#aracae

“You would make a good archeradicator.”

Except archeradicators don't pause when their superior tells you to cull a disobedient lowblood. Archeradicators aren't supposed to question who they cull, they just do. They're executioners. That's it.

Certainly, they never refuse an order the way she did.

And when an indigoblood - someone she thought was a friend - told her to cull the rustblood that dared mock her, told her a good archeradicator would never hesitate at the draw. Good archeradicators don't choose who’s lawful, they merely carry it out. And of course, the obnoxious indigoblood would know more than Aracae ever would, because her whole ancestral line were archeradicators. She was a natural fit for the job.

But Aracae couldn't shoot the kid. The rustblood was just a kid too. She had every right to make mistakes as the indigoblood or Aracae did. And anyway, they were just words. It wasn't going to do anything in the long run. She heard purplebloods throw nasty words her direction and she's fine. What could this rustblood do?

The indigoblood fumed. She called Aracae all sorts of slurs, called her useless, called her good for nothing, but none of it mattered. Aracae’s pride was in her own conduct. Her distinct lack of chaotic or sinister energy. The way a tantruming indigoblood saw her, friend or not, meant nothing.

Eventually, the indigoblood realized this. Or maybe she continued to act rashly, Aracae couldn't say. She hastily jumped at the rustblood with her claymore, but Aracae shot her in the back of the knee before she had a chance to finish. Then again, this time on the other leg. She wasn't going to kill, but she didn't have to. Even an indigoblood struggles to move without legs.

She tried to approach the rustblood after that, but the small troll ran off during the commotion. Not that Aracae could blame her. Any troll who so callously turns on their friend, especially a highblood, is perceived as dangerous.

If that's what dangerous meant though, maybe Aracae was dangerous. Being dangerous was better than being asleep in a four wheeled device driven by wigglers with hair-trigger tempers expecting her to take their thinly-veiled insults better than they ever could.

“You would make a good archeradicator.”

In her sixth sweep, she grew to resent the words. With each perigee, she watched as the same highbloods who praised her shunned and threatened her. Those who sided with her were given the same treatment. A few even tried to attack her, but never got far. Not when she trained for so long, not when they relied on their sheer intimidation factor and bulk to scare her and floundered when it failed them.

Word spread how she was like the other cobalts. She was dangerous. Not the way highbloods generally were either, with the unchecked aggression that she could only watch as they turned it on lower castes, or the way they spoke of murder over lunch the way others might the weather. They were dangerous. Not dangerous the way she was.

Aracae leaned she might rather like what being dangerous actually meant.

She learned to climb trees wholly to take enjoyment in watching the same indigobloods “destined” to become archeradicators fail to draw the bowstring without breaking the wooden limbs on their practice weapons. They would still grow up to become threshecutioners, or perhaps ruffiannihilators if their strength was high enough (an indigoblood could never truly fail their seventh sweep ordeal the way midbloods could), but Aracae's whole being filled with glee as the same trolls who did nothing but talk up their natural talent failed to display even that.

They would still get highly valued positions, but she could forever take smug satisfaction that if she tried, she could have beat them.

Eventually, she ran into the same rustblood. She can't remember when, but she did. The poor thing was battered, bruised and broken. Sopor alone would never fix it, and Aracae lacked a medicalizer. So instead she enlisted the help of one of her remaining friends and patched her right up. She struggled performing basic tasks for a while, but with some time resting in Aracae’s manor, she did heal. And she wanted to learn how to defend herself.

“You would make a good archeradicator.”

But she made a better teacher.

It was hard, yes, but the reward was far greater. Aracae never liked the concept of culling defenseless trolls, and being an archeradicator had nothing to do her increasing love of the Hunt. But she learned just how far her patience went, learned how to conduct herself properly. Leaned how to balance being dangerous and being soft. When to push forward and when to pull back. And the reward, watching someone improve the way she did when she was small, was the only vindication she ever needed.

Unlike her skill with a bow, this wasn't natural. This took practice. She failed more times than she could count. It was a learning experience not just for the rustblood, but for Aracae as well. Never before had she needed to know things like gentleness or restraint. She wasn't a jadeblood, almost always raised in the brooding caverns to learn such. But here? Teaching a terrified rustblood? It was an impossible trait to ignore.

But she could never be a teacher. Jadebloods and only jadebloods - those unfit for cavern life, but still capable of being around kids, just not wigglers - became teachers en masse. And seadwellers could teach other seadwellers. But a cobaltblood moving so far downward?

They would sooner make her a defecting archeradicator.

“You would make a good archeradicator.”

She never made it to her Seventh Sweep Ordeal. She, alongside the rustblood and her lusus ran far away. They found a new home on another continent, living in tents and even eloping once. But life had different plans for them. The rustblood decided to join in on the continent’s once glorious piracy industry and make a name for herself. But Aracae didn't want to do that. She wanted to be a teacher.

She used her remaining resources to build a new, modest hive in the dense forests. She hunted alongside her lusus and sold the pelts in nearby villages and cities. She offered trolls looking for an escape from whatever they wished - the cult purplebloods called a church, the ill-fated destiny of goldbloods with bifurcation, highbloods and lowbloods wanting something different than what their caste told them - in exchange for following her code of honor. To swear off the senseless murder and flagrant hyper-violent reactions they were taught.

She taught herself how to shoot a rifle only shortly before she taught her Hunters, dismayed at how quickly she picked it up until she remembered Alternia wasn't in charge of her skill. She was.

“You would have made a good archeradicator.”

The words are spoken by her future oliveblooded kismesis - or whatever they were - by accident, back when they first met. He was a young cavalreaper ready to die for defending Alternia, back when he still believed Alternia needed a defense. She bristled at the words, naming him all the other triumphs she's had - positions unique to her. Achievements more fulfilling than executing the damned. She's a leader, a hunter and a teacher. A safe haven for those with nowhere to go. A blight of honor and true nobility to those who raged at imaginary slights. She took charge of a dying pirate port and helped put it back on the track for glory. She was more than her skill.

He would never credit her for defecting as impressively as he did. He amounted it to his insistence he only fight defensively, and the Empire’s lust for bloody conquest. She did and still does believe him. He wasn't much the type to make himself look better if it was untrue. The bastard had too much honor for that.

A trait both of them shared. A trait the Empire found disgusting.

“You would have made a good archeradicator.”

The words tumbled out of Aracae’s mouth before she can stop them. It was in reference to her most recent pupil, a young brownblood her kismesis found half dead in a tree some sweeps ago. She met Aracae scared and angry. Now, merely two sweeps later, she stood tall and proud in the chilly air of her seventh sweep. She looked confused, eyebrows quirked to give her face a quizzical expression. “If you were my caste, they would have loved for you to be an archeradicator. But honestly? It's not worth it.” She smiled warmly. “Far as the drones know, you're dead. Do with that info as you wish.”

The brownblood expression turned into an amused smirk. She told Aracae she wouldn't dream of it. Working for the empire doesn't bring nearly the thrill abandoned ruins did. Not to mention, as a brownblood she would never even get the chance to achieve the noble and esteemed echelons of military work. Brownbloods generally got reduced to menial guard, janitorial and stocking positions. If she were lucky and interested, her ability with a bow might get her as a cavalreaper. And while the girl was certainly lucky (despite her insistence to the contrary), she was most definitely not interested.

The pride that seeped through Aracae’s expression though as she talked couldn’t be helped. She would never be an archeradicator. She was 1000 things better. And that’s all she needed.

“You dare kill me for performing the Messiah’s Will?” he snarled. “I cull to keep them happy. I cull to bring the cove fortune. Dihora never cared. Why should you?”

Aracae let out the barest hint of a frown, tips of sharp canines protruding from her mouth. “Do I look like Dihora?” she asked coolly.

“Both look like blue bitches to me,” he spat.

“Hm. Maybe you need your occulars checked. You might be suffering from colorblindness.” Aracae took her gun, a beautiful hunting rifle made out of dark wood and steel, and placed the barrel underneath his chin to force him to look up. “I’ll explain it for you. Dihora ran around our little cove for longer than she deserved and made a mockery of us. I, meanwhile, will not allow our highbloods to act like spoiled wigglers.”

The muscles in his legs spasmed violently, but the subjuggalator still couldn't break free. “The Messiahs bring the motherfucking money! To me! To this fucking port! To go all up and deny them is heresy of the highest motherfucking order!” he shouted. He wiggled and shook within the psychic imprisonment, but it held fast.

“You caused more costs in damages than you ever brought in as a captain,” Aracae said.

“Bullshit!”

“I've crunched the numbers myself. Between your ritualistic murders of lowblood trolls from Sandyhorn, that of which is strictly prohibited, and your berserking rage which destroyed buildings, the costs to both which are astronomical, versus the money you brought in, makes you a liability even the other members of the council couldn't argue with.” She withdrew her gun from his chin with a quick snap, the motion echoed by a sharp clap of thunder in front of her. It was only a matter of time before the worst of the storm to hit shore. His wild eyes continued to stare, unblinking, at her, but she continued. “You’re a wiggler with a license to cull. And yet here you stand, purple eyes and nearly seven feet tall. A wiggler in all but stature.”

“I act like all the motherfucking high ninjas of the Good Faith. You’re a motherfucking heretic to the faith. You will motherfucking burn! Burn alongside your most un-wicked of brethern - the shitblooded trash that you surround yourself will bring the most unrighteous of destruction!”

Aracae rolled her eyes, tucking a spare strand of long hair behind her ears. Of all the castes she took issue with, purplebloods were among the worst. Specifically those blinded by a religion bent on teaching senseless violence, insane ramblings disguised as doctrine and a criminal inability to shower in water. If they chose to act like a normal, functional troll with a handle on emotions outside of smash, rage and horny, she doubted she'd have a problem with them.

Of course, if that were the norm, this annoyance of hers could be resolved differently.

Aracae squatted down, black dress pants just missing the dilapidated wood path in the closest thing a makeshift city built on cliffs and coasts had to a square. “Do you truly believe such?” she asked.

For a brief second, she let her eyes leave his to gaze at the sky. The rain seemed to be tapering off. For now, at least.

“Of motherfucking course. The blue bitch, Dihora, she fucking knew it. The demise of the blasphemous cove will be the introduction of gutterbloods incapable of the Faith necessary,” he growled. Now that Aracae was this close, he was quieter. Nearly impossible to hear, actually. He still bared his teeth and glowered at Aracae, but he stopped yelling. It would be an improvement if it wasn't such an obvious ploy for him to stay in control of the situation.

“And you feel my coming to this cove heralds the end,” she said evenly. Unlike him, her voice retained its normal volume as she spoke.

“Not your coming. Your rise. A blue bitch bending to the blasphemous colors, fit only to paint the motherfucking walls of Hell’s Pit red with their blood,” he said. “I cull to keep the Messiahs happy despite your motherfucking sins.”

“So you say.” She stood up tall and turned around to the yellowbloods behind her, pointing to a lanky one sparking off pink and blue in front. “Turn him around.”

“But Aracae!” she squeaked. “What if he breaks free?”

“Then we resolve this here. But this wiggler must be made very clear about something important.” A rueful smile played at the edges of Aracae’s lips, but no more. Now wasn't the time.

The yellowbloods exchanged nervous glances. “Um...oh...okay. I hope we don't disappoint,” she said.

Aracae’s smile turned maternal as she said, “Such is an impossibility.” With a brisk turn on her heel, she turned back to the purpleblood.

Sparks of all colors encompassed him as slowly, deliberately, they fully turned him around in the city square. His struggle, having calmed into soft shudders, became violent more violent than initially as he attempted to force himself out. She watched, rifle in hand and at the ready, as his muscles tensed and veins popped out. His head flailed, whipping hilariously dirty hair even for pirates in the pitiful attempt it would hit someone. She heard a few groans of pain from behind her and winced. She wasn't the one holding him down, not really, but the empathy towards them and guilt for putting her girls through this washed through her, giving her no choice but to push it down and revisit it when there wasn't a criminal in the streets.

Slowly, eventually, he exhausted himself. The purpleblood let out a pained shout as he kneeled on the ground, letting the psionics hold him up exclusively.

“Look up, wine stain. What do you see?”

“Fuck you,” he growled.

“Hm. Always a difficult one.” She strode over, gripping his hair tightly and pulling, forcing his limp head up. “What do you see.”

Silence. Rebellious, angry silence. “So I take it you are blind, if you can't answer a simple question such as seeing something,” she said. “A wonder how you supposedly made us all that money.”

He grunted something out - another insult likely, but Aracae wasn't going to push, and said, “Statue.”

“Of what?”

“Fucking landdweller,” he said curtly. “Long hair. Big antlerbeast horns.”

Aracae smiled. “So they do teach you basic communication. Good. That statue is of the founder of Shipwreck Cove, Stikla the Lady-O-War. And do you know what she was?”

“A heretic,” he said.

“A lowblood.” She let go of his hair and took a few steps back, positioning the rifle squarely for a kill shot, right at the back of his head. “A bronzeblood, specifically. Your idyllic highblood afterlife was created by that which you condemn and cull. Your murderous, childish ass has always been tainted, wine stain. Remember that in the next life.”

“And what will you motherfucking do about that you--”

A loud crack echoed throughout the square, coupled with lightning darting about the sky. Rain poured like buckets onto anyone outside, herself included, but Aracae didn't care. She looked back to the yellowbloods and nodded, rifle still at the ready in case it was necessary. You never knew with some castes.

As the psionic energy dissipated, the kneeling body slumped, face first, into the muddy path. Not a single body, crew nor onlooker, came by to collect him and give him a pirate’s burial. Perhaps it was the rain discouraging them. Somehow though, Aracae figured it was more likely his terrified crew was secretly thankful the capricious disaster reached such a timely end: face down, ass up in the mud.

It would be poetic, if Aracae had time for poetry right now.

Instead, she whipped back around to her hunters, briskly walking back to the council chambers. She made a mental note to request someone collect his body and feed it to a lusus, or shove it in the water to feed the Heiress’ leviathan of a lusus for her. After all, she was already cleaning up one gargantuan, possibly century-sweep long mess left by a highblood. No reason to start another now.