile softens at the faltering of Eivor’s own, some small measure of sympathy worming its way into her heart. Such a fierce looking warrior, and yet there was softness yet to her! It reminds her distantly of Brasidas—his face a shadow and shade now, but how he wore his heart on his sleeve, a heart that beat for Sparta and her people, and them alone. It is only a fleeting impression she gets from Eivor, but she trusts her instincts. 

The snow is soft– a good thing. It helps them mask their movement. They’re not worried about their own tracks, and their enemies’– no, the Fallen’s– are easier to make out. Shiro lays on his stomach in it at the edge of the ridge, feeling the cold seep through his armor slowly.

He scans the camp, feeling his heart and Light spike as he confirms Cybel’s sight on the Archon. His mark. He’s done this so many times before, it almost feels like habit. Shiro takes a long, low breath, taking stock of the situation, his ins, the dangers. 

Cybel’s touch pulls his attention back from his target. The dregs? Shiro casts Cybel a look, but complies. This is a mission. He doesn’t want to compromise it. But he has Cybel’s trust and request. He sighs. 

《There’s a handful. Probably the Captain’s. They seem on edge– Archon influence.》 It might be useful to exploit. High tensions mean quick action, and quick action means mistakes. 《They’re doing maintenance on Shanks– from the looks of it they’re in rough shape. Low resources, maybe. They should have better equipment for their Archon…》

<<Archon is ether-rich, else he loses his size and thus his authority,>> Cybel answers quietly. Things he is sure Shiro knows, but it bears reminding, how this singular view can shape inwards reflection. He watches the drekhs himself, the smallest of them with freshly docked arms. The myth of their Kell of Kells always makes him pause to watch the drekhs. 

<<See how they treat machines? Shanks are not merely tools or weapons to them. They are tended to as they tend their ketches: with much care.>> 

It is perhaps the thing that had first bent Cybel’s heart towards sympathy when he first began spying on the various Houses all those many decades ago: the reverence they show for things made of machinery. No culture or people could be so damned or fall too far if they showed such love to machines. 

They watch the drekhs together silently for a little while longer. Cybel does not point out how they share what little ether they are doled out after a little while, nor the way one drekh carefully tends to the other’s fresh docking wounds. He knows how observant Shiro can be. After a while, he only asks: