#ahkein

❝ you know no one's watchin' you right now, you can admit you like me a tiny bit. no harm in that, brother! ❞

He was aware of how disliked he was in Nordic-1's life, and he enjoyed every second of it. Each reaction fueled the goblin mind that only wanted more reactions, and it was incredibly entertained to listen to the monotone responses and the death wishes. It was satisfying to push the antics for some reason. Of course, he also knew of the consequences of pushing a man too far. At any moment he could meet the end of a gun, but he wasn't worried. He had already determined how he would meet his end, and by who.

"... Flower, what the hell am I looking at?" It's clearly a Vex. Or, at least, it was. Whatever it is now is still Vex in origin but the fact that it has six heads, fourteen arms and five legs means something isn't quite right. Now, either that old coot is back to messing with things he shouldn't be... Or Flower is bullying the Vex by turning them into nightmare statues that wouldn't look out of place in a Golden Age art exhibition. "No, really. The fuck, kid?" @ahkein

the little psion seems far too pleased with her current art project.

she has a limb lifted in the air as lush enters, and is using the mental powers possessed by her people to tilt and twist it. it has to be just right before she can reattach it. she has to make sure it's perfect. otherwise, what is the point? art can be messy, yes, but it must be purposefully so.

when lush speaks, though, flower pauses her work. the vex arm falls to the ground with an echoing thunk. her lips curve into a smile. she reaches out with her left hand, fingers searching for his.

It stares at Ikora. Or perhaps it looks through her. Or perhaps it isn't even looking at her at all. It cannot be determined, not with a single eyes, an eye that glows red and hardly moves. Anavió simply stands in place, still, practically dead to the world save for the glowing Radiolaria within its chest and the glowing of its singular red eye. Minutes pass. Hours pass, even. And then, finally, at the death of the seventh hour, a voice comes from the otherwise unmoving Hobgoblin. And though its voice is modulated and lacking in the tonal shifts that make a person's voice so expressive, one cannot help but note the sadness within. < Are we a mistake? > | @ahkein

“now, why would you say such a thing?”

the warlock turns from her outpost in the center of the bazaar. for the first time in hours, she tears her gaze from the empty space where the traveler once hovered. void-tinted eyes find the newest, strangest addition to the lightbearers under her care. they soften. she softens.

"Vesh," He slaps a hand against her shoulder plate, "Don't get in my way."

Oh, he was seething. The Vanguard had lied to them. Oh, it was a routine Hive eradication skirmish, nothing more. It'll take a day, at most. We wouldn't normally ask but we're spread thin. Well, them being spread thin was true, but nothing about this had been routine, had been normal. And to say that he, most zealotous of the cult's followers, was displeased with this development would be the understatement of the century.

That he would have to work for the Vanguard, for whom he oft only spared callous remarks and disbelieving scoffs... It was diabolical. Those snakes on their high horses were up to something.

"We've been in this shithole cave for days and I want, I need, to get back to the City. So sit there like a good girl and watch. You might learn a thing or two."

Thunder rumbles ominously just moments before lightning cracks into his hand, the Arc Staff luminous and humming, his whole body overtaken with the vibrance of Arc Light; he blazed with it, he was aglow in a way so few could claim to match in this day and age.

And when he moved, the storm moved with him. —@ahkein

be kind, vesh. be kind.

it's a mantra she's had to repeat to herself for what feels like hours. days, even, considering how long they'd been down there. although julia prides herself on showing a certain amount of understanding, nordic makes it so difficult sometimes. grumpy and full of nothing but complaints, patronizing and stubborn—

well, every moment around nordic is arduous, to say the least.

taking a deep breath, julia pushes herself to her feet. she will not sit here and do nothing; not while her fellow guardian is in danger. (she also is not a good girl, and even if she was, he does not get to call her that. she is not his pet. she is not a pup.) even if he can handle himself, she will always be his backup.

"the only thing anyone can learn from you is how to be an absolute schmuck," whispers the titan— only to immediately close her eyes and apologize to no one. that isn't kind. that isn't kind.

so she takes a breath. she stomps a foot, pushes the negative out through her the balls of her feet, and lifts her eyes upwards. be better, be good. be better. nordic is upset. pushing him will take you nowhere.

"Oh good," he mutters sardonically, "It's my favourite person."

He doesn't need to look at her, courtesy of the Knucklehead Radar within which his head was cradled. But also, he didn't want to look at her, because there was no-one alive or dead in this timeline he hated more than her.

The Queen of Lies, Subjugant to None, the Scheme-Mother, the God of Cunning and Lies, Queen of All Encrypts, Krill Hag... Savathûn.

"If you're here to wistfully suggest that you may or may not be spinning webs into Lakshmi's mind again, you might want to reconsider; I'm in a foul mood. It wouldn't take much to motivate me to atomise you." —@ahkein

the throne world is alive again, and so, too, is its mother. brilliant Light covers all but the furthest reaches of her home, bathing bone bridges and curved cartilage in its baptismal glow. it chases back the cloying miasma of the swamp, of rhulk, of the witness. it has made her mind and soul truly hers again.

echoes of lapping waves and crackling rot accompany the softly laughter of she-who-is; the first sign of her arrival, and a warning to those who might catch her attention. wings beat to the rhythm of a once-silent heart; the second, and a reminder of her physicality. vanilla and silk waft from behind the exo; the third and final sign of her approach— and also an admonishment.

she has found you, nordic.

"now, now, my love," chides the mother-of-it-all, "you speak so harshly for one who travels my shores."

gentle as a beast can be, savathûn rests the tips of her claws against her chest. she pretends she cannot feel the beat of her heart beneath it all.