NANIIEBIM- HERE BE DEMONS

He comes back next time with some grievous injury to his nothing, presumably from the massive shredded gash across his thigh plates. He sits and waits. I fix it for him. He is still nothing in there. I decide to add a drawing on the inside, of the type of beast I imagine could rend metal into scraps with a single blow. He puts it back on. He no longer moves as if he is injured.

Over time the interior of the knight becomes decorated with whatever odds and ends I could think to attach to the inside of a guy who’s got room to carry it. What really gets me is that he never removes any of it. Never requests a change. Not even when I installed a curtain rod for a small tapestry, or a bud vase to carry roses for his beloved, or an accordion folder for letters. He didn’t say a word for any of the many, many drawings of mythical beasts that now fight forever inside of his shell.

There are plenty of other forges. I’m not entirely sure why he keeps coming back here anyway. We’re pretty popular, but he could get his armor fixed a lot quicker (and with fewer ridiculous modifications) literally anywhere else. I asked him if I could get a look at his nothing again. He flipped up his visor and nodded his head so I could take a look. It was the same as it had been, filled with drawings and trinkets and weird little fixtures I’d put in there. I asked if he was annoyed by it, or liked it, or felt anything at all, but he literally only ever says nothing, so I’m not sure why I asked.

There’s not much room left in his nothing now. When he comes back for repairs I’ve had to fix my own foolish additions. Some of these pieces are intricate and irritating to repair, but I fix them anyway. It feels wrong to take any of it away from him now, even though I’ve been rudely encroaching on his nothingness to the point where it’s barely even there. How he squeezes his nothing back into a body so full, I’ll never understand. But it’s a game to me now, finding a spot not yet filled and putting something there. A dark part of me wonders if he ever gets filled up completely, if whatever sorcery holds the nothing-knight together may break, and it will all clatter unceremoniously to the floor.

When he hands me his breastplate yet again, it is so shockingly disfigured that I wonder if being made of nothing has somehow kept him alive. No ordinary knight could sustain such injuries. So I fix it. And he waits, unmoving, in a quiet corner of the forge. It’s like he’s watching, even though I know the reading glasses I put inside his helmet were just for fun. I’m careful to put it all back exactly the way it was when he last left. There’s no room to add more this time.

He examines the breastplate, and pauses before putting it back on, like he’s looking for something. Is he worried about the fit? But it suits him just as it always did. He calmly points to a little space, about an inch, between a miniature shelf and one of many pockets. There’s nothing there. I ask him what’s wrong, and again he points. It’s the most emotion I’ve ever seen from him, and it’s barely anything at all. I take it to mean he wants something there.

I spend some time engraving a little snail in the gap. He watches, as much as nothing can watch. When I’m finished he holds the breastplate, but he doesn’t put it on right away. I ask him if something’s still wrong. He says nothing, and puts it on. I tell him I can’t add anything else. Even if he could ask, there’s no room left.

Next time he comes back, there’s nothing wrong with his armor—he lets me check to make sure. I ask him what he’s doing here. Out from one of many pockets, he retrieves a tiny rusted knife. It’s in miserable condition, barely worth saving. I tell him I could make him a nice new one, but I’ll fix it if he likes. He puts it away and reaches around to find something else, a needle and thread. Better condition, but I’m not a sewist and I tell him as much. He puts them away. He then retrieves a little twisted piece of wax paper. I open it. It’s candy. I ask if I can eat it. He says nothing. I eat it. It’s flavored with cinnamon. I’m surprised he let me take it.

He keeps bringing me candy now. His armor is the most laborious to repair out of every client my forge serves, but it’s my own fault so I can’t complain. Sometimes he keeps me company while I work. I wonder if he is trying to tell me something when he hands me mints. I wonder again at the lemon lozenges. He stares at me when I eat, as much as nothing can stare.

One day he brings me a little jar of honey. I thank him, I tell him I’ll save it for dinner. He watches me work, he puts his repaired armor back on, and he stays. My shift passes slowly, and when I finally pack up to leave it’s dark outside. He follows me out of the forge. I ask him where he’s going. He points to the jar in my hand. I ask him if he wants to watch me eat it. He says nothing, but the nothing-knight clearly wants something, so I open the lid and dunk my finger in the honey. I try not to get any on my chin. He stands there, inches away, watching me try to consume this jar of honey without a utensil. It tastes like clovers. About half the jar is left when I’ve finally had enough of pretending to be a bear, but he doesn’t move to leave.

I ask if he’s going to follow me home. He says nothing. I tell him he can if he wants to. Again, nothing. I start walking, and he follows at my side. I know he’s not going to say anything ever, so I fill the silence. I tell him I’m grateful for the sweets, I tell him about how his various components are made, I tell him I’ve never met anyone made of nothing before. I tell him it’s a rare opportunity for a smith to work so much on the inside of something. He says nothing. I tell him again how much I like the candy.

It occurs to me that maybe filling me with sugar is as close as he can get to filling someone else’s empty armor with trinkets. I’m not sure if that’s really why he does it. I tell him I don’t have room to be filled with anything on the inside, not like him. I’m not a container for much besides food. He offers me another piece of candy. Maybe he likes containing something, the way I like to feel full. Maybe it’s nothing at all.

—

Kwei'shra is the opposite of T'vra. She is a tall, strong ande faumous huntes. Her name is know even beyond the borders of her clan. She come from the Naar Hish clan. An ancient, reclusive clan inhabitink the drak swamps.

She belongs to a group of elite hunters whom the Naar Hish call the Shadow. She has perfected her hunting skills. She has benn on many hunting trips andbrought back valuable trophies. Perhaps too many...

She is at an age ehere she is considered the clan's elder hunter. She spend so much time hunting that she didn't even notice, how her sons reach manhood. She didn't notice how her clan and traditious were changing. Nor did she notice that her dreadlocks were turning gray. The world around her is changing, but she remains the same.

She give birth for five sons. She had them all with same partner, who died while hunting. But that was a long time ago. She hasn't let any man get close to her since then. It's not that she's grieving. Death ehile hunting is an honor. But she's risen so high in status that she no longer meets men who impress her.

Hunting no longer fulfills her. On the contrary she loves the moments when she can take off her armor. And then, in the relative safety of the marches, she gathers Shakora (a marsh plant) stalks, with she spins into thread. Then, in silence, alone with her troughts, she weaves them into cloth.

Her life has hit a rut. Like any good woman, she doesn't see the reasons for her dissatisfaction...yet.

Coming up with Kwei'shra wasn't easy. I wanted the Naar Hish to look different. I want to slightly alter the anatomy of their heads so that every yautja could tell at a glance that this one was from Naar Hish. I knew I wanted to give them long mandibles and elongated faces. But drawing it took a long time. I have a sketbook full of sketches of various Kwei'shra faces, various Naar Hish skulls. There were really a lot of them before I created a functional look that I was satisfied.

The next challenge was the armor. I'll admit, I hate it. I'm better at drawing natural objects that metal. And for Kwei'shra I wanted some simple, unisex armor. A hunter like her wouldn't wear a battle bra. And for that, I needed armor that doesn't quite suit her. But at the same time, it shouldn't be too flashy. The Naar Hish don't know how to work with metals. So hunters acquire metal armor and weapons trough theft. I’ll explain this custom in more detail sometime.

Wolf has been on and off fucking the elder for about 20 years, around as much as they would ever be on the same ship-

It's not that either of them aren't also into women, but when they met, Wolf found himself rather embarassingly caught out by his attraction at a face to face briefing (the elder being very much still prime steak despite being older) and the elder had totally caught that scent, and as an aside propositioned him and invited him to his quarters after the meeting. "You smell curious. Would you like to find out? Meet me at my quarters later. We can TALK more about it. "

(Extremely clear proposition.)

That led to Wolf being fucked into the mattress and over most surfaces. He came so hard once he blacked out and woke up in the elders embrace.