voicetest the voiceless

[focusedvoid]

They're not dead.

Less dead than they'd felt, at least. Their shell doesn't normally take so long to reform.

Then again. Their shell doesn't usually break of their own violation as they ascended in a boiling rage, ate at least one realm, a god, and all the Godseekers.

(That last point is debatable, actually. There's some odd sense, deep under their...shell? Void? Wherever they once stored things like Isma's Tear, much deeper now...that the sea-mind is still there, sluggish and held in a stasis. They're already adjusting enough, and they don't seem to be dying or trying to kill them, so that problem is neatly sorted as 'for later'.)

They push their body to stand. Their horn clangs uncomfortably loudly against the grate they've apparently woken up beneath. They're somewhere in the Royal Waterways. A quick check of the map--or, not so quick, as it takes time to locate where it had been--shows they've risen about halfway through, closer to the City of Tears than the White Palace. They'll go to the Stag Station in the City Storerooms next.

So they think. Complications arise on the way.

The Infection is gone, leaving dead Flukes, Pilflips, and Hwurmps in piles enough it takes time to force their way past. Their body seems too small. No, their body is fine--there's something wrong with perception itself. That will take time to adjust to.

Then, they discover the Monarch Wings now stretch and warp when used, twisting around the nearest pipes after landing before the Knight forcibly calls them back. Shade Wings, they decide to call these.

Once they're high enough to hear the rain above, they realize a noise they'd ascribed to water running in the distance is, in fact, something swirling behind their mask. Many somethings. All the fragments of Siblings with enough self left, staring out from their eyes. It's disconcerting.

By the time they actually get out of the Waterways, they're using their Shade Wings to grip ledges and drag themselves up, with those holding onto things better than their own arms are with the Mantis Claw. 

The Knight faceplants awkwardly onto the floor of the building Lemm's shop is in. If the City is the same as below, there's little left to try killing them in the area.

They'll just take a moment here, thanks.

Comments

[focusedvoid]

Time's marching, but they don't need to. They lift their arm in what would be half a shrug if it wasn't presently occupied.

They're exhausted. Not sleeping, not tired, but still feeling drained. They're also, uncommonly, on a bed.

The Knight is tiny enough they can lean backwards (displacing falsely-organized papers, what a pity) until they're lying down without actually having to let go of Lemm's hand.

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He watches curiously, then gives a short, amused little huff.

Asking questions would likely spur them into having to stop what they're doing and write, just to tell him an answer he can already figure out by looking. Anyway, they're not the only one feeling a little rough around the edges. Lemm's still in a bit of a haze; all his thoughts are disjointed and muddled and interrupting each other - hardly the state for a Hallownest scholar to be in.

After a rather short inner debate, Lemm gives up and flops backwards, jolting the bed a little. His free hand pat-searches beside him for one of the stacks of papers, plucks one off the top, and holds it over his face. Reading has always settled him. If they're in no rush...

"For che' to share such a tale with meled'love is a bargain made against continued peace with him, yet not to tell it would be denial of mirth. Let che' begin with the sight of the Watcher, the full prism of his craft across his visage, and che' who knocked him..."

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Good. They'd been hoping Lemm'd join them. This has been a significant trip. They still haven't forgotten how miserable their initial visit had found him, either. Rest can't hurt.

He regales them with a tale of Lurien being run down by the Great Knights after trying to paint them during training. Even with his rough interpretation of Ze'mer's accent and stumbles over the odder translations, the story is still amusing, and express this by patting the bed heavily with their free hand before grabbing another. (They do make sure there aren't too many delicate-flower shapes first, to avoid any scandalizing.)

[capitalcurator]

He is very slow, and much of his reading is stitched together with on-the-spot corrections. Ah that means - I think this is supposed to be a metaphor - I don't know this word. It is disjointed and stuttering, his pronunciation is completely off, it's no polished reading.

He is a little surprised and hesitant when they hand him one more, but it's encouraging. So he reads.

It is about Ogrim and Isma, some observation of much skirting-around culimating in a furtive meeting in Ze'mer's foyer that she happened to note down for one's eyes only. It was interrupted quick, but Ze'mer had opinions.

Lemm keeps going, reading whatever they hand him and reaching for papers when they don't. All stories of Hallownest, some of them told by Ze'mer and some of them lamented to no audience by the Grey Mourner far more recently. (Both contain equally happy memories. It is the coherence that changes.)

All the time, Lemm's hand remains curled around the Knight's, occasionally fidgeting in the pauses between by brushing a thumb lightly over the back of their paw as if to occupy their time before he finds his reading place again.

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Little bursts of grief rise and fall in their chest as the stories spin. What a pity it is, looking into how much was lost through Higher Beings' follies. What a privilege it is, grounded by a hold of a friend, having a chance to discover parts of those histories anyway.

They do have to get up eventually. At the very least, all the papers in easy reach--and there were more than a few--are read, and they don't want to try lifting them up with tendrils.

...They don't want to let go of his hand either, but they suppose that's necessary. Lemm had no objections to this hand-holding, and they're significantly pleased by it, paw grown comfortably warm by the grip.

This can be done again. They have time.

The Knight tugs free and sits up once more. Before Lemm can do the same, they reach out to pat his horn lightly, just once.

[capitalcurator]

By the time he runs out of material he has come to the conclusion that none of these piles of paper were actually as organised as he assumed. He forgets their skillsets do not overlap. But the Knight seemed happy to lie there, and whether they were listening or not he doesn't know but there is something so reassuring about their company.

He is still silently reading back over the last one when the Knight lets go. They'll be moving on now, then. Come to think of it he's not sure how much time this took up -

- the dull awareness of a pat on the horn takes him by surprise, and he promptly drops the letter on his face.

He peels up a corner of it to peer up at the Knight, looking a little bewildered as he quickly tries to work out what was that for?

...He sits up. Moving on. They're moving on. There are flowers where his thoughts should be as he reaches for his bag.

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Because they were happy, and they wanted to express it. And because they just wanted to. His horn is his second most prominent feature beside his beard, which they've already had a chance with.

Lemm seems startled but lets it pass without comment, so assume they haven't been too offensive.

Thank you, they write first, because they're grateful for him and his telling them tales.

Not the only thing that they've gotten from this, though. I think she Ze'mer called her lover Khukri as a name. Does that seem right? I'd like to add that to her grave later, or otherwise acknowledge it there. They're partly writing this to try remembering, partly to confirm they weren't misinterpreting the language. It's Lemm's job to know such things, after all.

The Knight's had to learn many by immersion in their wanderings, and while they've got good at it, there have been many, many accidental misunderstandings that lead to later confusion or offense. Less than for those who would speak, but still enough to be wary of such without it being as important as honoring the Traitor's Child.

[capitalcurator]

Putting his mind right after all of this is going to be a slow process; solving the more cryptic parts of Ze'mer's letters was far easier than making sense of his feelings. As a result he's just distant enough to look like he's snapping out of a daze when he hears the sound of pen on paper.

The thank-you earns them one of those little bows of his head that he's been imitating straight from the Knight, whether or not they look up to see it. It also gets him to rest his hand on their head for a moment while they finish writing the rest, and he barely thinks about that.

The rest is given a quick thought, and then he swipes up a few papers from the bed and leafs through them to double-check something.

"...Khukri... I'd written that off as another nickname." In his defense he's not thinking straight lately. "Ah, I see! It's the only one that's been written in all three languages, I overlooked that. Yes, you're right, I think. Should I copy it down for you, or will you be using common script?" It's not a question that they should add it to the grave, he already wholly agrees.

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If their writing pauses for a split-second between words when Lemm's hand settles on their head, well. They're still fast. It wasn't long enough to be noticed.

They consider his question for a little while. They were going to add it in common, but then it would be easier for anyone to tell what it is. The Knight doesn't expect defacement, not after there was still so much work done to create it from possible mantids from the Village who could care enough to visit, and the tunnel's danger should yet be too much for any surviving Traitors.

That doesn't make it impossible. Many things in Hallownest are coming to change. They'd rather not discover such a problem too late.

Please. I believe Ze'mer's language would be most fitting, and difficult for others to understand enough to disrespect.

[capitalcurator]

Returning to the role of a scholar is like stepping back onto solid ground. This at least he's experienced in.

Lemm picks a quill out of his rolled map, spreads a couple of references on the floor, and beckons for them to put their paper down as well.

Ze'mer's style of script is too affected to be written that way on a grave - they'll need a standardised version. Lemm kneels, leaving space for the Knight to watch, and constructs the symbols far more cleanly and legibly on their notepaper.

"Leave that honorific out," he adds, tapping what looks like some kind of complex little accent mark in Zemer's version. "We don't want to imply every passerby might address her as... my dearest, loosely said. There, now. D'you think you can manage that?"

...Just in case, he adds the Mantis version a with a little less ceremony. The Knight might as well have both, if only for their own interest.

[focusedvoid]

The Knight crouches on the floor, intently studying his writing before pulling the paper back and copying it just below. They leave the accent off, as he said. (Since everything Ze'mer wrote included that, the name looks bare and short without it.)

Working carefully and without playing around with size or tendrils, their usual calligraphy is functional enough it's understandable. The Mantis script, at the least, looks fine to their eye.

They still glance up to Lemm to check its acceptability.

[capitalcurator]

They've filled pages with neat and legible writing before and a lot of it is sitting in his desk at home. Of course they wouldn't struggle with copying one unfamiliar name down. Still...

He still has one foot in the emotional sea right now and thus is far, far too late to mask his pride by the time they look up.

"Serviceable enough. You'll be steadier before you put it anywhere permanent, I'd imagine." He nods approvingly. "As expected."

[focusedvoid]

They can't show their surprise, or how pleased that pride makes them, in more than a deeper nod before they write.

Thank you. I'll practice. They'll need to in writing and through carving words in the gravestone. There's nowhere to do it in this Mansion, but there's plenty of various stone types throughout Hallownest to work on, and a blade that seems incapable of dulling. They'll manage.

On the subject of writing--they turn and flutter back onto the bed, dashing and fetching the quills in great pawfuls, ruining the organization of that as well to hold out for Lemm. Look, they're beautiful. Surely he must want at least one?

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"You know where to find me if you want advice." He liked it well enough when it was just Greenhorn asking random questions. It feels surprisingly rewarding to teach things. Careful, Knight, before all visits to his shop turn into lectures.

"What're you - oh? Careful with those!"

Lemm is immediately keen to see the quills. He rather overlooked these before, deeply distracted from his usual tendencies by questions like what do you mean you can die over and over? and other such troublesome things. It's not the case now. He doesn't think twice before drawing one of the quills from their grip, balancing it horizontally on his fingertips.

"Look at the weight of that! Barely makes a difference, of course, but it was the prestige you cared about back then. What is that grip, shellwood?" He tilts the Knight's grip slightly to get a better look at some of the quills. "I'd bet good Geo the making of that one had a smith involved, look at the metal and the etching on the nib..." A pause. "Reminds me of your Nail. I wonder if that's how they balance these things?" Another pause. His hands reluctantly retreat. "I don't suppose you'd...? I'll pay well, of course."

Yes, hello, he is still dense.

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The Knight tilts their head at him exaggeratedly. You just watched them pick these up, Lemm. Even if they weren't shoving them in your face, they don't have much claim to these.

They set the rest of the quills flat on the bed, drawing the rose-gold one they find their favorite and disappearing it under their wings. Then they deliberately jump to the floor before waving back at them all.

They'll write it out if they must, but hopefully this is obvious enough.

[capitalcurator]

Yes, he watched them pick those up. If he'd found them first there wouldn't even be a question of giving any to anyone -

- Oh, no, he's wrong, yes there would. He's already made similar exceptions. He even has a game set in the shop with their name on it.

"...Ah." He'll get the hang of this whole mutual friendship thing eventually.

Tempting as it is to just scoop all of them up, the Knight made a single choice, so he'll respectfully follow by example. He tries a few in his hand to admire the quality, but eventually he's magnetically drawn back to the one made to look Nail-like. This one is selected and tucked into the roll of his map with his original quill.

"Thank you. If it still works it'll see some use from me, I'm sure. As a Relic Seeker I'm too used to the finders-keepers rule." His tone is a tad humorous when he adds: "Of course you wouldn't tell from the moment you walked in my shop, would you?" Hands off, not for sale, etc.

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If he likes. They'll leave these lying where they are if either of them want to retrieve more, or perhaps for some other enterprising explorer. They have some doubts of that. The drop into the tunnel through a crypt alone is quite unnerving, and not all seem to have their own lumafly lanterns.

The Knight answers with a nod, and a question they wouldn't have let themselves ask just a room ago pops up behind their mask.

Has anyone tried to buy something back or steal it? They don't expect much robbery in the middle of Hallownest's ruins, but perhaps before...?

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Lemm isn't stressed by the question, nor that they're asking, but he does sigh in undirected annoyance.

"I've sent a fair few packing, if that's what you're asking!" ...He does not need to be quite so evasive about it. A little more of the truth is probably fine. "I'll tell you what I told Greenhorn: things come and go. I'm no fighter, even if I know the weight of a Wanderer's Journal well enough. Sometimes you let a few things go, if it means you get to keep your horns."

He makes for the door - they've about exhausted this room unless they want to hang around reading heaps of poetry. He'd like to see what other curiosities the Grey Mansion has in it.

"What about you? I'd bet no one could match your Nail, but everyone starts somewhere."

[focusedvoid]

The surging desire to use that Nail on those thieves nearly trips them up into an abrupt stop. They weren't certain what they were expecting, and tamp down on that anger until it's well and comfortably buried before starting up again.

Lemm is followed quietly for a bit as they think.

Wasteland bandits tried to rob me a few times. I sometimes fought and sometimes allowed them, as there was nothing but my Nail to find in the first place.

One group thought me a feral grub. Multiple, actually, but some of those stories go back to a time that still shames them. They're not going to tell that tale today. Decided to keep and 'raise' me.

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He walks slow, automatically accommodating for their having to walk and write. Bandits he's familiar with, though most of them were easy to trick into thinking he wasn't worth the fuss he would make. It occurs to him now the same is not necessarily true of someone the Knight's size. (There is a similar urge in Lemm to crack a few shells, not that he's fool enough to think he'd be capable.)

"...How awkward. Took your Nail, did they?" It's the only logical step. Lemm can't imagine the Knight wouldn't have started whacking, otherwise.

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They tried. They were impressed how well I fought without biting.

The leader had recently laid a clutch, and I believe he was trying to use me as 'practice'. It didn't really work out. I mostly spent time guarding the eggs and playing bait.

They automatically turn into the next room, dimly aware it's some sort of art gallery with thoughts caught in the past. It was a long time ago.

[capitalcurator]

There's something about the decor in here, but he's been distracted looking down at the Knight's paper.

"I see. You took to the role of a guard quite well though, it sounds like." He looks a little amused, though not for the reasons they might think. "Believe me, no one likes a biter."

Lemm looks up. And stops.

Well, first of all, the craftsmanship is exquisite, he knows that much. It's just hard to tell what the sculpture actually is, because it's one of those visual nothings that is meant to evoke an impression. In old Hallownest they called it modern, maybe.

He tilts his head on its side.

Ah. That is not modern anything. That is a visual something, actually. That is several visual someones, in fact, and they are certainly evoking some kind of impression.

"Oh good grief."

[focusedvoid]

They give a small shrug. The group wasn't too unreasonable, for bandits, and they didn't have more pressing goals.

They consider writing as much when Lemm exclaims. Nothing threatening by tone, they tense nonetheless, looking to see what he sees.

Ah. The Knight relaxes, amused.

I don't believe butterflies can actually bend like that. The one in the middle, they mean, seated on the face of a lanky-looking beetle, arching backwards to press antennae and mouth against another butterfly attempting something similar. The wings that can't fold down very much make the image as a whole confusing.

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"Ordinarily I would agree," he emphasises, "but this one is very convincing."

He sidesteps around the sculpture, lifesize though it is, and tries to turn around only to clonk his horn clumsily against another statue. He flinches back and in doing so gives himself a wider view of... two wasps of some type utterly foreign to Hallownest, their etched stripes filled in with some kind of expensive black resin - he is almost impressed by that until he registers just where they both have their mandibles.

Lemm's hand curls into an affected fist and this presses perplexedly to his mouth. He glances back at the Knight.

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The Knight does a half-step in his direction, still eying the butterflies, admiring the strange coloration of their wings before they turn around as well.

They meet Lemm's gaze before they see what he's standing next to. Wasps, playing with each others' stingers--or ovipositors?

I hope nobody posed for that one.