SOAKED IN LIGHT.

@deprocella

The air of the Tangled Shore was thin, reedy. He’d tried to mention it to Arrha once, but his fellow Associate had waved him off with an eloquent “it’s wind from the Spider’s ass. The Shore is cold.” He stood alone in the High Plains, a spiked silhouette against the barren desolation, and waited, as he’d been told.

He remembered the air on the humans’ Earth. At Twilight Gap it had been thick with ether and blood and that terrible burning light from the golden gun that still haunted his dreams. At the Reef with the Queen and her Wolves, the air felt stronger, more uplifting somehow. Hope, he’d realized later. A place where he dreamed he might rise. Dashed and docked by Skolas. At the Cosmodrome with Kings it had been cold, ice in his chest and in his throat as he toiled away on his ship in a half-frozen riverbed. He didn’t remember the air in his beautiful scrapheap of a ship as he’d flown through the stars towards the ruins of the Shore. He didn’t remember having to be be dragged, unable to stand on his trembling, dying legs, before the Spider. But he did remember the Spider’s intake of air as Avrok breathed the name of his salvation, and his first breath as a free eliksni – an associate, not a slave.

Avrok had planted his flag in the thin air of the Shore, announcing that here he would stay at the Spider’s right hand, until such time as he chose to leave. A novel concept, choice. Made slightly less the realer for the fact that if he chose to leave the Spider he would be choosing to relinquish ether, and since no House would take a pariah like him, he’d be choosing to shrivel and die to be picked apart by other scavengers.

Arrha didn’t remember his own salvation but Arrha didn’t care. Arrha griped and disappeared on far-flung errands across the system. He had chosen a freelance basis. And because of that, he didn’t have to meet this guardian coming into the Spider’s web. Avrok did.

A guardian coming to the Shore. Avrok had spoken up about this. Though he often chose to remain silent and listen, it was not out of deference as a dreg, but that the Spider often used human languages. Avrok did not know human languages. He could understand them, especially when the Spider spoke, since he spoke slowly and deliberately with that eliksni growl that Avrok knew. But when speaking them, Avrok could hardly string two words together. But in the face of a guardian coming to their home, he’d tried. He still ended up out here waiting for her, but he’d tried nonetheless.

When she transmatted in he stiffened, his fingers twitching on the smooth metal of his shotgun. He didn’t trust guardians any more than he trusted kells. That she did not arrive in the hood of a hunter made him only slightly less nervous.

“No move,” he called, trusting his English was comprehensible enough to get the point across, but firing up the gun so she could see exactly where he stood. He stood at a safe enough distance that he could duck behind cover if she got trigger happy when seeing a Fallen, as all guardians did. He’d practiced the phrase the Spider had given him to say, so it only came out slightly stilted when he said: “You here to see the Spider, yes?”

It had barely been a moment upon her own landing that she was beckoned to--approached and ordered in a thick growl. Her response, however, has been a favourable one, as her entire body froze upon the command being issued. She didn’t have to look to know the origin of whom she assumed was an extension of the Spider’s cartel. She could hear it, and while something of relief overtook her, Cybele learned quite quickly since her resuscitation that despite her experiences and her good intentions, the Eliksni were no longer what they once were. 

It was only as he continued that she tilted her head upward, the cool shades of amethyst reflecting off the multi-paned surface of her helm. The source of her very existence that she found purpose within. The stories and history that seeped from every inch of it when she pulled it into her grasp, and the change she would create moving forward. Decorative stones had been strewn around the helm’s crystalline peaks, and in the gentle breeze of the open plains, they clinked against one another in a gentle symphony only heard in the lingering silence between conversation.

“Yes,” she offered softly, hands lifting slowly to expose open palms. Her response too, was slow. Deliberately so. Several ways to proceed ran through her head. The first was to offer up her weaponry, assuming that it would have been enough to settle the wary welcoming party. But with too many words, it might have incited anxiety as opposed to settling it. A second was to respond in Eliksni, but that too would have raised red flags. So instead, Cybele did not move, stood with her hands visible, and decided to speak only when spoken to.

In the moments following, her ghost appeared as if out of nowhere upon landing the ship. It too, capably read the severity of the situation and floated out of view behind her form. While the confrontation was not necessarily one that was inescapable, Cybele avoided conflict at all costs. Her ghost knew that, and oftentimes kept as low-key as possible.

As if her ghost had known her thoughts, however, the weapons on her person had instantly been transmatted from their secured position and presented in a heap before Avrok: familiar handcanon, an odd and dated scout rifle, and an Eliksi-made grenade launcher. As they clattered to the ground, Cybele lifted her head to level her unseen gaze with the Eliksni before her, and spoke once more.

   Dredgen’s eyes fall down onto the small machine of Light when it comes into view. What a brave little Ghost it was to willingly show itself before a being dripping with tainted ichor. For now he shows no animosity towards either of them in the face of letting a story unfold. Curiosity was a dangerous thing to behold when the endgame meant certain death.

   “Suppose I should start at the beginning then.” He starts. “Before there were Guardians, people brought back were called the Risen. There were no laws, no City.” Yor’s hand has since moved away from the wilted weapon on his thigh, hand gesturing to the place about them.

   “People lived in places like this. They’d nowhere else to go. Some built towns in the carnage of what remained and made their own small communities with their own rules. No two places were the same, with a few under leadership of a Risen no one could challenge.” 

   The Warlords in many cases, though not all the Risen had chosen to be so awful in their power. He remembers the faint feeling of rage once held towards those that waved their Light around as a weapon against their kin. “In one of these towns, a Hunter before there were Hunters, came wandering in and sought to challenge the leader.”

Cybele’s ghost floated around her form anxiously, its rusted panels twisting and grinding as it placed itself between the two. Despite her bravery, the small machine could bare the weight of darkness no longer. It zipped forward over the stranger’s shoulder and scanned their form with a lofty sway in attempt to discern or match the data of their explanation with Vanguard records, evidently without the consent of either.

‘I know what you’re talking about,’ a male voice spoke knowingly from the compact, metal shell. ‘Every hunter knows that story.’ But despite her ghost’s knowledge, Cybele was unaware of such origins. The Traveler spoke to humanity differently than it had her kin, and in retrospect, she had never come to understand the specifics of its gifts unto them. Eliksni entered an age of progression, by far surpassing that of the human race in every way imaginable, but when they were stripped of the Great Machine following the Whirlwind, everything they had amounted to had been lost. She remembered — of that, she was painfully aware. Advancement turned to destruction and desperation, and the Fallen had so desperately fought to reclaim what was rightfully theirs.

   What a simple question, one he’s answered plenty of times on both sides of a Guardian’s war. Though with her’s it forms another of his own. Why should it matter who he is? Did the name Dredgen Yor serve any purpose among the fallen race? It may not, the other might, but he was long gone and to say that the same person stood walking before her would be so very, very wrong. 

   He avoids the answer for now.  “Do you know the origins of the Gunslinger?” With it he stops and turns to her. Despite the nagging whispers that made his hairs stand on end, being so close to a Light, Yor would like to toy with the idea of telling a story. Only, that story would eventually answer her question should she not know it. If Cybele did already know how the age old tale ran its course then the answer might find her before he has a chance to provide it.

   “The Solar Light that Hunters use, in the shape of a canon.”  A shape he’d held only the one time when relinquishing it to the Ghost of a fool who fired first. A fool who had missed and paid dearly for it. Not an ounce of regret can be placed towards that happening. Everything that had lead up to his first death at the hands of a vengeful child he would do again in a heartbeat. 

   Perhaps the chance may come along again. A new set of people, more lives to steal away, and further growth towards a hidden power few knew existed. Dredgen has yet to set his sights upon whoever may find themselves at the hands of a monster born in fairytale, but he cannot doubt that such a venture will come to fruition once more. It was simply too easy to rip people apart and plant the seed of revenge. 

While risen by the Traveler’s will, her knowledge in regards to the human explanations of the machine god’s gifts were slim. Her time in the Tower and among people in the Last City were scarce out of necessity. The sheer amount of guardians reborn into the world gave her ample space to distance herself from a cause she was allegedly suppose to follow, but it was forever difficult when what she was had been an inconvenient enemy to the light. There was nothing inherently dark about the Eliksni — unlike the Hive or the assimilating Vex, her kin simply struggled to survive and reclaim what they had lost, but still they blindly waged war to further an agenda they knew so little about.

Cybele watched him carefully, fingers brushing idly over the bone and sinew of the weapon within her grip, finding some comfort in the warmth and familiarity that radiated from it. He had avoided her inquiry and answered with a question of his own, but it was with no other reasonable way to proceed, she shook her head in response.

deprocella‌.

≴ █   head twitches in a somewhat unnatural trick as he stands swaying in the empty field. he’d been there for hours. unbeknownst to all she had been circling around him, whispering & cooing orders & demands. he had made it clear to her that he would submit, no longer silence her. to listen, to be the devoted brother she asked for. his eyes darted back & forth at rapid speeds, he sways listful to & fro. the whispers are all he hears.

          she is all he remembers.

          && it’s she who noticed the steps in the distance. a smile on her lips as hands place upon Uldren’s shoulder to turn him—- but there is not a sign of her to anyone else but he, so he turns while his waist stays still & suddenly he seems to snap out of that odd trance & bend down into the brush. golden hues once so bright & filled with life are dull, cloudy. but they peer from the black outward as hand rushes to the Ace at his side. the crown of crystal confuses him for a moment. as if the mere sight causes pain. face twists & distorts before suddenly he recalls why it plagues him so. or rather, he’s allowed.

          tentatively he rises,  ＂ i know you. ＂

Eliksni were not expressive in the way that humans were, but every facet of pain by the very sight of him was concealed. He had been worse off; suffered more. She could feel the darkness in him, as if she could physically touch it. It was thick and consuming; dense in the air and hard to confront. She knew it, for she lived it, and it was the very same darkness that swallowed and destroyed what she once was.

But there could be no darkness without light. She knew this specifically with him, for a fragment of what he was shone through if only momentarily.

Cybele stepped forth with her hands before her, approaching carefully with the desire to assist; to help and try to understand what consumed him. Perhaps he could not tell her, but she could attempt to discern what had happened.

    boots tread along the path, gravel & snow crunch underneath the weight of the old Hunter’s boots. a small satchel bounces along his hip, containing a few items it would seem, the sound of rustling along with a sturdy & solid object. 

     the coyote had been travelling, walking for sometime, exploring the old ruins as his curiosity would get the best of him, as it usually would. he was oblivious to his surroundings, with a few raspy breaths, he would seat himself down onto a few stones, throwing his satchel off to the side. stretching one leg out & keeping the other bent, he’d take the time to relax. his rifle leaning against his back, a short compact scout rifle, on his leg was a leather holster, sitting in said holster was a large chunk of steel & metal, an old handcannon taking a militaristic style. 

     trailblazing was his trait. he enjoyed doing this, being out in the Wilds, not having to worry about paperwork or casualty reports. for now. he’d be taking in the air, watching the old ruins. 

If she had learned anything over the years, it had been patience. Despite her outward appearance beyond the folds of her garments and concealing helm, out in the wastes of the solar system, you were a target of everything. Even by her own, she was a threat at first glance — a wielder of the light, a guardian born from the will of a stolen god. But it was for such reasons that she kept to the periphery until she was capable of making peaceable contact. In this corner of earth among its snowy peaks, she made progress. But the hunter’s unexpected presence forced her to take several steps back in order to analyze.

His steps fell silent; shuffling only to seat himself, or at least she could only assume without visual confirmation. She strained to listen, ears ringing from the whipping winds. Through the howls and whistling of airflow through tight crevices and the low clicking of the scarce Eliksni presence, she was forced to move closer in order to observe correctly, adding the muffled crunch of snow to the wilderness’ orchestra. 

@deprocella has stepped into view.

something quiet. something… new.

this is what had been brought to the agent’s attention this afternoon. though new, it’s familiar– but not too familiar. a part of him had thought it a sort of puzzle. another, an interesting development. a curious thing.

he’s crouched in the european dead zone thinking about it, waiting for it. he knows not to go out to find it himself, for it will come to him when it’s ready. when they’re ready. when she’s ready. so the agent, patient and still, waits for the light to come.

she makes herself known by a distant step, a light foot falling on cold stone, and then another. bright yellow eyes are turned her way, stark under a hood of deep, twisting tentacles. something that would otherwise appear to be a hostile creature from a far-off planet steps forward.

“you,” he speaks first, his voice harsh from some kind of strain that he seems to still currently be under, judging by how he holds himself. “i have been expecting you.”

To be expected was... Strange. Rare. On the edges of the solar system she existed like a shadow without leaving traces of herself. No footprints were left to track, no evidence to suggest her presence; only words in familiar Eliksni clicks, if anything at all.

Finger curled around her firearm of bone and sinew, a familiar hum and uncharacteristic warmth radiating through the thickness of her gloves, its edges familiar in every rough peak. But her weapon was not lifted, not intended for the mysterious voice. Instead, it remained low. Present and ever ready, but never brandished in a way that suggested hostility. 

And so it was cautious footsteps that she pressed forward; careful strides carrying her weightless frame over cracked stone and overgrown foliage. With a slight part of her lips, Cybele breathed a quiet, single-word response through her ether mask:

   The sounds which once made his skin crawl, that of bugs, earns now only another small spark of Light that arcs between his fingers before they curl up into a loose fist. Despite all the swirling Dark that had dug into his very marrow there still was Light at his core. Dredgen Yor is a risen by heart though to call him a Guardian would be a grave mistake. Even so, in the years that passed on by, to exert that power within always left such a sour taste in his mouth afterwards and a raging headache the only could be quenched by stealing away the same energy from others through death. Some part of him wonders if that had been by design of the Witch that cursed him.

   A very minute shift in his gaze will be the only sign allowed that he has noticed her own movements, of something so very delicate shifting within. Ghosts were not often something he went after. He did not have to, the violent, jagged cut of Thorn eradicated any chance of revive for those who were struck down by it. Often enough he was met with the trembling machines’ arrival shortly after death and occasionally there would be one or another, who stood without fear in the face of certain death. Rare was it, however, for him to inflict the same harm upon any of them. Yor was more than happy to let Ghosts go on and search out another fool to bring back into the cold, heartless, worlds they inhabited. It only meant more Light for him later on.

   Peering back one last time to the Eliksni, Yor finally turns away and begins walking, a hand coming up to stop his cloak from swinging in front of him. What he plans for her had never been mentioned nor agreed upon. Could it be called betrayal when he only promised to leave and let the decrepit place continue to stand? There was still so much he could do that did not require leveling the place. When they start to walk and he listens for her following footsteps. “Nothing to say?”

   He asks, with a hand brushing over the grip of his canon. 

The inquiry provoked a flinch from her; a wave of swallowed memory and buried trauma drummed back into the existence of her mind provoked by nothing more than a simple phrase.. Her response therein had been a pregnant silence, an answer in and of itself. Old wounds burned and her jaw strained in recollection of her own censorship. Brutality from her own, repulsion from humanity. The human name given to her kin was perhaps accurate, albeit insultingly so. She had personally observed their fall; from their final stand against the darkness to infighting, segregation and obliteration. To say she found little comfort nearest a man wound in human flesh had been an understatement, but the aura that radiated from him had been too familiar; too reminiscent of a life led long ago.

Bright eyes flicker beneath her concealing helm, aware of his hand’s movement. Over time, she had trained herself to look for hostility in humans. While her passiveness had landed her countless scars both physically and psychologically, old habits died hard. A weapon might have been within her grasp, but the scope had been turned towards that of the ground. In truth, Cybele had been at odds. She did not know exactly how to handle the situation other than what she had already done. People were oftentimes reasonable; willing to understand or at least agree to disagree and leave well enough alone. But skepticism gripped her as she remained on high alert, incapable of separating the screams of her kinsman from the presence of this very man. She doubted that he would be so kind.

In such a short period of time, so many past horrors had been brought to light. Never had she felt so vulnerable despite remaining so distant. But as the anxious chattering and bright eyes disappeared into the background, Cybele offered her own inquiry upon a quietly spoken breath:

   A bold move, though he finds many people only perform them if they do not have a full grasp on the situation they are in. He could not count the lives that had been stolen away under someone who thought they had the advantage. “I rarely am.”

   Right now she does have the upper hand, and may very well live on to see another day. For some it may be hard to tell just how his expression shifts from various emotions, others might see the crinkles that pull in the corners of his eyes now and know for certain that amusement was not being feigned. It is for the best that she cannot see the sick smile beneath the mask.

   “You have exactly what I need, and my intrusion unto this place is certainly not the first time I have found myself unwelcome.” Dredgen peers past the strange Guardian and to those that lie waiting. Something stirs within him. A dangerous, vile idea. Opportunity has just made itself known. “I will leave on the condition you see me on my way out of here. Otherwise..”

   The not-Hunter’s eyes drop down onto her once again before he continues,  “I will make sure this place is not left standing before I depart.”

   And he would not leave before taking each miserable life that chose to use it as a refuge. If there was no enjoyment that he could sap out of watching her die by his hand then he could make his own by other means. 

He is once again answered with silence; a stillness alluding to the process of decision-making despite the clarity of the situation. As if sensing the tension, waves of hidden Eliksni at her back begin to chatter with anxiety and restlessness. This time, she did not curb their concern, but instead allowed them to stir. She was no position of authority, simply a benevolent hand, and their voices were not something that should ever be silenced. With a mind clear from experience and the scars to prove it, she held no more power than the weakest of dregs. The only thing that truly set them apart was the gift of life bestowed unto her from the Traveler, and the arc that ran through her veins alongside it.

Mistrust buries deep within her core, winding around her heart and squeezing tightly. The ghost hidden within her robes also began to stir, but it is with a loosed hand freed from the grip of her rifle that she lifts to calm its shifting. With little more than an accepting nod, Cybele wordlessly agreed, and would therefore escort him from the premises as per his request. But humanity was never kind — never true to their word. Never in the history of man had betrayal been uncommon. As such, she kept him at the edges of her periphery, body swaying a step away as the loose folds of her robes shift with her, suggesting by her movements for him to take the initial step forward, and she would follow behind.

   Yor ignores the tingling pressure of Arc building in his bones when she moves, incessant words spoken in another language driving him up the wall. He would strike now but too many guns linger in the area. There must be time to think, plan, and execute. In more meanings than one. To enjoy feeling Light leave one’s body as the wilted Rose worked its vicious magics, that is what he sought out. There would be none of that if he had to fight his way back out of the decrepit place he’d wandered into. 

   The strange Guardian’s in-human syllables draw out an obvious confusion, the upper half of his face exposed to the world, and a brow raises up. As far as he had ever known those sounds were not ones people were capable of. Is this Light one of those he’d just called beasts? What a curious thing to find. Yor will put her down all the same, to feed the Dark. 

   “Oh, I would not say that.” He himself is a beast, an ugly and twisted monstrosity of what once had been a man, and Dredgen Yor would have it no other day. The not-Hunter’s eyes look over the faceted helm and finally take in just what he sees there. She hides away what she is from others. How absolutely pitiful.

   “On the contrary. What I seek is standing right before me.” Her Light would be a delicious thing to ravish, but the chance to do so might very well escape his grasp. To take it would be ever so pleasing but he would rather not end up right back where he had been the last numerous years. There was nothing for him to take there, to do, and waiting again to escape was a hell in itself. He will continue to see if an opportunity rises. 

“Then you must be mistaken.” Of course, she did not entirely know the truth behind his words, but the darkness that enveloped him had been stifling. With a final stride, Cybele stood directly before him — neck craned further, gaze discerning what little of his face made visible. She had observed the change in expression, from mild confusion to the settled understanding. There was little effort made to conceal what she was; there was no benefit in hiding, not in this case. Under the blanket of darkness, either everything was revealed, or nothing was exposed. More often, it was the former rather than the latter. 

“I have nothing for you, and you have breached a space you are not welcome within.” Deft fingers loosened around her altered firearm not out of false confidence, but faith. The belief that, whatever it was he so-desired, he was incapable of acquiring. Even she had whatever it was that he was seeking, she would give it. If it meant the safety of her people, or civilization as a whole, she would offer it willingly. 

It was a conversation she put off, and an interaction she refrained from having. Anything to do with the Last City made her uncomfortable, let alone the guardians’ residence high above. It was not a place she belonged, and it was for such a reason that she sunk into the background and avoided any major interaction at all costs.

The approach was slow; the descent down shallow steps and across iron tiled panels. Like a warm wind, she swept towards the hunter vanguard only for the hovering ghost to begin speaking upon her arrival:

‘Variks sends his regards,’ the voice from the ghost was masculine; surprisingly so at the hands of a dainty warlock, but it prompted the extension of her limb; the presentation of a small drive containing files. Information from the prison’s warden in regards to Cayde’s affiliation with the Reef. ‘He said no questions, but we’re curious.’ Cyebele sent a glance up at her ghost in silent disapproval of her companion’s incessant questions, her helm glinting in the dim light of the hangar.

   A dull throbbing ache had sprung up in the back of his head. It was part of the curse, feed the bones or suffer otherwise, and he has gone too long without gunning down some poor soul unlucky enough to cross his path. He had made an attempt to ease back into life among the living so that he could go unnoticed for some time. The longer, the better, he needed to get a handle on the changes the system had gone through in his absence. Now he is paying for that choice. Wouldn’t be the first time.

   As if a shark who’d caught onto the scent of blood his steps are guided by faint Light. He could find it blindfolded, tear it out of the gifted, and move on. Though as he walks the banners of Fallen leave a stifled confusion. If a Guardian had been among the aliens then surely there would be more tells. Gunfire, flashes of Light thrown about carelessly, but here he finds only silence.

   When Yor enters the main room of the derelict building and finds himself face-to-face with dozens of eyes, pent up strings of Arc dancing lightly up from finger tips and over his arm, the only warning they would receive. He is not there for them, he needs Light for the whispers to shut up, but if they were to get in the way he would find himself more than ready to sap the life from each and every one. Nothing could stop the shadow’s ravenous maw.

   Vivid eyes narrow when movement erupts from the farthest ranks of Eliksni, and when he sees why a sickly grin spreads. What a curious sight it is to see one of Light so readily integrated within the ranks of those who were supposed to be the enemy. Perhaps more had changed than he realized. Add that on top of the hidden truth he’s yet to see of this particular Guardian. 

   “You living here with these beasts?”

She could feel it — the darkness closing in. It was suffocating and consuming; like a thick haze drawn through narrow cracks. She braved the metaphorical fog not due to courage, but necessity. With another step forward and the lift of a wary hand, the Eliksni receded further. A simple request heeded, and another stride to follow. 

In light of his tactless inquiry, Cybele gave only silence. No such verbal response as she proceeded onward to set herself between the man before her and the countless Fallen who had, for all intents and purposes, disappeared. The odd glint of blinking, aqua hues might have caught one’s attention, for as much as they were unseen, they were still present behind readied wire rifles.

Another stride towards the edge of darkness, and a rumble of protest from the shadows at her back caught her step. With a slight dip of her head, a guttural series of clicks reverberated in response amid the gentle symphony of the strewn, swaying stones wound around the tips of her helm. It was curt and direct, for she dared not pull her attention away from the threat at their doorstep. And without further outcry, she swept forward.

But alas, she offered a verbal response as her finger twitched against the hard edges of her firearm, head lifting to meet his gaze. The once-Archon, who would have towered over him countless lifetimes ago, now a fraction of who she was; docked and revered for something far different. A martyr, an enemy; and an anomaly above all else. She looked into the very maw of darkness and had been swallowed by it. This, perhaps, had not been different.

In such a case she waited — stalking through every long shadow at a distance to observe their actions before advancing and potentially intervening. She had observed them for some time, following for days to affirm or denounce her own suspicions. 

With her rifle lowered to her hip, Cybele skirted around the perimeter of the building they entered, head dipping lowly beneath the broken windows to match the guardian’s pace. Disturbed chittering from nearby Eliksni was drawn to a low hush with a swift movement of her hand before ducking back into a long shadow cast by the building itself.

Fingers pressed against exposed, eroding brick, observing the landscape from a distant perch of what had been a hole in the wall of a residential highrise from the human golden age. Long since abandoned, overgrown and occupied by countless scavengers, she remained in it only briefly. Like the existence of a shadow, she was always there, but constantly moved with the rise and set of the sun.

The momentary peace that had settled across her unprovoked kin had been disturbed, guttural battle cries alerting her. The gentle, blue light of her ghost’s single eye illuminated the settling darkness of evening’s din in search for the source of eruption. In a swift and soundless movement, Cybele dropped unto the ground and threaded through the abandoned halls of connecting buildings until she found what, or who she had been looking for.

Silence befell the sector, Eliksni withdrawing and parting like the sea upon her arrival. Though their weapons were still drawn, muffled, anxious clicks filled the quiet space in a fitting orchestra. Her ghost flew out of view and into the folds of her worn robes, removing what little light it provided for the area. Dozens of glowing eyes stared upon the perpetrator, including Cybele’s own which were now visible from behind the multi-planed glass helm adorned with crystalline peaks and threads of semi-precious stones. 

Rumours of her existence floated among the broken houses; of an ethereal being who gave and never took. With a crown not worn by kings, but as a physical burden from the heroes of old. An anomaly, a vessel; the physical embodiment of a storm.

Careful was her approach, as if not to spook the vulnerable creature — an injured animal; a crow with a broken wing. She did not fear him, but whatever this was, much like the state of the solar system, it wasn’t right.

It was with cautionary strides that she swept forward like a warm wind, and it was with exposed palms that she broke from the shadows and approached. The string of tiny stones woven around the crystalline peaks of her helm shuddered with every step she took, softly announcing her presence before any word of her own could leave her mouth. Only one had, however, and it was spoken in a quiet breath discernible only to those who wished to listen: