Post by Quirbles on Mar 5, 2023 6:35:37 GMT
Ivory stalks swayed forth into the air, and Ouros felt the world.
For a time, he rooted himself there and listened, feeling each tickle of air and blossoming sound and thrum of machinery that echoed out into the bowels of the ship. For a time, he merely stood still, statuesque in his peace. Even as the stray filaments of his palm curled back upon his hand, like the death throes of an arachnid held gently, the Muse did not stray from his spot before the bars. The stalks that remained unfurled to a foot, two feet, three-- winding outwards into the space before the cell even as the glass upon its twin shattered and the inhabitants made their way out into the space. Only when the prisoners approached did the mycelia recoil, like a photo-sensitive bud cast into darkness; detecting the displacement of air, each stalk retracted behind the bars once more and disappeared into the smooth expanse of his palm. White nectar pooled along the holes and cracks in his hand until the imperfections were naught but an afterthought, and his hand was right once more.
"Hm." Ouros muttered, feeling a hand upon his shoulder as he opened his eyes. They were golden jewels beset within the sharp relief of his pale visage, and as they looked upon the folk that had touched him, it was if a painting had come alive-- mottled, dreamlike. It was a face that judged, and as his citrine gaze impassively examined the synthetic being before him, it was difficult indeed to discern what his judgement was. Harder still was whether or not the flora-laden man had done anything of particular worth; even if he had, it seemed his efforts were rendered moot. With a heaving pull, the door to their own cell broke from its hinges and the world opened itself once more to the batch of prisoners. Freedom, as it always would, prevailed. It was an inevitability, to be free. Whether that be through life, or through death. Tempting as it was to simply start anew, Ouros had only his nascent body and naught else. In time, he would need another vessel to imbibe with his essence, as a means of insurance against the tides of entropy.
"I know not who you are." Ouros spoke matter-of-factly to the fellow chained to the wall. "Do you know me, child? In your dreams, do I visit you?" As good a question as any, given his loss of memory. Certain facets of character called to him-- morals, temperament, proclivities and preferences, though the greater whole was yet to reveal itself to him. For quite some time, he had been asleep. Now, he was awake. For what reasons, he did not know-- the world had changed so much, now, in ways he could not understand nor remember. As if something had changed in his time away, though he knew not what. Everything, perhaps. The world was foreign. The world was unkind. Stirred from his sleep, driven from the womb of the dream, and he awoke within the confines of a cage. Mortalkind disappointed him. He knew not why he felt such disappointment, either.
"Hold still."
Once more, the thought-born was drawn to his blade, Ginnung, and slowly extended out his hand. For a moment, nothing-- then, with a slight breath and a strained look upon the Muse's face, a blade appeared where there was once nothing. There was little fanfare in its summoning-- what once wasn't now simply was, stolen from the subconscious and dragged from the periphery as if it had been there all along and eluded the naked eye. Now, it remained in its absolute state, a blade of starlight and nebulous void. Like the night sky trapped within glass, it shimmered with the cosmos, multichromatic sprays of color arcing along the body of the weapon like engraved artistry. It did not thrum; it made no sound as Ouros lifted it towards Bassius. Its most terrifying quality, perhaps, was its complete silence.
The arc of Ginnung fell sideways, and its edge sought to taste the metal chains which bound the Captain's hands. Ouros stared at the man's bloodied form, face unreadable.
"They approach. Footsteps. Fortuitous, perhaps." He looked to the doorway at their right, and began to walk towards it, blade in hand. "I am in need of a contingency, after all.'
For a time, he rooted himself there and listened, feeling each tickle of air and blossoming sound and thrum of machinery that echoed out into the bowels of the ship. For a time, he merely stood still, statuesque in his peace. Even as the stray filaments of his palm curled back upon his hand, like the death throes of an arachnid held gently, the Muse did not stray from his spot before the bars. The stalks that remained unfurled to a foot, two feet, three-- winding outwards into the space before the cell even as the glass upon its twin shattered and the inhabitants made their way out into the space. Only when the prisoners approached did the mycelia recoil, like a photo-sensitive bud cast into darkness; detecting the displacement of air, each stalk retracted behind the bars once more and disappeared into the smooth expanse of his palm. White nectar pooled along the holes and cracks in his hand until the imperfections were naught but an afterthought, and his hand was right once more.
"Hm." Ouros muttered, feeling a hand upon his shoulder as he opened his eyes. They were golden jewels beset within the sharp relief of his pale visage, and as they looked upon the folk that had touched him, it was if a painting had come alive-- mottled, dreamlike. It was a face that judged, and as his citrine gaze impassively examined the synthetic being before him, it was difficult indeed to discern what his judgement was. Harder still was whether or not the flora-laden man had done anything of particular worth; even if he had, it seemed his efforts were rendered moot. With a heaving pull, the door to their own cell broke from its hinges and the world opened itself once more to the batch of prisoners. Freedom, as it always would, prevailed. It was an inevitability, to be free. Whether that be through life, or through death. Tempting as it was to simply start anew, Ouros had only his nascent body and naught else. In time, he would need another vessel to imbibe with his essence, as a means of insurance against the tides of entropy.
"I know not who you are." Ouros spoke matter-of-factly to the fellow chained to the wall. "Do you know me, child? In your dreams, do I visit you?" As good a question as any, given his loss of memory. Certain facets of character called to him-- morals, temperament, proclivities and preferences, though the greater whole was yet to reveal itself to him. For quite some time, he had been asleep. Now, he was awake. For what reasons, he did not know-- the world had changed so much, now, in ways he could not understand nor remember. As if something had changed in his time away, though he knew not what. Everything, perhaps. The world was foreign. The world was unkind. Stirred from his sleep, driven from the womb of the dream, and he awoke within the confines of a cage. Mortalkind disappointed him. He knew not why he felt such disappointment, either.
"Hold still."
Once more, the thought-born was drawn to his blade, Ginnung, and slowly extended out his hand. For a moment, nothing-- then, with a slight breath and a strained look upon the Muse's face, a blade appeared where there was once nothing. There was little fanfare in its summoning-- what once wasn't now simply was, stolen from the subconscious and dragged from the periphery as if it had been there all along and eluded the naked eye. Now, it remained in its absolute state, a blade of starlight and nebulous void. Like the night sky trapped within glass, it shimmered with the cosmos, multichromatic sprays of color arcing along the body of the weapon like engraved artistry. It did not thrum; it made no sound as Ouros lifted it towards Bassius. Its most terrifying quality, perhaps, was its complete silence.
The arc of Ginnung fell sideways, and its edge sought to taste the metal chains which bound the Captain's hands. Ouros stared at the man's bloodied form, face unreadable.
"They approach. Footsteps. Fortuitous, perhaps." He looked to the doorway at their right, and began to walk towards it, blade in hand. "I am in need of a contingency, after all.'