The Knight is, unfortunately, a difficult being to read and to impress. Little of that means anything to them.
A troupe... They distantly recall the term for a wandering band of beings that sing and tell stories. The concept stands out in their mind only for merriment they supposedly brought with them that most wasteland travellers lack.
Grimm would be a poor singer. A storyteller, more likely. Or a concept they never learned of. They'd had only fleeting brushes with that type.
Less dramatically, the Knight dips their head back.
Strange indeed, yet no stranger than the rest of Hallownest.
They turn back around and briefly lift a paw. Up. A courtesy the Knight would rarely bother with, but he seems nearly as confused as they. A small warning before leaping.
The Mantis Claw is still there and functional. Their cloak--wings--Shade Wings--reach to grasp at roots and crevasses on instinct, leading their climb to be a jerky and graceless thing.
Grimm follows their gesture, and watches idly for a moment or two as they begin the climb. My, but it would be hard to forget they could tear him to pieces when their wings are doing that.
He would be glad of the opportunity to show off exactly what he can do, if not for the fact that most of what he can do is hidden away somewhere he can't quite access at the moment.
This also makes the next task somewhat more annoying than it should be. Grimm regards the high wall, expressionless.
"Trifling," he decides, though who this is for isn't clear.
Grimm is already learning not to reach for the flame. It is buried too deep wherever it is, and trying to throw himself into a teleport would not end elegantly. Still, he is to make an impression on this shadow, be it for better or worse - and it wouldn't do to fall behind. (Certainly not too far. The draw to follow is insistent.)
He flares his arms instead, sweeping the cloak of his wings away and behind, and leaps. With longer limbs and more of himself to throw into acrobatics, Grimm keeps pace easily, jumping to footholds the Knight struggled to reach without their Wings, and occasionally scurrying tight to the wall. He sails over the top edge only a moment behind them, wings catching the air and flaring out as he drops into a perfect pointed landing and snaps back into posture.
Grimm can keep pace. There's one point made. (What use have they for him, anyway? He isn't sure whether to dread the finding out, and for now there's nothing else to do but be compliant.)
The Knight tracks him by sound. Grimm's steps are less chaotic than the Weaverlings'. Fast. Keeping close. Their paw itches at his sharp movements, but he continues to keep from threat.
Up and forward, up and on, through the Ancient Basin.
The sign indicating the White Palace's former place falls once more to their Nail, bouncing against the wall to roll somewhere behind them. Their perception finds the area somewhat brighter than before as well.
...Or.
Not their mind and dark playing tricks alone, they fine, when they climb into the cavern and stop.
The White Palace's scant remains are more.
The broken gate that held nothing behind it is still standing crooked as it was. Past its rubble, a path. Farther back, towering walls of grey. Cracks crawl along broken spires (each curving upward in shape of the Pale King's crown, the Knight note with creeping annoyance), and black pours out in gushes and motes. Darkness. Theirs.
(The screaming buzz of circular blades, the distant dead denied grief of one who choked on the Void of his own volition, coward, place of pain, in what is theirs, in what is them--)
The Pale King's dream had been a silver splinter in their shell, and they'd flicked it out to land where it started.
Grimm forgotten, their path shifts to the (not-so-)White Palace's ruins.
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A troupe... They distantly recall the term for a wandering band of beings that sing and tell stories. The concept stands out in their mind only for merriment they supposedly brought with them that most wasteland travellers lack.
Grimm would be a poor singer. A storyteller, more likely. Or a concept they never learned of. They'd had only fleeting brushes with that type.
Less dramatically, the Knight dips their head back.
Strange indeed, yet no stranger than the rest of Hallownest.
They turn back around and briefly lift a paw. Up. A courtesy the Knight would rarely bother with, but he seems nearly as confused as they. A small warning before leaping.
The Mantis Claw is still there and functional. Their cloak--wings--Shade Wings--reach to grasp at roots and crevasses on instinct, leading their climb to be a jerky and graceless thing.
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He would be glad of the opportunity to show off exactly what he can do, if not for the fact that most of what he can do is hidden away somewhere he can't quite access at the moment.
This also makes the next task somewhat more annoying than it should be. Grimm regards the high wall, expressionless.
"Trifling," he decides, though who this is for isn't clear.
Grimm is already learning not to reach for the flame. It is buried too deep wherever it is, and trying to throw himself into a teleport would not end elegantly. Still, he is to make an impression on this shadow, be it for better or worse - and it wouldn't do to fall behind. (Certainly not too far. The draw to follow is insistent.)
He flares his arms instead, sweeping the cloak of his wings away and behind, and leaps. With longer limbs and more of himself to throw into acrobatics, Grimm keeps pace easily, jumping to footholds the Knight struggled to reach without their Wings, and occasionally scurrying tight to the wall. He sails over the top edge only a moment behind them, wings catching the air and flaring out as he drops into a perfect pointed landing and snaps back into posture.
Grimm can keep pace. There's one point made. (What use have they for him, anyway? He isn't sure whether to dread the finding out, and for now there's nothing else to do but be compliant.)
no subject
Up and forward, up and on, through the Ancient Basin.
The sign indicating the White Palace's former place falls once more to their Nail, bouncing against the wall to roll somewhere behind them. Their perception finds the area somewhat brighter than before as well.
...Or.
Not their mind and dark playing tricks alone, they fine, when they climb into the cavern and stop.
The White Palace's scant remains are more.
The broken gate that held nothing behind it is still standing crooked as it was. Past its rubble, a path. Farther back, towering walls of grey. Cracks crawl along broken spires (each curving upward in shape of the Pale King's crown, the Knight note with creeping annoyance), and black pours out in gushes and motes. Darkness. Theirs.
(The screaming buzz of circular blades, the distant dead denied grief of one who choked on the Void of his own volition, coward, place of pain, in what is theirs, in what is them--)
The Pale King's dream had been a silver splinter in their shell, and they'd flicked it out to land where it started.
Grimm forgotten, their path shifts to the (not-so-)White Palace's ruins.