I Was The Sun

And so far Steam refuses to let backups work

…

Redrew the crew!

But it gave me this guy and I love him already

In light of that, I decided to make a side character purely to explore the new Arcana stuff and to see what the new plot is all about. Depending on what I find, I may hint at some of the new stuff in I Was The Sun, but I’m tentatively setting the overall timeline as follows:

Base Game Plot—Earth Destroyed, Ruin destroyed

[6 year timeskip]

I Was The Sun

[some sort of timeskip]

Howdy y’all! I am, in fact, alive! Took over a year’s break from tumblr but I’m gradually coming back.

…But I don’t think I’ll be updating this series any time soon, unfortunately.

I’ve got good-ol’ ADHD and so, in regards to fandoms, my brain tends to shift “modes” between several. So between that, and the fact that I have SEVERAL other stories brewing—mostly completely original fiction—I haven’t been in an I Was The Sun/Starbound “mode” in a long time. So I haven’t written any new episodes or drawn any new art for this series and I don’t have any clue when I’ll get around to writing/drawing any more. I still love Starbound but I don’t know when my brain will shift back into that mode.

If y’all enjoyed my writing and my art and want to keep up with what I’m up to instead, feel free to follow my main blog @mythrilpencil for my original art, fiction, and random thoughts. And/or follow my general fandom sideblog @mythrilsdoodles, where I tend to reblog others’ fanarts and will be where I will post my own fanart from here on out. (Including Starbound fanart)

“Disbelieving. You came here. Seeking refuge,” Bronzemarch echoes.

Conan’s expression doesn’t waver. “Yes.”

“Incredulous. You do realize this planet is near a trade route. Informed. We may be borderline frontier and lacking formal law jurisdiction, but many of us have connections to Peacekeepers in one way or another.”

“I’m just trying to go clean,” Conan says, holding his hands up just enough to show the palms of his black gloves. Creases and scratches criss-cross the leathery material like they’ve been through a lot. “I have no intention of harming this town; I just need somewhere to lay low until the heat’s off my back.”

Bronzemarch eyes Conan for a second, then looks down at the rocket launcher placed between them. He carefully picks it up by the handle and inspects it as he continues, “Protective. This is still hardly the place for…”

Scout glances between the two men as they continue to debate, but she loses track of their conversation as she studies the rocket launcher herself.

It’s definitely an older weapon. Its metal casing is buffed near the butt and near the support halfway up from repeated handling, but the rest of the metal is matte and decorated with scratches. None of the scratches are severe enough to interfere with the rocket launcher’s functioning, but they’re clearly visible as they catch flecks of light from the lanterns illuminating Bronzemarch’s workshop, the healing water below, and from Scout herself. 

It seems to use an older energy system, too. Scout only catches a glimpse of it when Bronzemarch opens a panel along the top of the rocket launcher halfway down, but the glimpse she catches looks similar to the older, depleted energy cores she’s seen now and then in the corners of Bronzemarch’s stashes. Huh.

Eventually Scout catches Devon glancing at her. Devon wandered around to the other side of the workshop at some point and is now lightly leaning against one of the wooden support beams between workbenches. She’s still holding that vase of hers, looking down at it with a softer expression as she slowly turns it in her hands. At least until she glances up at Scout and quirks a flat eyebrow. Scout just tilts her head back at her. 

The pulse resonating from the vase is duller with the distance between Scout and Devon, but Scout can still faintly feel it trying to pull at the plasma behind her brand. 

“Oi Bronze-head?” Scout whistles idly, interrupting wherever the men are in their conversation, “Ya got any inklings as to why Devon’s vase feels like Riku’s?”

Conan frowns and glances between Bronzemarch, Devon, Scout, and the others in turn, asking for silent explanation but getting none. Meanwhile Bronzemarch’s LED eyes flicker in a simulated blink. Then he asks, “Bewildered. No, I would not. Why?”

“‘Cause it does. Got a funny pulse to it or somethin’. Semyon felt it too.”

“I-it made my fur tingle,” Semyon supplies when Bronzemarch glances at him.

Bronzemarch studies Semyon for a moment, glancing between him, Scout, and the vase still in Devon’s arms. Devon clutches the vase closer to herself every time Bronzemarch looks at her. 

After a minute, Bronzemarch looks back at Scout. “Curious. What about it, Scout?”

“I was jus’ wondering if they came from the same sorta place or somethin’,” she shrugs.

“Intrigued. Hm.” Bronzemarch sets the rocket launcher back down on its end in front of him and crosses his arms, tapping his chin with the knuckle of a finger. “Curious. Well, you said you had found the structure the other vase had supposedly been found from, but you never did describe it.”

“It was…like a gate or somethin’,” Scout fizzes, miming as much of the shape of the gate with her hand. She can only mime half of it at a time—her left shoulder keeps reminding her of its non-existence whenever she tries to gesture with that side. “Mighty tall, a mite spooky. It was all stone, an’ there were these ol’ obelisk thingamajigs around it to light it up. Same kinda obelisk thingies I saw back in that door.”

Bronzemarch’s eyes narrow curiously with another tap to his chin.

Scout continues, “I think there was some sorta carving on the gate? Like, somethin’ squiggly clingin’ to the top but it was built-in? An’ there was somethin’ else carved into it but I didn’t…”

“Faces,” Alice says. Scout tilts her head at her, and even Conan half turns to pay attention. 

The attention makes Alice try and hide partially behind her broom, but she elaborates, “There were faces on the gate, near the base.”

“Curious. What kind of faces?” Bronzemarch pries.

“I…couldn’t quite tell in the dark,” Alice admits, “But they each looked different. Like, different species entirely from each other. There were seven of them on each side.”

Bronzemarch’s eyes flicker briefly with another tap to his chin. Tick, tick. Eventually he muses, “Ponderous. A gate with faces… Informed. I’ve heard of such gates. The Outpost has one. People say they’re of Ancient construction. Thoughtful. So if those antiques came from a gate like that, then…” Suddenly he pivots on a heel to face Devon. “Curious. Devon. Where did you originally get that vase from?”

Devon blinks and flinches her head back like she got whacked, but after adjusting her hat briefly she turns the vase in her arms, studying it with a bit of a scowl as she says, “It’s been in my family for years. How am I supposed to know that?” Her voice has that sharper bite it usually has, but oddly that edge isn’t reflected as much in her scowl as usual. Huh.

Scout tilts her head. “Ain’t ya got any stories ‘bout it from yer folks?” she bubbles.

Devon just shoots her a look beneath dark eyebrows, one brow quirked.

Bronzemarch hums for a moment, the tinny buzz of air through his own pipes instead of a recorded sound. He studies Devon and her vase for several moments—long enough she shoots him a look and partially turns as if shielding her vase from his scanning gaze. Then he studies Scout with the same gaze. Eyes narrowed slightly, with the steadiness of a scanner. Sometimes he glances at Semyon and Alice. Once or twice at Conan. 

Eventually he sticks a hand in his trouser pocket and pulls out his old ID card. Then he messes with it a bit until the back of it slides off like it was just a case. Then he offers it to Scout, saying, “Giving. Take this, Scout. You’ll need it.”

Scout takes it from his hand with a curious buzz. It’s a thin card-like attachment, dull brass in color, with roughly the same dimensions as Bronzemarch’s ID itself save for a small extension to the top left corner that looks like a clip and a patch in the bottom right corner that looks like a chip connector. “What is it?” she asks.

“Informed. A Falcon license. Formal. As of now, Scout, I am officially transferring command of the C.S. Icarus to you.”

Scout whips her head up to look at him with a surprised whistle. “Wait, ya serious?!”

“Affirmative. I am.” Bronzemarch folds his hands behind his back. “Practical. Of course, you’ll have to stop by the Outpost at some point soon to get your own ID card to make things completely official. Thoughtful. But considering you’ll want to get Elliot to print you another sleeve,” he adds, gesturing to Scout’s empty shoulder, where Semyon’s jacket and bandaging have managed to stay put so far, “I’d imagine you’ll be stopping by the Outpost soon anyways.”

Scout looks down at her shoulder, idly bubbling, “Might jus’ finagle my own printer eventually.”

Bronzemarch shrugs, “Indifferent. Either way, you’ll need your own ID sooner or later.”

Semyon steps forward with a careful frown, glancing between Scout and Bronzemarch. “But Bronzemarch, isn’t the Icarus your ship?” 

“Informative. Technically, no. It was never my ship. My late captain transferred command to me, and now I’m transferring command to Scout.” Bronzemarch looks back at Scout with a bit of a hum, clasping his hands behind his back again as he notes, “Thoughtful. She’ll likely need the ease of transportation if she wants to figure out this mystery about the vases and the Ancients.”

Scout ponders that for a moment, plasma churning slowly. She does want to figure out what the heck is going on with things like that gate.

While Scout ponders, Bronzemarch turns to Devon and advises, “Advising. I suggest you go with Scout, Devon.”

Devon frowns, “Wait, why?”

“Practical. If you want to learn anything about that heirloom of yours, this may be your best chance.”

Devon’s frown deepens, but not with sharpness. Her brows furrow softly as she studies the vase in her arms again.

Meanwhile Bronzemarch finally looks back at Conan, who has settled his own hands behind his back by now and has been watching the conversation like a sport. Conan quirks an eyebrow at the eye contact. 

After a moment of regarding him, Bronzemarch finally says, “Firm. And Conan. If you really wish to ‘lay low,’ as you say you desire, becoming a formal member of Scout’s new crew may be your only option here. Certain. I cannot reliably promise you refuge here in town; we’re growing too fast. But—”

Devon’s head whips up as she snaps, “You can’t be serious, Bronzemarch! Letting a bandit join  with Scout?”

“Ex-bandit,” Conan insists, “I don’t—”

“I don’t care! You’re still tied up with those jerks that tried to steal this and Riku’s antiques!” she accuses, pointing a finger straight at his face. She keeps that finger pointed straight at him, even as she looks back at Bronzemarch and objects, “I’m not going with Scout if he’s on the crew.”

Bronzemarch sighs roughly, running a hand down his face, and says, “Placating. I am not forcing you to, Devon. But if you want to—”

Conan barely glances at the accusing finger still in his face as lifts his chin and interrupts, “Listen. If this vase of yours is connected with what I think it might be connected with, then I may have source that can help you figure things out.”

Devon pulls her hand back to her vase, regarding Conan with narrowed eyes as she lifts her chin herself. “We have sources too, you know.”

“Different sources.”

“You mean illegal.”

Conan concedes with a small shrug, “In some sectors, perhaps. But they may have information your sources do not.”

“But—”

“As long as he don’t bring that there launcher, I don’t got a problem with him taggin’ along,” Scout cuts in with a pop, gesturing to the rocket launcher on the floor after tucking the license into her pocket. 

Devon blinks away from Conan, glancing at Scout, then the launcher. Bronzemarch nods, picking the rocket launcher back up enough to set it just behind him, making Semyon take a step back from it.

Meanwhile Conan quirks an eyebrow, glancing at his old rocket launcher before leveling his curious look at Scout and saying, “Alright…that seems like a bit of a specific condition, though.”

“Well, fer one thing, ya blasted my prosthetic off with it,” Scout crackles, gesturing to the empty space where she had just gotten used to her arm filling. “And fer another, that thing’s heckin’ old! Ain’t ya ever taken a good gander at how empty its energy core is?”

Conan actually chuckles a bit at that. “Fair point,” he concedes.

“Firm. So you agree to the conditions?” Bronzemarch says, his tone leaving no room for further debate.

Conan nods, crossing his arms. “I do. No weapons is a fair price for my freedom.”

Bronzemarch turns back to Devon. “Patient. And Devon? Do you still want to stay behind?”

Devon glances at Bronzemarch, scowls at Conan, looks to Scout, then studies her vase for a long moment. It’s as if she thinks she can say paragraphs with her eyes alone. But after enough time that Scout almost starts to fidget, Devon sighs. “No. If you think we’re gonna find anything out about this, I’ll…tag along.” She levels one last narrow look at Conan and adds, “As long as he doesn’t touch my vase.”

Conan lifts his palms and shakes his head slightly, a silent promise to not touch.

Scout looks around at everyone when Bronzemarch—and everyone else in suit—looks back to her again. Finally the situation starts to sink in past her brand. Excitement brightens her palms and she starts to bounce on her toes.

“Amused. Command of the Icarus is yours now, Scout,” Bronzemarch says, tone light with the smile he can’t show on his face, clasping his hands behind his back once more, “Do what you wish.”

Do what you wish. Freedom! 

Scout whoops, a high whistle as she pumps her fist. Then she taps the microphone on the translator still securely pinned to her collar and trills, “Oi, S.A.I.L.! Got a couple new folks taggin’ along! Warp us up!”

~~~~~

<< Previous

~~~~~

And that’s it for Episode 3!

“It feels like that ol’ gate we found,” Scout repeats, tilting her head at the vase. “And like that other antique Riku had.”

“What are you talking about?” Devon frowns, setting the pistol down to pick the vase up herself. “It just feels like stone.”

“Ya don’t feel a buzz or nothin’?” Scout fizzes. She fishes through her pocket for her Manipulator.

Devon just frowns deeper at Scout over the lip of the vase, her dark features starting to blend into the shadows behind the already dark stone vase. In the settling night, only the whites of her eyes and the glitter in her pinkish eyeshadow catch much light. Mostly Scout’s flickering orange. “The only ‘buzz’ I’m noticing is the one you make constantly,” Devon eventually says, turning the vase in her hands.

Scout flickers, studying the way her glow catches on fine structures in the vase’s stone, like nigh-microscopic flecks of crystalline gold buried in the grey. They look like tiny stars of their own, twinkling with the vase’s resonance. 

So Devon doesn’t notice it. It’s starting to remind Scout of her dagger’s song, meant only for Scout to hear. 

Except…

“Oi, Sem,” Scout says, waving him over with her Manipulator, “C’mere a sec.”

Semyon blinks and glances between her and Conan. But with a final blink he complies, scurrying over to Scout and Devon in a bit of a jog. Conan takes a partial step forward, but Alice stops his path with the shaft of her broom. 

Semyon crouches to his haunches in front of Scout and starts to ask, “What’s—”

She gestures to the vase in Devon’s hands. “Ya notice anything ‘bout that ditty?”

Semyon tilts his head slightly at the vase, his eyes dancing up and down to take in the details. After a moment he glances back at Scout with one eyebrow quirked high enough it nearly hides in his curls. So she gestures to it again.

Semyon gives a huff deep enough in his chest to sound like a grunt, then gingerly reaches a hand towards the vase. Devon stares at his hand, then right before he can so much as brush it with a knuckle, she wraps both arms around it and turns away from him, vase tightly clutched against her chest. Semyon scowls.

“He ain’t gonna hurt it, Dev; jus’ let him poke it,” Scout fizzes.

“No.” Devon releases one hand from the vest to slap Semyon’s hand away. “I don’t need Apex fur on it as well as well as all this stupid sand.”

Semyon starts to object, “Hey! I don’t shed that much—” 

But Devon stands up with the vase, cutting him off. “Let’s just go.”

Scout crackles annoyance at Devon, but when that doesn’t get any response, she looks at Semyon and pries, “So did ya notice anything? Or…”

“I noticed something,” Semyon shrugs, pushing himself up from the sand, “It…was kinda like the buzz back on that other planet? Dunno.”

Devon shoots the two of them an odd look. “…I swear you two are some of the oddest people I’ve met,” she eventually mutters. Then she turns to start back up the hill.

Semyon offers a hand to help Scout up, meanwhile still tracking Devon with a contorted expression. 

Once Scout finds her footing, she calls to Devon, “Oi, shouldn’t I maybe scan yer thingy? Would be a mite safer to—”

“I don’t trust my heirloom in your knock-off Manipulator,” Devon calls back, holding the vase tighter against her and turning as she walked up the hill until the vase was barely visible over her shoulder. Once she nears the crest of the hill she stops long enough to glance down at the rest of them and huff, “Are you coming or not?”

“We’re coming! We’re coming!” Semyon huffs back.

Alice nudges Conan forward with the handle of her broom—pointedly holding it as close to the broom’s head as she can to give herself space between her and the ex-bandit—until the two of them approach Scout and Semyon. Conan doesn’t seem to resist enough for her to prod any harder than a tap to his shoulder blades, but he does glance back at her with a slight twist to his expression that Scout can’t puzzle out. There’s no resentment, or even annoyance in his thick eyebrows. Whatever his expression is supposed to mean, it’s softer than annoyance. 

But whatever. Scout shrugs to herself and twirls her Manipulator around a finger.

She nods Alice onward, and she and Semyon follow on either side of the ex-bandit.

Although Semyon pauses briefly enough to pick Scout’s pistol up from the ground, holding it gingerly in both hands. It’s small enough to fit in one of his hands, but he holds it like even touching the barrel wrong will set it off. “You, uh,” he gives an awkward huff of a laugh as he holds it out to Scout, “You might want this back.”

“You can keep a hold of it if ya want,” Scout bubbles, amused by the excessive care he’s giving the gun.

“N-no thanks.”

Scout bubbles a giggle, then shrugs again and tucks her miniature Manipulator back into her pocket to free her hand. Part of her tries to reach out with her non-existent left hand for the gun, only for the bandaging over her shoulder to remind her about its presence. Right. Gonna have to get her prosthetic sleeve re-done. Or figure out how to do it herself later.

But for now she takes the gun back with the hand she still has, then waves Semyon onward.

They opt to take a more roundabout way back to town. Now that the sun has thoroughly set, the cool of night is bound to send half of town to bed and draw out the other half. But there’s already been enough of a ruckus today, so Scout and Devon silently agree to avoid getting spotted with Conan in tow.

So they circle around the hills surrounding town to pass through the back entrance of Bronzemarch’s workshop. 

Semyon scurries ahead of them to fetch Bronzemarch, ducking through the fabric drapes. A minute later, he comes back with a very concerned Bronzemarch.

“Concerned. Is everyone alright?” Bronzemarch demands as soon as he steps through the drapes.

“Fine enough,” Scout pops, shrugging her right shoulder as much as she can without disturbing the sealing bandages covering her left, “But we got a feller here that wants to chat with ya.” She steps to one side, ignoring the dubious look Bronzemarch shoots her at her claim of being fine, then waves Conan forward with her pistol.

Conan steps forward, seemingly ignoring the last little poke Alice jabs him with the end of her broom. He rests his rocket launcher to the side of him and puts his hand on its end, fingers clear of the trigger. Then he lifts his chin ever so slightly, as if reasserting a confident posture even though he seems completely incapable of slouching. “You are Bronzemarch?” he guesses.

Bronzemarch’s LED eyes narrow almost to slits, but even he lifts his chin in some sort of reflection of Conan’s posture, hands folding behind his back. “Suspicious. Are you the bandit that followed one of us planet-side?”

“I…did not follow anyone,” Conan claims, picking through his words slowly, “But I am—was—associated with those other bandits that I hear raided this town.”

“Dubious. If you didn’t follow anyone, then why did your ship pursue one of ours so closely?”

“Coincidence of timing,” Conan shrugs.

Bronzemarch studies him for a moment, silent except for a low, simulated hum. Then he says, “Interrogating. Why did you come back here, then? Sarcastic. We are not much of a ship pit-stop.”

“First of all, I was never actually part of the raiding party,” Conan clarifies, a scowl touching his otherwise neutral expression. “Secondly…I recognize that you have no reason to trust me. Understandable. But now that I am here, I have a request to make.”

Bronzemarch’s eyes narrow a bit further at Conan, and only one of them widens subtly when he casts a brief, inquisitive glance at Scout. Scout just replies by tilting her head back towards Conan.

Bronzemarch crosses his arms in front of himself. “Wary. You’re right in supposing we don’t trust you. Bandits are rarely trustworthy. So why should I trust you enough to listen to your request?”

Instead of answering immediately, Conan lifts his rocket launcher by the end—fingers still well away from the trigger—and places it between himself and Bronzemarch. The handles and trigger face Bronzemarch.

Removing his hand from the rocket launcher, Conan says, “I have no intention of harming this town. I came seeking refuge, away from those other fools passing for bandits.”

~~~~~

With Semyon’s help, Scout makes it back to the crest of the hill right as the bandit calls a cease-fire. Semyon had worked quickly to stop her venting out, using a lot of bandaging to fold what little was left of her prosthetic sleeve against her side. The slightest breeze could push her over now, and the shifting sands beneath her feet kept threatening to do so, but between Semyon’s hand to her back and her boiling annoyance, she keeps herself upright.

“Yer doin’ a mighty fine job at that!” Scout snarks at the bandit’s claim of meaning no harm. Wait, where’s her—Devon has her pistol. And she’s sidestepping down the crest of the hill, keeping the pistol trained at the bandit. She doesn’t seem to notice how much her grip is shaking.

The bandit keeps glancing between Scout up top and Devon flanking progressively closer to him. 

“Who are you?” Devon demands.

“Conan,” the bandit replies quickly, “Jakob Conan.” Right. Those other bandits had called him Conan.

As if to prove his identity somehow, Conan tugs his hood off his head and cloth mask off his nose and mouth, revealing a head full of slightly wavy blond hair, slightly muted by incoming grey. He has a couple scars crossing his face: one long one bisecting the space between his left eyebrow and right check, one cutting through the greying stubble along his jaw. 

“Yer the one them other bandits were lookin’ for, ain’t ya?” Scout fizzes, studying him as she and Semyon start picking their way down the hill themselves.

Conan’s eyes narrow. “How do you know that?”

“We got ways,” Scout dismisses. “Point is, y’all raided us, then scrambled. Then ya come back here? What’re ya doin’ here?”

“Where’s my antique!?” Devon butts in, storming up to him gun-first.

Conan blinks and steps away from her, deflecting the gun away from his face with a finger. “Which antique? What’re you talking about?”

Devon sneers, “Don’t play dumb! The one you stole from Riku’s store—you know which one!”

“Listen, I wasn’t part of that raid,” Conan says, pushing the pistol away from his face again when Devon points it back at him. “I gave no permission for that. The only thing I’ve taken lately was an artifact from those other bandits. I don’t know where they got it or if that’s ‘your’ antique or not. All I know is that I was going to sell it for enough Pixels to go clean, but if you want to—”

Devon’s eyes go wild as she all but shrieks, “You what!?” She tries pointing the gun at Conan a third time, but he deflects with a swift hand to her wrist. So instead she almost pounces like an enraged tiger.

Semyon only barely stops her by pulling her backwards by the shoulder. “Devon! Back off! Let him talk!”

“He’s a bandit!” Devon objects, yanking her hand out of Conan’s grip but failing to tug her shoulder out of Semyon’s. “He’s nothing but—!”

“Devon! Calm down!”

“No! He’s—”

Scout winces at Devon’s ever increasing volume, the frequencies of her voice poking at the cracks in her brand already made tender by her plasma loss. So she sidles away from Semyon as he wrangles Devon back, instead scooting closer to Alice, who has snuck down the hill finally. Meanwhile she asks Conan, “Whaddya mean by fixin’ to ‘go clean’?”

Conan blinks away from Devon at Scout’s question. Then a shadow crosses his face as he scowls, “I’ve lived the bandit life long enough. I’m done.” His scowl softens but she shadow remains across his face, even as he looks square at Scout and pleads, “But there are people after me. The other bandits in my old gang. And the Peacekeepers. I need somewhere to lay low.”

“And you really think you can ‘lay low’ in the same place you and your idiots just raided?” Devon spits, finally pulling her shoulder away from Semyon’s grip. 

Conan shoots a look at Devon and insists, “I told you: I was never a part of that raid. Those idiots, as you so aptly call them—” he curls his lip as if the mention of them tastes foul— “Went against direct orders. They stopped listening to me long ago.”

“So what makes ya reckon that hangin’ out here counts as layin’ low? We were able to track ya after ya skedaddled back there; can’t them bandits do that, too?” Scout fizzes.

Conan shakes his head with a sound that Scout can’t quite tell if it counts as a snort or a deep cough. “Not likely. The ship they use is so old it doesn’t even have an ID number.”

“Huh.”

“Forget about the other bandits!” Devon huffs, bringing the pistol up again. “What makes you think we’ll let you just hang out here? We may not have the Peacekeepers at our beck and call, but we know people who do and we can still bring you into custody!”

Conan’s hand twitches on the safety of his rocket launcher, even as he’s leaning on it like a stout pole. Scout watches his hand. But instead of any further movement past the twitch, Conan holds up his other hand and implores, “I promise I won’t do you people any more harm. Please. I just need somewhere to hide for a while.”

“We could always bring him to Bronzemarch,” Alice suggests in a lowered voice to Scout.

Scout tilts her head at her, then looks back at Conan. He hasn’t lowered his free palm once; he’s been holding it up empty in a gesture halfway between surrender and shielding himself from Devon’s verbal onslaught. 

Conan glances at Scout and Alice with a curious twitch in his eyebrows. “Is this ‘Bronzemarch’ in charge around here?”

Alice startles, but manages a nod as she confirms, “Y-yeah, he’s kinda in charge.” 

“Then bring me to him if you wish.”

Devon starts to snarl, “Not on your—”

“Cool yer engines, Dev!” Scout crackles, flaring to get Devon’s attention, “The sooner we can get this feller to Bronzemarch, the sooner he’s outta yer hair. Geez!”

Devon blinks at her flare, but her expression quickly settles back into a glare that she levels at her first, flicks quickly at Semyon when he goes to pull her back again, then points back at Conan for a long moment. At length she finally concedes, “Fine. If he gives my antique back first.”

Everyone looks to Conan. His eyes flick between the four of them, studying each of them in turn. Scout can’t parse the subtle changes across his expression as he studies them. Whatever those tiny twitches of his eyebrows or tightening of his lips are supposed to mean are lost on her.

But eventually Conan’s features slump into resignation and he points between Scout and Alice’s shoulders. “It’s over there. Under the sleeping bag.”

Scout turns and finds a makeshift camp of sorts nestled under a small overhang she hadn’t noticed coming down the hill. The overhang looks like an old slab of sandstone had been shoved into the sand and the hill formed around it over time. And under it is Conan’s camp—if it can be called that—with little more than a backpack, an unlit lantern, and a partially unrolled sleeping bag crumpled into a heap populating it.

Scout makes it to the sleeping bag heap moments before Devon does. But as soon as she squats and starts pulling the sleeping bag away from the overhang, she feels a faint, pulsing resonance sing through her arm and into her brand.

“What in tarnation…?” Scout bubbles.

“What? What’s wrong with it?” Devon all but demands as she squats on the other side of the sleeping bag pile.

Scout can only shake her head first as she continues rifling through the folds of the sleeping bag. The more fabric she pulls away, the more that resonance buzzes ethereal feedback into the nicks in her brand, singing of stars. Almost exactly like how that gate had. 

Scout pulls one last fold of insulated sleeping bag away to reveal what looks like a vase. It’s bigger than the one she’d found in Riku’s stash, but with similar construction: wider at the bottom, made out of a similar sort of material. It doesn’t have handles; instead it has a small lip in the top and rings of patterns evoking foreign constellations circling its tall neck. Something about the patterns tugs at Scout’s subconscious.

As soon as Scout puts her hand around the base of the vase to wiggle it out of its sleeping bag nest, the resonance singing from it makes her hand throb as her plasma syncs to its pulsing. But somehow it’s not a painful throb, despite her thinned plasma. Just…strangely familiar.

Devon’s face softens when she sees the vase, but then her brows contort into a knot again as she glances down at Scout’s hand. “Why is your hand blinking?” she frowns. She whips around to snap at Conan, “What did you do to it?!”

“It ain’t hurt, Dev,” Scout fizzes before Conan can respond with anything more than a shake of his head and a frown. Devon whips back around to frown at Scout, and that frown only contorts more as she clarifies, “It jus’ has a funny aura or somethin’. Feels like that ol’ gate.”

“What?”

~~~~~