#solhunt

he lets her rage sometimes. lets her whet her thoughts against his weathered surface. not because he thinks her childish ( though there is youth in her energy despite her age ) or ignorant. but because she is a like a flowing stream, clogged with pain and fear and hatred at times. best let her expel those things herself, so that she can see the rest. the truth. 

the fire in front of them crackles and flames cheerily despite her confused and angry words, popping and sending sparks up through the hole in the roof of this deep cave. far above them the stars move in their hazy spirals. the smoke is but a thin stream by the time it reaches the yawning hole, and is quickly whipped away by the winter winds outside. this is a good place they’ve found. likely if they explored deeper they’d find some other hunters’ stash of goods, but he is not so interested in that right now. 

his four arms are busy with her sword. one hand holds the handle steady and flat against a knee. another two draw an oilstone against its curved edge in turns. the fourth occasionally comes through with a rag soaked with mineral oil when he feels more is needed. 

cetus,    he thinks quietly to himself, and feels the warmth of his ghost in one of his palms.   come and translate for me please. 

the ghost appears in a small flurry of light which trickles down between the sharp blades of his shell to scatter across the floor. he comes to rest in the space between cybel and sol, sharp spines flaring between the blades as cybel speaks and he listens. 

‘ i used to see only the evil, the destruction. after twilight gap i wanted nothing more than to rip out the heart of every dreg and vandal i came across, to tear the limbs from captains and kells and archons. i almost joined saint-14 on his crusade, but i knew my talents could be put to better use, so i decided to go deeper into their territory, deeper than most have ever dared. i spent years observing them, trading information with other ghosts, staying hidden. no easy thing for one my size. ’ 

the sound of the oilstone against the steel sings with the crackling flame and the distant fury of the winter winds around the bend of the cave. he pauses, and thinks, and cetus waits patiently for him to continue, listening for a time as cybel’s keening exospeak echoes around them. sol has learned to wait, to hold fast and listen carefully ; she does so now, and it fills him with some small measure of pride.

‘ i watched them fight each other over ether, over dead ghost shells, over armor and arms and ship parts. like jackals. and it reminded me of when i first woke up to this broken world. when many of us called ourselves war lords and fought over this or that, wantonly destroyed and killed and took. but i saw other things too. i saw kelekh’s--babies--born and raised. i saw vandals here and there sharing their ether with dregs. and dregs sharing their either with each other. i saw baronesses so old they could barely walk weaving such beautiful cloaks. ’

he sets the stone and rag and swords carefully aside, sweeps his cloak from his shoulders, turns to face sol head on. points to a piece of deep blue fabric with the white markings of the house of wolves on it.   ‘ before their collapse which they call whirlwind came, this was the symbol of the mraskilaasan. it means gentle weavers. ’   his hands softly turn through the cloak to where a tassel of glass beads hangs, all of different colors and intricate shapes.   ‘ this was made by a vandal whose grandmother was from a house that no longer exists. in our tongue they would be called jeweler of stars. ’

he sweeps the cloak back around his shoulders, securing them by their clasps. next he raises his lower set of arms for her to inspect. they are well crafted, the hands made in imitation of eliksni hands, which had taken him many years to learn to use well.   ‘ these were made by house judgement. before the whirlwind, they were peacekeepers between the houses. but the houses splintered. and house judgement dwindled in size and power. variks means to see the eliksni survive, and find their lost culture again. you will meet him soon, maybe. ’

@solhunt said:   ’ politicians tend to view their soldiers like pet battle dogs. ’

      “ ‒ and  the  trappings  of  bureaucracy  their  leash. ”    their  lip  curls  into  a  sneer  on  near  reflex ;    their  contempt  for  politics  is  old,  older  than  most  of  the  vitriol  that  burns  in  their  blood.    to  disparage  the  failings  of  politicians  comes  as  easy  as  breathing,  and  even  a  passing  remark  is  enough  to  set  them  off.    universal  constants,  it  seems,  are  destined  to  be  comprised  of  unpleasant,  unflinching  things.    they  chafe  under  this  realization,  but  the  pieces  that  break  off  are  sharp  enough  to  draw  blood.    “ they  think  themselves  synonymous  with  what  they  represent.    who  they  represent.    and  in  their  arrogance,  they  forget  that  we  do  not  fight  for  them.    that  the  chains  they  hold  us  with  are  merely  decorative. ”    the  revanchist  grins  then,  a  dark,  twisted  delight  promising  terrible  things.    one  almost  expects  to  see  blood  in  the  teeth.    with  a  hiss  their  blade  ignites,  casting  foreboding  shadows.    “ shall  we  refresh  some  memories? ”

@solhunt​​ . for moe & the gentleman (in order or for both): what are their greatest virtues and what inspires them? what events and/or people were formative influences in their lives

what are their greatest virtues and what inspires them?

moe: Moe is so, so intelligent. When she jokes about not being just smart it’s not really just a joke. She is so incredibly intelligent and while I am not (and so don’t try to demonstrate it lmao) I cannot really stop saying how absurdly talented Moe is when it comes to the field of engineering, mechanics and physics. This woman has the capacity of learning things so easily if she puts even the minimal effort into it. Now, she is also a reckless dumbass. Just because you are intelligent it doesn’t mean at all that you do the best of decisions. Not to too my own horn but I also think that she is so much fun, and so light-hearted and I wish I could be as relaxed as she is.

What inspires her is music. You will catch her full on blasting and dancing while working in her droids. No, she cannot sing but that doesn’t mean she won’t be mouthing the lyrics and just twirling around. Other than that, she just has this hunger for knowledge and to create things that anything can really trigger just a rampage of her being locked in her workshop for days.

the gentleman: I like to think that the gentleman is pretty empathetic. As someone that is true neutral and doesn’t stray from that path regardless of how much he might have wanted things to turn out differently? I feel that the way that he sees the world is really alien to mine and I could never because I just can’t stop myself from feeling things and relating to them. I honestly think that his hope and optimistic outlook on humanity is something that I wish I could have and so his biggest virtue.

People inspire him the most. Just people existing and going about their lives. Being able to sit down outside of a coffee shop and just watching people go by is likely the definition of sparks joy for the gentleman.

what events and/or people were formative influences in their lives? 

moe: When it comes to events, it was definitely when Moe said: fuck this shit and basically checked out of the Empire. This was in her late teens, after being years in schools that were not only for the extremely gifted but also after continuous attempts at brainwashing (or, if nothing else, a very clear and sharp reminder that the sith are there to stay and she would do best to remember her place). I haven’t decided specifically what it was, but I imagine that it likely had something to do with David (her younger brother) who was always very vocal about his anti-Empire feelings specifically targeted against the Sith. Michael and David (older and younger brother, respectively) are likely people that have been the most formative to Moe as a person. As the biggestTM middle child in the family, she has taken the staunch position of: Not 8, not 80. She doesn’t care about the war beyond the fact that it is very profitable for herself. Which pisses off Michael and David equally for different reasons. 

Michael is an officer within the Empire and David eventually ran and became a pilot for the rebellion. None of the three siblings are in talking terms.

the gentleman: In general, it’s kind of hard to pin point this sort of thing. People specifically, everyone that he comes across one way or another is formative because that is part of his purpose: learn and memorise the stories of those that he sees. The restoration work that he often does is out of his own interest to understand more about the human experience than necessarily because of what and who he is. When it comes to events, as someone without a thread in the tapestry (someone that doesn’t have a start nor an end, someone whose influence and impact in the world needs to have a deft touch) there is no true event that has ever been formative in the sense that it would be for someone like Moe for example. I think that all experiences that he’s had, dealing with humans, their suffering, their love, their experiences, has made him more and more want to be closer to them and be among them. 

There’s a desperation in Sol’s voice that Orin has heard too much in the past two years, though she’d heard it as if through some deep cave, the reverberations banding out distortions, the echos increasing the illusion of distance, of mazes. I wonder if Sjur feels the same way, she thinks to herself, even as she crosses the room to reach the small hunter. At least her body isn’t going about, haunting her loved ones.

Her hands frame Sol’s face, her palms blazing with warmth as she tips the shorter woman’s face upwards. Orin’s eyes flick between Sol’s, and she smiles when she feels the hunter’s hands wrap around her wrists and squeeze. 

As if to check if she’s real. As if to say don’t let go. 

orin doesn’t often play crucible ; doesn’t need to hone her sharp edges, already razor thin and bloodletted. but she’s always been weak for sol’s playful challenges, her shameless begging.

“ c’mon it’ll be fun! it’s easy glimmer too. ”

the ensuing clash match leaves her overflowing with aggression and adrenaline. orin isn’t fond of some of the tactics the other team uses, is less fond of those her own team employs. when the timer ends, orin has gol transmat her onto sol’s ship instead.

“ did y’ see that last shot i ma— ”

sol doesn’t get the chance to finish her thought before orin is crowding the smaller woman against the wall of her ship. gloved hands cup the hunter’s face, their teeth knocking together briefly when they kiss and sol’s mouth opens eagerly for orin’s tongue. orin kisses her deep, kisses her breathless, warmth spreading from her chest to sol’s.

“ you’re infuriating to play clash with, do you realize? ”   orin whispers against sol’s lips, smirking. tips sol’s head to the side with one hand to bare the soft curve of her neck.   “ you rush ahead and overextend, expose yourself. ”

orin traces the tip of her tongue along the path her muscle makes, up to the corner of her jaw, delighting in the way sol shivers and breathes.   “ it pays off occasionally, i’ll give you that. ”

the hand not wrapped around sol’s jaw slips down between them both, finds the top of the hunter’s pants. belt is tugged loose, and orin pulls away from sol’s neck just long enough to pull her glove from her hand with her teeth before slipping it inside of sol’s pants.   “ but patience is a virtue, they say. ”

the next twenty minutes is nothing short of torturous. orin takes her time. kisses and bites sol’s lips till they’re swollen. inches her closer and closer only to back off when she senses she’s getting too close. brings her to the brink and then—

“ shall we go back in? ”

a far cry from the wilds, the trio walks the city streets together, from stall to stall. it was sol’s idea, the city alive with some holiday or other, and the vendor’s were shouting their wares and cheap prices. she can’t remember the last time she and namqi visited the city ; a few years, at least, though the years slipped through her fingers like days, like so many grains of sand. maybe she was getting too old. except we don’t actually get old do we? we just go on. and forget. the thought makes her melancholy, and that melancholy seeps into her blue eyes, makes her smile falter at the corners. 

namqi notices in that slow and easy way he has of gauging her moods. all he need do is reach a hand out, lace their fingers together, and squeeze. orin’s eyes drift over his, framed by thick, dark lashes, and her smile can’t help but brighten a little. 

sol is more forward with her comfort when she notices. in the bustling heat of the marketplace she darts around like a hummingbird, never hovering in one space for long, pulled by different colors and scents and textures. they’re standing in front of a vendor selling raw silk scarves when her eyes notice the shift, flicking from namqi’s hand in orin’s to the way the awoken’s eyes darken and tinct. without skipping a beat, sol grabs a deep red scarf from the table, tosses it fluid and light around orin’s neck, grabs the other end and tugs while standing on the tips of her toes. 

the kiss is soft and sweet at first, their lips sinking warm against each other. orin’s stomach flutters, and flutters again at the playful way sol’s mouth opens for hers, tongue slipping against tongue. 

“ ahem! ”

she has to duck to accommodate the extra height that sol gives, perched on her shoulders as she is, gauntleted arms resting against the top of sjur’s head. calloused hands hold loose to the hunter’s ankles, to keep her booted feet from kicking against her breastplate too much as they make their way through the twilight forest that exists inside this small asteroid. like a geode, full of green fire inside. sjur ducks again, so that her companion’s head won’t knock against a branch, and snorts softly at her words. 

“ you, my friend, have been spending too much time with the queen. ”   no true chastisement, her voice too full of good humor and fondness. anything to battle the odd chill that swept up her spine at the way sol had said ‘like dying.’

orin’s eyes stay shut, but she pulls the hunter a little tighter against herself, pressing against sol’s back with comforting weight and heat. her arm stays a languid heavy weight over sol’s waist. she skims the tip of her nose lightly against the back of her neck before pressing a gentle kiss there. 

“ everything breaks. usually everything heals too. something good always comes out of it. “   words murmured softly against warm skin, as quiet as she can make them. at her back namqi stirs a little in his sleep, his own back cool against hers. orin smiles content and at peace and buries her face in sol’s shoulder for just a moment.