#feixing02

@feixing02

Sniper’s eyes cracked open, and he peered unseeingly around the room before his gaze landed on Satellite. He didn’t remember what the heck had happened, but he felt like someone had run him over with a semi truck, and then turned around and ran him over a few more times just for good measure. 

“You do not know how to fight.” The utterance could have either been a question or a statement, but considering the Russian who had said it, it was likely both. Heavy loomed over the Satellite’s head, more than a foot taller than her.

He eyed the woman’s paintball gun. It was a toy to him. Not enough strong enough to make him flinch. “Or shoot real gun.”

“You know, I once heard that you should always know what you’re getting into first before offering to help.” She tries for a confident smile, shifting in her seat on the crooked branch. High up above the ground, Penna is at least sure in her escape routes in case the mood should suddenly sour. Not many could out maneuver her in the air, and if she remembers correctly this particular minor goddess is not associated with flight. Or for being particularly dangerous, but it’s always good to be careful when dealing with strangers.

“You know the age of heroes passed hundreds of years ago,” she sighs, looking down on the race of man that passed underneath them. Up and down the street they bustled, chattering amongst themselves and stopping at stalls for food.

“Now, stories of honour and love are so hard to come by. The iron age of man really is a race of liars and idiots.” Her voice is resigned, any irritation hidden away. She’d been born late and by the time she was recognized, all the heroes were gone.

“That doesn’t mean they aren’t fun too,” she feels the corners of her mouth twitch upward in genuine delight as she remembers. Lavish parties and corrupt families, like squabbling children all vying for power that didn’t matter. They’d call to Divitiae, and she made many fond memories with the god of lies twisting them around in a web of drama.

“But sometimes one finds themselves craving a good story that doesn’t end in death and destruction, you know? I’ve helped with many of those already.” Sometimes a little variety is nice in an immortal life. Gaze flitting back to fully acknowledge the other, Penna’s smile is innocuous even as she recalls past exploits of said death and destruction. There isn’t anything malicious there, only impish amusement. In a way there’s something much more ominous in that.

She may not be powerful in the way Divitiae is, it’s not within her power to change a mortal’s mind with a single whisper or demand sacrifices of blood and death. And she is even less like Death, Ludwig who makes a hobby out of giving but takes much more. She is not a hidden dagger or the whisper of oblivion. Penna is only as dangerous as words can be.

“I want something exciting,” she admits, running a hand through windswept hair. “Something clever and grand,” the declaration is clear and spoken without doubt, unconcerned in front of this deity she considers an equal.

“This time with a happy ending.” There’s a pause as she considers, then laughs, mirthful and high. “Well I suppose I could be convinced either way, if the story’s good enough.”

“Well, in fairness, all happy endings are a matter of perspective,” answers the little brown weasel as she scratches her ear with a hind paw, “Mortals die eventually, no real getting around that. A cynic might say that that’s where all stories end. Even fantastical heroes either die, ascend, or get popped up into the sky for the rest of us to look at...mmm except maybe for the ones turned to stone? I always wonder if they still keep a sort of life.”

The weasel stands on its hind legs, looking up at Penna with its head cocked to the side.

“I must say you sound as if you must keep rather cynical and dreary company, to think so little of our current mortal companions! Well, not that you’re wrong but it depends on the humans you watch. I can give you hundreds of little love stories from the last week alone-and heroes! Oh I can find you a hero. It might take some work, but heroes tend to call on my friendship whether they know me or not. It’s a shame how few of them get their stories told anymore, but your liars and idiots, the ones who can afford to hire bards, don’t tend to like my brand of hero very much,”

The weasel titters.

“Even if they might be liars and idiots as well. I love a merry idiot. The grand adventurers who retire to be fruit farmers and happily die irrelevant and of old age with a dog on their lap. Those are sweet stories. Much less grim than the petrified saga holders.”

She gazes down at the mortal plane with ears and tail twitching. 

【 Ｌｅｔ＇ｓ ｗａｓｔｅ ＇ｅｍ！】