#shiipmaster

☁:How they feel about cold weather.

Skorge’s feet crunched the snow as he shifted about the platform. Above him, more flakes fell from the sky. His feet were numb, and he regretted not making different wardrobe decisions. He’d been told to expect “extreme temperature fluctuations,” but never thought he’d see it become so cold that even water stopped moving. Though he was loathe to say so, he’d made a miscalculation.

He refused to admit his discomfort to the Locust around him. Drones seemed nonplussed by everything that happened around them, and he was certainly better than a Drone. To his right, a Boomer was so transfixed that he allowed powdery white to cover every inch of exposed skin and armor. Below Skorge, on the ground, Drones growled and rumbled at each other over something or other, paying no mind to the weather.

The shivering was the worst part. It made it far too obvious that he was uncomfortable, but despite his best efforts to stay still, he could not. He had thought laying in wait to ambush some humans would be easy.

Skorge whirled around at the faint sound of footsteps. A Drone stood in what used to be a doorway, clutching a tattered piece of cloth that must have been scavenged from somewhere in the building. He stuck out his arm.

The meaning was not lost on Skorge. He swiped the blanket from the Drone and tore it in two, discarded upon the wood floor. “Back to your station!” he yelled, advancing on the smaller Locust so the message was clearer.

The Drone scrambled, disappearing around the corner. Skorge did not pursue; his job was to keep a vantage point on high, and unlike some, he didn’t abandon his post for petty concerns. He would be certain to reprimand the lowly creature later.

If he had to say anything about the cold, at least Locust weren’t as liable to develop frostbite as they were to get heatstroke in summer. He appreciated winter in that sense, but still hated it deeply.

♕:Their most prized possessions.

Monks discarded the idea of material possession; priests were not dissimilar in philosophy. When Skorge moved from his birthplace to Nexus, he didn’t carry anything besides the weapon he had used to secure his new position. And when he arrived at his new home, the gifts and privileges had been more overwhelming than enticing. The idea of having his own bedroom had seemed almost frightening at first, the thought being inconceivable in most places.

He kept the wicked blade he’d used to steal his father’s life and title hung on the wall. He took it down and really looked at it for the first time in many years; it was clean, now, but he thought he could see lines where blood had dirtied the edges. It was one of the few items categorized in his brain as “my things.” The runes for “Queen” and “Nexus” were carved into the dark handle, the grooves filled with contrasting red paint; a modification Skorge himself added.

Though it was unnecessary–unlike his robes, armor, and more advanced weaponry–he placed it in the box beside everything else. It was absurd enough to hang it up for everyone to see, never once using it, but keeping it after moving? Perhaps palace life had spoiled him.

His old room had become unstable, cracks in the walls and ceilings having drawn concern from the palace architects. They told him to move immediately, and he saw no reason to argue. He didn’t want the ceiling to cave in on his head while he slept. The idea of new quarters being made just for him was no longer uncomfortable, either.

He carried the box himself to his room, having refused help from the priests that served under him. It was their duty to handle things like this, but Skorge preferred a hands-on approach. He didn’t trust them to remember to bring everything.

As he took the rather long walk to his new room, Skorge’s mind wandered. He supposed the reason for keeping the knife wasn’t as obtuse as he’d first thought. In a sea of thousands–no, millions–of equally-capable individuals, what made Skorge stand out was his father’s name. Without that, he was no different than any other Kantus. This ceremonial armor he wore, the High Priest’s staff, the room–none of it was truly his. It had all come from the man who lived here before him.

But the knife was wholly his. It had been crafted for him so he could learn how to fight with bladed weapons. It was not intended for any other Locust who was alive, had lived, or would live. And more than that, he’d changed it. He’d made it even more “his.”

In the Horde, a single life didn’t matter unless it was the Queen’s. A Drone, three thousand Drones, General RAAM, Skorge himself; none of them meant anything when they were compared to everything. But maybe part of him desired something more–the ability to say “I’m here, I did this, and nobody else may say the same.”

In a way, that was even more pathetic. Harboring anti-Horde sentiments? The Monks would either worship it as gospel or burn him, fickle bunch they were. His Queen would tell him to focus on the bigger picture and stop being selfish.

Skorge kicked open the door and set his things on the floor. This room was bigger, but smelled strange. Some things were already here–he’d tossed in the staff earlier that cycle, and it lay on the floor. The High Priest’s staff was not special in appearance, nor function. It was merely a ceremonial tool.

…As it was now. Skorge’s thoughts had inspired a rebellious idea. He wanted to make something else “more his,” something he could use and have with him often. If RAAM could have special things–the Kryll, his size, his connection with Myrrah–then why couldn’t Skorge? He would make it so.

He picked up the discarded staff and moved down the hall. He already had a brilliant idea.

☃:Would they build a snowman

Skorge placed the last pebble-tooth into the snow-creature’s mouth and stood back, admiring his work. He hopped off the car’s hood, having had to use it to boost himself to the necessary height.

“GENERAL RAAM,” he shrieked.

The giant Drone appeared from around the corner farther up the road. He carried another dead Gear in his massive hand, and dismissively tossed it onto the pile with the others. He continued towards Skorge, his face stony as ever; but he betrayed a hint of confusion as he drew closer.

“LOOK,” Skorge continued. “IT IS YOU.” He indicated the snow-thing he’d been working on for the past hour–hey, business was slow. He had to occupy himself somehow.

RAAM stopped twenty feet away from the snow sculpture and tilted his head, as if scrutinizing it. He looked skeptical.

“IT IS,” Skorge said. “WHO ELSE IS THIS FUCKING UGLY?” He jumped onto the car and clasped his fists together over his head. “WATCH THIS.” His fists slammed into Snow-RAAM’s head, smashing it into small clumps of hard white ice. Skorge burst into laughter as he decimated Snow-RAAM’s body, eventually jumping back to the ground and stomping out every piece of the form.

In his childlike delight, he didn’t see RAAM stoop to the ground. He didn’t see the General packing a large amount of snow into his hands. He didn’t see it barreling towards his head. After that, he didn’t see anything, as he was very much unconscious. As such, he also didn’t see RAAM’s smirk, nor the dozen panic-stricken Drones who rushed towards their fallen High Priest.