Futuristic 〄 Help me find my way––!! | (syntranator & starboobie)

[starboob]

♕ HELP ME FIND MY WAY––!! ✵
And Sappho said, “Let there be lesbians;
let them go to space; let them wield cool swords.”

a lesbian space disaster orchestra
composed by Sof & Kat ( Syntra )
perceived by You :^)​

 

[starboob]

​

 

[starboob]

♕ PRINCESS VERITY (EXILED) ♕

Once upon a time, looking out at the stars may have comforted Verity, the exiled princess. She used to be able to tell herself, her siblings, her loved ones that if they ever missed her while she lived in the capital, they could always look towards their shared sky and know she was somewhere under it. Though now looking at the vastness of space she does not see how this sky is any similar to the one she used to gaze at. There is nothing recognizable about these stars from this angle; she's never seen them like this before.

When she gets bored of staring at the vastness, her vision refocuses from the space-scape to the her own reflection. It's recognizable, of course, but she doesn't always see herself in her reflection. Sometimes she wonders if ghosts can stare at you before they're technically dead. She lifts her hand to trace the baby-pink scar that drags down from her left brow and tapers off a few centimeters above her jaw; she grimaces at the mark. Though vanity is something she values it's not even the reality of her marred features that causes this reaction––it's the memory and all the histories that followed that moment, that day that causes her to screw whenever she stares at it for too long. (Sometimes, yes, she does stare at it on purpose and wishes or welcomes the brew of feelings that come with it. Now may as well be one of those instances.)

A familiar hand falls on her shoulders to pull her from her thoughts, shattering her pensive features into a tired smile; she knows she doesn't need to force anything more for Halen. At the same time, she is annoyed by the disturbance. Mainly because the other hadn't stopped bothering her since they had fled. Well, bothering is a strong word as Halen's only intention had been to check in on the exiled and she knows this, but she just wants to be left alone. (Halen worries about her and thinks she's pulling away further with each day and there is nothing she can do to pull her back. It scares her more that she doesn't know where Verity's mind is at most days. Somewhere Verity recognizes this concern but she largely does not seem to care or if she does it is not something she acknowledges.)

"I thought you would be interested to know that we located Celestia's old ship––well, we think we have it," Halen says, feigning that her purpose for disturbing the other princess is business. Though Verity knows she is looking for any hints of where her mental faculties are at, she does not offer anything. Her shoulder remains cold and Halen still remains on the outskirts of Verity's high walls.

In fact, her mask pulls together tighter and despite her chilly aura, her eyes brighten and she beams, "Really? Where is it?"

Halen keeps her frown hidden, but it's evident the disingenuous hurts her. She removes her hand from Verity's shoulder and drops it to her side. "Not too far from here actually––about a jump away, but there's one issue," (Verity's brow quirks upward) "Pirates seem to have possession of it. This one... Iskra?"

Verity interrupts, "Please don't tell me they've scrapped it for parts like every other savage in this forsaken galaxy has done to our artifacts."

"No, no––we don't have any images but based on what we've gathered it's most likely intact. But the current captain's reputation is as brutal as it is repulsive. I'm not quite sure we have the bodies necessary to bully her and her crew out of it."

Verity's arms cross loosely over her chest, fingers tapping against her ribcage while she considers what Halen is telling her. She already knows that this hiccup won't stop her from pursuing the wayfinder and ensuring its return home; ensuring her claim to the throne; ensuring that when she meets the queen again, she won't be able to collapse the goddamn arena to win. (If she wants to play games then Verity will show her what it means to get played.) This is just something they have to figure out––she isn't concerned, because her determination doesn't let her entertain defeat. There are worse things in the universe than pirates.

Finally, she speaks again, her words as teasing as they are serious, "Weren't you the strategist out of all of us? Numbers hardly mean anything. Tell me what you know of her style––everyone has patterns we can exploit."


Tracking down the ship turns out to be more of a task than Verity and her crew had initially anticipated as ships usually don't make a habit of stopping in one location for too long––least of all pirates. And of course, once they had found the ship, they ended up in a three day pursuit––jumping through space, chasing each other through asteroid belts, engaging in brief combat before losing the ship and tracking her down again. A flirtatious game of cat and mouse.

"Are you sure this is a good idea––?"

"I'm sure that this is an idea," Verity replies, "It's easier to board the ship and take it over from the inside––I don't want to damage it. We don't even know what kind of tech Celestia's ship uses and repairs may be costly. And we need the ship intact for the wayfinder to work." Well, that is a guess as she doesn't really know what the thing is and has not even seen an image of it as those memories are locked in the queen's scimitar. The ancestors that exist within her have never seen the antique and cannot offer her much guidance on its uses––though they do seem intent on bringing her to this legend. "Besides, she extended the invitation." She shrugs, fastening the cape over her shoulders. "It's our best bet and I'm not expecting her to play by her own rules––don't insult me like that. We're not going in without a strategy. Hand me that," she says, pointing to a broach. "And it's not like we need weapons anyway," she remarks, lifting the sleeve of her shirt and pushing poison spikes from her skin, wincing when they break through to show her weary friend, as if to prove they should be safe. "When it all devolves to chaos just make sure to be ready on your end." The spikes retract back into her skin, the wounds closing on their own once the needles have settled.

Despite the other's doubts, Verity's mind is already made up. She is a princess, even if in exile, and thus she should act diplomatic––at least that had been her rationale a few hours ago when she announced her plans to accept the pirate's invitation. Anyway, the chasing is getting tiring and wearing on their resources; she imagines the same is true for the pirates.

.............​

It's only Verity and few other crew members that go with her; she refuses to let Halen accompany her even though she knows she's the better fighter. She reasons that leaving her behind is best in case something happens to herself while meeting with the pirate––the movement would still need a leader and Halen is as much a voice for this debacle as Verity. (To a significantly less degree, sure, but her name is just as attached even if her face might not be).

Verity and her small team all stand on a circular disc at the center of the command deck; she gives the signal and they are beamed onto the pirate infested ship. When they materialize onto the ancient ship, Verity immediately hates whats happened to the place. She can tell it hasn't been properly taken care of in eons (she can't really blame the pirates––most people didn't know how because most did not know enough to respect their technology as more living than mechanical); the sight strikes a deep cord that echoes through her head in the form of disgusted whispers. She can tell this is affecting the rest of her team as well––no one's lineage is pleased and they are making that known to their descendants. She shakes the bitterness away, or at least shakes it from her visage while the taste still lingers in her mouth. She does this just as she finds herself face to face with the current captain of the ship.

"Captain Iskra, I presume?" She asks, as her eyes survey the ship's deck idly. Verity wears a neutral mask––though it's her neutral mask which means that a faint smile still ghosts her lips. It either makes her out to be automatically suspicious, naïve, or polite (maybe a combination?); it is largely open to interpretation and that is the intention. "This ship would do better in the hands of people who actually know how to take care of it––you are aware this ship and its key are sacred to the history and preservation of my people?" Her gaze finally lands on the other and from beneath her clothes, hidden by her cape, she begins to push out a dagger-like poison spike, jaw tightening as it breaks skin.

 

[Syntra]

Stars. Stars everywhere, as far as the naked eye could see, and probably even beyond that. Those tiny dots in the darkness awakened great emotions in people, apparently-- bards sang sweet ballads praising their beauty, and many words had been invented to describe this scenery specifically. People prayed to them, asked them for guidance, even shaped their lives according to the sacred constellations in some cases. Space sailors venerated the stars, as they could seemingly 'hear their voice.' And Iskra, the captain of Perilous Wind? She didn't know what that was supposed to mean. No, really. If the stars truly spoke, they chose not to speak with her, and-- well, that was valid, she guessed. (If the Shade had given her the opportunity, after all, she wouldn't have spoken to herself, either. That choice had never been hers, though. Never been, and never would be. But, hey, wasn't that comforting, in a sense? Because choices didn't seem to be her strongest suit. Sailing along the stream, on the other hand, was easy-- easy and effortless, and with some practiced suspension of disbelief involved, Iskra could pretend that her life actually headed somewhere. That the blood she had spilled hadn't been wasted-- that it could serve as a catalyst for a change, perhaps, no matter how insignificant.)

...too bad one's fate couldn't be changed. There were crossroads, yes, and occasionally, you could go down a different path, but the choice was illusory. No matter what you did, all the paths converged in the end. Rats in a maze, that was all they were, and Iskra-- Iskra was beginning to see that. (What a terribly grim picture. Perhaps, at least, it matter how they got there? Small solace, but solace nonetheless, so she would take it. Shade knew Iskra couldn't really afford to be choosy.)

"Captain," Myrne said, "you can't be serious about this. Why would you meet the girl? What if you--"

"What, die?" A humorless laugh escaped her lips, though her eyes never left the scenery. (Gorgeous scenery, as all the books said, but she... couldn't see it. Her eyes, it seemed, couldn't see a great many deal of things. A one-eyed queen leading the blind, Iskra thought. How very apt.) "Been there, done that. This Verity, if nothing else, is brave, and I wish to hear what she has to say for herself."

Even if Iskra didn't bother to actually look at Myrne, she could sense the other woman's disapproval-- she was older, significantly so, and liked to play the role of her mother from time to time. (It was inappropriate, of course. Terribly inappropriate, even, as far as their relationship went. A captain should always have the last word, after all, and this tipped the scales in Myrne's favor. So, not a good look. Not a good look at all! Still, despite knowing all of that, Iskra allowed her the small indulgence. And, hey, why not? The rules of the army didn't bind her any longer, and-- well, it wasn't like anything about her existence was appropriate. No need to break the pattern, she supposed.)

"This is no bravery," she scoffed. "Captain, her intentions-- I bet she is laying some sort of trap."

"Naturally," Iskra nodded. "Would you not think of laying a trap if you were in her position, Myrne?"

"Well... I would, most likely. But that changes nothing about my point! You shouldn't just... It's careless. It's very unlike you, captain." There was hesitation in her voice, hesitation mixed with worry, and for a moment, Iskra longed to erase it. (Erase it via the only means she knew, which-- no. No, I won't sink this low.) "Is something bothering you?"

"No." A lie, as always. "I am curious, that's all. These past few days have been so dull, Myrne. Let me have some fun, will you?"

"Fun, right. If that's how you want to call it, then I cannot stop you, but Iskra--"

"Captain," she corrected, not unkindly, but firmly. Some lines were never meant to be crossed, and this was definitely one of them. "You worry for nothing, Myrne. Seeds are meant to be broken. That's how they grow."

Because, no matter what, she still was one. Heh. See where running away from your fate got you? The superficial things, yes, those Iskra had shed-- the uniform, the daily routines, even the dreary barracks that had one been home. Hell, her sacred duty had gone up in flames, too. Her very essence, though? The beast feasting on her soul, and pushing its claws deeper and deeper into her heart with each passing second? Oh, it was still there. (Still baring its fangs in the darkness, still waiting for her to slip-- still wanting to claim her, in this strange, primal way. ...pfft. As if everything about her didn't belong to it already! What else was there to take, even? She was a desert, plain and barren, scorched by flames. A big, empty nothing.) "Besides," Iskra finally turned around, "I won't go there unarmed."

And she didn't. While Iskra went out to meet her newest adversary alone, she did so with a sword in her scabbard-- a sword she didn't even attempt to hide. (Because, if this girl chose to attack her? She should at least know it would be a fight, not an execution. ...well, nominally, anyway. All fights with her involved were just executions in disguise.)

"Welcome aboard," Iskra bowed. There was something stiff about the motion, almost robotic, but hey, effort counted, right? It had to! "And yes, that would be me. You, I suppose, are Verity." Verity, huh. What a peculiar name. A nickname, perhaps? Not that it really mattered, of course. (Nothing did, in the grand scheme of things.) "So you mean to say that this ship is a heirloom?" Iskra asked, her tone quiet and measured. (She seemed... kind of subdued, actually-- not like the horrible, feral pirate whose anger could supposedly raze entire galaxies. What were those stories about? Or was she just biding her time for some reason, not wanting to reveal her true nature at once?) "A shame, truly, because now it belongs to me. I took it, so it's mine. Unless you have something more interesting to offer?" No, Iskra didn't expect this confrontation to go down peacefully-- and she didn't particularly wish to give her ship up, either. Still, asking couldn't hurt, right? Perhaps this-- this Verity knew better than to approach her with demands only. Expecting her to just hand over the ship was ridiculous, of course, though if she had something to sweeten the deal with? Maybe, possibly. It wasn't like Iskra was emotionally invested, or anything similarly silly.

 

[starboob]

♕ PRINCESS VERITY (EXILED) ♕
​

This is brazen. This is bold. This is entirely reckless and Verity does not have any semblance of care as she grips the newly formed bio-weapon under her cape, holding it so the blade is parallel to her forearm. Where she notices the sword at the pirate's hip it doesn't concern her the way it should. At the same time, she doesn't go to strike Iskra just yet. That is a boring approach in her mind and she is still reveling in the fact that she is on Celestia's ship and that it is still whole even if in disrepair. She can even feel its life and wonders what stories the walls would tell her; she wonders too, if her lineage had been on this ship or one of the others caravanning through the galaxy. It's history and she wants to remain present in it in the event these are her only moments with it.

It's either arrogance or apathy that causes her to turn her back on the pirate––of course, one officer in her party does immediately move to defend her back as she walks towards the edge of the ship. Her fingers graze over the surface and its like she can feel the ghosts gathering around her fingertips (this has happened to her before––especially when around objects that had belonged to former leaders. It's a product of having her own signature added to the records of royals and noble women when she had been become a princess). She doubts the others in her small group can feel this and she is glad she left Halen back on her own ship because she selfishly wants this to be her own experience.

"It's more than an heirloom," she states as she turns back around and begins to walk towards her original spot. "What your people," and she says that generically to refer to all peoples not from her own world, "Will never even begin to comprehend are the full uses of this ship. You use it with such colorful inefficiency it could be considered art." The monologue is a bit much––all things considered, but it's not like she has many assassination attempts under her belt to begin with so she isn't sure how this should look; if it should look like anything at all. "I doubt you even know how to use the wayfinder," that part is said quietly, mostly because she assumes Iskra wouldn't know the object by its name (and it's not as though Verity herself knows how to use it but she does assume it will come to her intuitively).

As she faces the priate once more, fingers tightening around the dagger, the rumors of the other ring through her ears. But since they are said in Halen's voice she ignores them. Besides, this Iskra does not align with the one she had imagined. Maybe this pirate wears masks too and this is just one she has to see through; that is something she should consider. Though the more disconcerting factor is Verity's own lack of fear. It's not because she has a death wish or anything melodramatic––her will to live is perfectly intact, it's just her own numbness and narrow anger regarding the other factors in her life make it difficult to find room to be afraid. "You took it so it's yours––" she laughs as she repeats the phrase, "––the ship is of little use to you with that attitude." What she reveals about the ship is of little concern to her since she assumes the pirate will be another body to add to the others who had died or were dying for her.

When she is near enough to where she had once been standing, she pivots, without much warning, and rushes towards the pirate with her blade in hand. In a moment she flips the bone dagger from a reverse grip to a supine one, and picks an open spot––not caring to go for something more decisively lethal because she knows her poison should make short work of her opponent anyway. The rest of her crew stands ready, assuming Iskra's own crew will come out soon––and Verity? A grin lines her lips, when the blade cuts across Iskra's torso and she pushes the other backwards, expecting her keel over soon anyway.

 

[Syntra]

...she isn't actually going to cooperate, is she? One glance at the girl told her as much-- her posture was that of a warrior, her eyes shone with resolve. Diplomats and all the other charlatans who bought what they wanted with sweet words? In Iskra's experience, those never looked like that. Oh no, no, no. There was this aura of cowardice to them, you see, and they wore it like she might wear a cloak. Verity, on the other hand? Verity looked like someone who brought her death. (The smell clung closely to her, metal and burning flesh and blood yet unshed, and by the Shade, was it familiar! Just like the taste of home. ...because, yes, death was her home. More than the Raitheryan Palace had ever been, now that she thought of it. Funny how these things worked out, huh?)

So, in other words, Iskra did expect trouble. She would have had to be stupid not to, really, and while the pirate may have been many things, she certainly wasn't that. Expecting it and acting on it were two different things, however, and so she just... stood there, actually. Stood there, wearing her usual blank expression, and listened to Verity's gloating. (Huh, how hilarious. Was she the type to lecture her enemies before dealing the killing blow? A shame, for those tended to die fast. And if she was right about her intentions-- well, let's just say Verity would follow that trend. ...why oh why did they never learn? Was stepping on a snake bare-footed that entertaining?) "It flies," Iskra pointed out, "which is all I really require from a ship. As such, I'd say we're getting along just fine. Thank you for your concern, though." Blah, blah, blah, more empty rhetoric. Perhaps Myrne had been right-- perhaps this truly was a waste of time. (Iskra had hoped for a diversion, for a brief intermezzo between nothingness and more nothingness, but if attempts to talk her to death were all she had to offer? Even that was better.)

Except that... wait, what? Something flickered in her eyes as Verity spoke-- surprise, maybe, of perhaps recognition? Alternatively, it could have been both. The wayfinder. No way. Had she finally struck the goldmine, after months and months of searching? After giving up? Could the Mother be so merciful? The answers to these questions, however, had to wait-- mostly because interrogating someone while they were trying to kill you didn't tend to yield positive results. (...sigh, here they went again. Why did it always have to be like this? It went with the territory of being a pirate, she supposed, though still. Could a conversation never be just a conversation? ...everyone played these stupid, stupid games, and nobody ever bothered to explain the rules.)

Iskra saw the movement, of course, and she saw it before it truly began-- the sudden tension in her posture was quite telling, for example. Moving aside would have been simple, as well as breaking her arm, but why? To prove her superiority? Too small-minded. Small-minded and boring, and staving off her boredom was half of the reason she was even here. So, instead of doing the sensible thing, Iskra let the blade kiss her. (The blood was warm and almost comforting, like the embrace of a dear friend.)

"Is that all you wished to do? Cut me?" Iskra raised her eyebrow. "Oh Verity, Verity. If that was the case," she smiled, and the smile may as well have belonged to a wolf, "you should have just told me." With that, Iskra reached for the dagger and wrapped her fingers around it-- wrapped them around the blade, and the gross wet sound that followed made it clear that, yes, that went about as well as one would expect. The pirate, though? She was still smiling. More than that, she actually pried the weapon from Verity's grasp-- and proceeded to stab herself. (A red stain bloomed on her white shirt, bizarrely beautiful. It was the contrast, Iskra guessed-- red and white, life and death, ice and fire. A smile, and how easily it could turn sharper than a knife's edge.) "See? Anything to make my guests happy," Iskra said, in the same tone one might use for offering one's friend a glass of wine. "As you can see, though, I'm afraid you won't kill me like this. Sorry to disappoint."

By that point, the ship was crawling with her crew-- Verity's guards were taken care of quickly, and now Ylna was approaching the princess herself. "You treacherous fucking snake, I knew we shouldn't have--"

"Give her your sword," Iskra interrupted her.

There was a shocked silence, but not for long. "Pardon me?!"

"You heard me right," the captain said, and unsheathed her own blade. (The stain on her shirt seemed to grow larger by the second, though Iskra paid it no mind. And honestly, why should she? Blood was like rain-- in one way or another, it would go where it needed to be.) "The girl came to kill me. Very well, I say-- let's give her the chance. Not everyone is brave enough to pull off a stunt this brazen, so I think she's earned that privilege. Or do you not like the concept of duels, Verity? Too risky, perhaps?" And the strangest thing about it? Iskra sounded wholly, entirely sincere. There wasn't a hint of sarcasm in her tone, and she was watching her would-be murderer with innocent curiosity in her eyes.

 

[starboob]

♕ PRINCESS VERITY (EXILED) ♕

The poison should have worked. Iskra should be on the floor. The shock alone is enough that Verity is not even paying attention to what is happening to her own guards (a careless leader, maybe? Or maybe she isn’t a leader at all). She is much more captivated by the pirate; who is completely unfazed and still, very much alive and smiling––which reads more as baring teeth than anything else. Verity takes the warning and it shows in her wide eyes. Though she wouldn’t have shown her surprise so freely to an opponent she thinks this is an appropriate time as any to drop the mask. This is unexpected and not only because her poison is useless, something that should be cause for more concern, but because of the wildness it takes to grip the sharp end of a blade and the insanity that must inspire someone to jam said blade into themselves.

So the rumors about the pirate are starting to show themselves, but Verity has fought insane opponents before. She has even had the opportunity to learn from them––the queen of her homeland, after all, had been renowned in the gladiator arenas for her innovate executions; it’s largely how she had ended up a princess herself (people like wildcards––it makes the game more sensational). Living with her for the past seven years, learning with her, had taught her some tricks; though, admittedly, she isn’t near as creative as the queen. So regardless of initial shock, she isn't scared. Clearly, the captain has some extra resiliencies––but she isn't invulnerable. The red rose blooming on her shirt shows that. If she bleeds, she can die. Her words even suggest as much though they also hint that it will be an arduous affair.

“I wouldn't flatter yourself––killing you is not my goal. Only an obstacle in my way," she says in an even tone that is complimented by a smirk––easily pulling together her earlier surprise and stitching it into something new. "What sort of leader would I be if cowered from a pirate?” She doesn't directly answer Iskra's query and instead takes Ylna's blade to officially accept the challenge. And though she is insulting the other based on titles, something she cares little about, she knows better than to underestimate her adversary. Especially considering that she has done that once already and won't make that mistake twice––however, it doesn't hurt if Iskra thinks she is going to. “Since you're being such a hospitable host, I see no reason to be rude and refuse your gracious offer, Captain.”

"It's unfortunate you won't join the ancestors––I'm sure they'd love to know how you managed to handle their creation." That last part, actually, is genuine but with the cushioning of her prior statements, it matches in arrogance. She unsheathes the sword––it's not like her own and she hopes its awkwardness in her hand won't affect her too much. Especially knowing that Iskra won't go down easily. This is a dangerous situation––especially with the crew boring holes into her back. The most logical thing for her to do would be to hit the panic beacon hidden in her broach, but she doesn’t do that. While she knows not to trust pirates... Something in Iskra's tone makes it seem like she won't necessarily break the rules of a duel––even with Verity's initial impressions and judgments of the other. It's her funeral if she's wrong so at least there won't be more bloodshed on her behalf.

She rolls her shoulders back before bringing the sword up and taking her stance. Since she is basking in supposed arrogance, she decides she will attack first––completely unoriginal too, because she goes for a similar sweeping motion as before. Though, this time, Iskra does not stand still like a practice dummy. She blocks the attack, swords colliding and locking together. Verity pivots out of the lock and bounces quickly back into another forward strike that is easily met again with a parry, knocking her swording arm back with ease. Once she feels she has a handle on the other's style and the pacing of the duel, she drops the arrogant persona and retreats to her natural style. The next time she swings and counters, her training is obvious and has its signature distinctions.

Once Verity has transitioned to her true colors, that is also when the duel gets more interesting. As the swords clash and the two actually start to move around the ship, they each get closer to catching the other off guard. For a moment, she thinks victory is possible. Until Iskra picks up the pace, seemingly with ease from where Verity's standing, and begins to obviously control the direction of the fight.

 

[Syntra]

Oh, my sweet, Iskra thought with a vague, faded sorrow, if only you knew. Without a doubt, 'pirate' is the most honorable of my titles. Was Verity actually hoping to insult her? Because this... this felt comforting, sort of. The girl looked at her and saw what she wanted her to see-- the shadow on the wall, really, instead of the one who cast it. (From a great enough distance, it must have looked human, right? Fitting, Iskra supposed, for she did technically wear human skin. ...or did the skin wear her, perhaps? It was hard to tell, really, though she doubted it mattered. Oh no, of course not. You couldn't expect the gods to grant you a soul based on a technicality, anyway. Why, then, waste her time with these pointless thoughts?)

"I see," the pirate said, her expression once again neutral. (No, not neutral-- lifeless would be the better descriptor here. Her eyes were dead and unseeing, like two jewels stuck into the sockets of a mummified corpse.) "Remove me, then. Isn't that what you do with obstacles?" And, on some level, Iskra wanted her to do exactly that. Oh, how sweet it would be, to close her eyes only to never open them again! To stop resisting the enthropy, and let the burden fall off her shoulders. To rest, finally, after what felt like an eternity-- and perhaps to derive some twisted pleasure from the fact her body would nourish those who would come after her, too. The issue with that fantasy of hers, though? The Shade wouldn't let her. It would drag her back, kicking and screaming, just like it had so many times before. Not an end, but a reset, and Iskra-- well, Iskra didn't necessarily want that. Why, when it would fix nothing? When it would only give her new scars, on top of the ones that marred her skin now? (A broken system for broken dolls. Somewhere in there, Iskra was sure, poetic justice could be found, but she was so tired of looking.) "I shall partner you for this dance, then."

And a dance it was. Iskra didn't do much at the beginning-- mostly, she just observed Verity and the way she moved. Their blades clashed, yes, but the song born of them? The melody was dull, not at all like the usual staccato, and her body responded automatically. A sidestep, or a parry? Either worked, so it didn't matter much. No, this wasn't nearly enough to get her blood boiling-- the Shade kept sleeping within her, undisturbed, and her mind remained crystal clear. Still, the girl... wasn't actually bad? Someone had trained her, that much was obvious. They had trained her well, too, though her movements made her doubt whether she had actually ever bathed her sword in an enemy's blood. Something within her seemed to carry this sweet, sweet innocence, you know? Like a bride before her wedding night, yet untouched by anyone else. With some care, though? Hmmm...

"That was a nice strike," Iskra praised her efforts as she deflected it, her posture as changeable as water. "You're wasting too much of your energy, though. That's not how you control the flow of the fight. Here, let me demonstrate." And, within the blink of an eye, the tables turned. It was as if someone flipped a switch, really-- suddenly, the pirate's slashes were a wild flurry, like a storm of steel above her head. Cling, cling, clang. It only took a few of those to knock Verity off balance, and when she hesitated? Iskra kicked the sword out of her hand, far outside of her reach.

Her own sword gleamed in the light of the three moons floating above-- a magical moment, truly, though Verity probably wouldn't agree. Nobody enjoyed having their opponent's sword pressed against their throat, you see? Except that, instead of slitting it and drowning her in her own blood, Iskra merely lifted her chin with the tip. Lifted her chin, stared into her eyes for a few drawn out seconds, and... caressed her hair? Wow, okay. "You've done quite enough," she said, not unkindly. "There is no dishonor in such a loss. Now, I'd say you deserve some rest after such a performance. We can talk later, once you cool down a bit. Ylna?"

"Yes?" the woman saluted.

"Show Verity to her quarters. She'll be staying for a while, it seems, for we have much to discuss."

"Okay," Ylna gave a long-suffering sigh of someone who didn't understand and didn't care to, "you heard the captain. Move your ass!"

 

[starboob]

♕ PRINCESS VERITY (EXILED) ♕
​

Her chest heaves, breathing becoming more belabored as she struggles to keep up—at this point blocking more than countering, because she doesn’t see a viable opening just yet or way to use this terrain to her advantage. And focusing on that instead of just blocking does little to serve her. She loses her footing and the pirate takes advantage, until she’s fallen over and her sword is kicked from grasp. The point of the pirate's sword sticks against her neck and it doesn’t occur to her to start her parting rituals, mostly because the threat... isn’t what it seems (a lot about this pirate is more than it seems). Her chin is forced up and while her eyes are briefly defiant, like she’s still fighting, still strategizing, that washes away quickly under Isrka’s gaze and caress. Twice now the pirate has surprised her and for two entirely different reasons.

Logically, she should resist capture. Again, she should press that little beacon and have Halen and a crew sent down to her aid––because even if Iskra does not seem to be intent on killing Verity now, people who trust pirates to keep them alive often end up dead. Even with that sage wisdom in mind, it's not enough to inspire her because it occurs to her that she doesn't want to leave the ship. For one, the thought of returning to whatever charade her life has become, interacting with people who expect too much from her, turns her into exhaustion personified. There's also that pull she had felt earlier, calling to her now even, from inside the ship's ancient structure that is telling her to stay. The fact also remains that whatever happens, she knows Halen is keeping watch and will try to rescue her––she is like a guardian in that regard. So she rises, with little fuss, and when Ylna tries to grab her arm she shoots her spikes through her clothing as a warning (maybe it wouldn’t kill, she didn’t even know if it would hurt, but it doesn’t matter because it does convince this pirate not to touch her). Of course, that means pushed along with a sword pressed in her back.

She’s shoved into a small cell that she imagines had been used for the petty crimes committed while traversing galaxies. There isn't much to it as far as a prison is concerned. It has a cot, a thin mattress covering, and a basin in the corner. The door to the cell has been tampered with over the years and she knows the yellow-ish electric field is not part of the original structure. (Mostly out of idle curiosity, she does poke the buzzing barrier and recoils immediately when it snips the tip of her finger.) She does take some time to inspect the room and its vents, searching for potential weaknesses to exploit and doesn't find much hope there. She settles on the hard cot, taking her cape off to make a blanket. She sits upright, with one knee bent towards her chest and the other sticking straight out while she leans into the corner. Her eyes shutter close and she begins to allow her memories of the duel to flow freely like a motion picture in her head; perfect clarity, perfect recollection. It's something to study in case another opportunity to fight Iskra presents itself. (If she is lucky enough to have descendants later, she hopes they can learn from this memory too.)

However as she reflects, anger flares through her and comes down hard on her shortcomings; she begins to question the rationale for trying something so brazen. Had Halen been there, she knows she wouldn't have acted so forward with her intentions. She would have played her role of a charming and sweet princess, a familiar character that she identifies as her truest self (or used to; she's uncertain who she wants to be these days). But she knows the behavior stemmed in part from the effects of being jolted by the intergenerational rage after setting her eyes on the ship and feeling its sorrow. It also partly came from something in her goading her to try something different. And she can't deny, even with her frustration, even though the execution had failed, that it felt good to act unexpected. Something in that acknowledgement helps settle her. She does consider herself lucky to be alive––twice now she has lived after facing opponents who outmatched her. There is a victory somewhere in there, she isn't ready to relish in it just yet, but at least she isn't tearing herself down over it anymore.

If Iskra wants to talk, Verity decides to remain open while cautious. Until then, gracious Sleep closes around her and she is filled with a theater of observers who commiserate with her, offer encouragement, and lightly scold their descendant.

 

[Syntra]

Time, Iskra thought often, was like water. Whether it flowed swiftly or slowly depended entirely on the terrain, and right now? Oh, it slowed down to a crawl. Not yet, she reminded herself. Patience is a virtue, and boredom is the soil in which partnerships can grow. Not even pride can resist it forever. And Verity was proud, that much she knew-- only one guided by arrogance could accept her invitation, and to do so in such a brazen manner. (Meeting one's enemies for negotiations, of course, wasn't uncommon. In fact, it was the standard practice. Swords could speak rather eloquently, but they could never replace one's actual tongue, and most people respected that. Going to the enemy territory to have a pleasant chat with someone who could slit your throat, though? And, what was more, going there almost unaccompanied? Foolish, truly. Foolish and short-sighted, and doubtlessly a result of unchecked pride. The girl was drunk on her own ego-- drowning in it, really, and yet still asking for more, more and more. Grim fate awaited her, Iskra knew, but... well. Something about it was downright magnetic, was it not? The stars that burned the brightest also destroyed themselves in the most spectacular manner, and perhaps the same principle applied here as well. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.)

Either way, Iskra found herself fascinated by the other woman-- more fascinated than she'd been in... by the Shade, in years. Ages, more like. Maybe that was why she suddenly had to fight off this strange restlessness? Iskra had forgotten what that felt like, as she sailed this endless sea. (She had forgotten so, so many things. It was easy to discard them, you see? Easier than trying to remember, than trying to hold the shape of that which didn't exist with her mind only. Shadows, that was what they were. ...sometimes, those shadows emerged somewhere on the edge of her consciousness, but whenever she tried to grab them? They flickered, like a flame in the wind, and poof, gone. The cruelest of jokes, really.)

"Captain?" someone asked, and she looked up from her paperwork.

"What do you need, Estrelle?"

"It's the prisoner," the other woman replied, her lips forming a thin line. (Iskra could practically smell the resentment, but that didn't bother her-- as long as they weren't trying to hide it, it meant they weren't conspiring against her. Silver linings, right?)

"Yes? What about her? Do go on. Feel free to sit down, too."

"No, that won't be necessary. It's just that nobody is willing to, you know, feed her." Iskra didn't ask her to clarify, but she didn't have to-- her raised eyebrow did that for her, and Estrelle interpreted it easily enough. "Not everybody is like... like you, captain, and the bitch shoots spikes from her body. I'm not gonna go near her, and I won't ask it from anyone else. And, I mean, it's your pet..."

"She's not my pet," Iskra rolled her eyes, exasperated. (For some reason, that was a popular conclusion to arrive to-- it wasn't the first time she had heard rumors of this nature, at least, and they continued to baffle her. Did nobody know what a 'hostage' was? One would have thought that pirates would be familiar with the concept, but apparently not.) "She has access to valuable information, Estrelle. I see your point, though. I... haven't considered this angle." No, of course, not. It was a human angle, and thus something alien to Iskra. (So a mask couldn't turn you into the thing you were impersonating, huh? What a grand, grand revelation. ...striving in vain, that was what she was doing. Still, the effort was all there was, wasn't it? That, and the abyss that would devour her if her resolve shattered.) "But very well-- I won't make you risk your lives for a whim of mine. I shall be the one to bring her food, if you don't wish to do so."

"That I sure as fuck don't. Thanks, captain. See you around."

You've never been one to waste your breath, huh? Iskra, on the other hand, shouldn't waste her time. Waiting in for Verity's fire to go out was one thing, but starving her? Unacceptable! Dishonorable, too-- worse than feasting on a fallen enemy's corpse, the way vultures did, like the lowest of the low. (Had she broken all of her promises for this? For shame, and the same kind of cruelty they had treated her with? ...no, surely not. Iskra may have been nothing, but at least she wasn't them, either. That had to count for something as well.) And so, with a sigh, the captain rose from her chair.

As she descended into Verity's prison, which was situated in the lowest part of the ship, Iskra couldn't help but notice just how lonely it was. Lonely and desolate, entirely cut off from everything else. A whole world belonging to itself-- a world of shadows, of ghosts of the past. (It... made sense, she supposed, for isolation was kind of the point with prisons, but wasn't that too much? She didn't wish to break Verity. She wished to-- wished to--)

"Good afternoon," Iskra greeted the prisoner, and handed her a plate full of smoking hot something through the barrier. (It must have been callibrated to accept her DNA, for it didn't hurt the pirate-- it hissed like an angry cat, yes, but her skin remained unmarred.) "I'm afraid I'll be the only person you'll be seeing for a while," she said, in the same tone she seemed to be using for everything else. (...could there be a hint of apology in her eyes, though? Perhaps, but maybe the light just hit them in a strange way.) "For safety reasons. Those spikes of yours seem dangerous." For anyone who wasn't an abomination, anyway. "I hope you like soup, and that you'll forgive me that there's no meat. Meat is expensive." By the Shade, Iskra. What are you doing? She understands this isn't a hotel! "Anyway," the pirate continued, unwilling to examine her own thoughts, "how have you been? Is there anything I can do for you to make your stay more pleasant?" Business before pleasure, that was the usual sequence, but Iskra figured showing some good will couldn't hurt. Team building was important, wasn't it? And they were a team now, kind of, even if Verity didn't know yet.

 

[starboob]

♕ PRINCESS VERITY (EXILED) ♕
​

When she awakes, she doesn't know how much Time has passed since she entered the Ancestral Ether. It's disorienting and makes her nauseated, because Time is the vehicle through which Verity's people travel back and forth from the Ether to the present; through Time and Her constructs, minutes may feel like lifetimes and hours into seconds while away. Thus not knowing when the destination is can make it difficult to comfortably arrive back from the inner depths of Sleep. It's not surprising the prison doesn't contain a time piece* (she hadn't thought to bring her own as she hadn't originally planned on getting captured), because even if built by her people, who respected Time as a sacred sage, prison should be punishment. Not knowing the passage is part of the torment, she figures.

A few agonized minutes later, the sickness wears away on its own just as she hears footsteps coming from down the entryway and Iskra is in front of the barrier with food. Though she is more focused on the greeting––the afternoon portion of it and she wonders, 'Afternoon of what day?' It's not uncommon to lose days to Sleep if one is not careful. It had happened to her once when her mothers thought she deserved the rest, but she had not appreciated the Loss. Still, she doesn’t ask for clarification.

When the other's arm passes through the electric field, she wonders what would happen if she were to pull Iskra further into her cell. Would she end up trapped from this side? Could Verity kill her? Though, to the latter, she also questions what good is killing the captain if she’s still stuck in the cell. That would be like making dinner with Death’s scythe. At another time she may have her chance. She will wait this time, as she is learning, always a humble student to Life (as much as she can remember to be).

“You can set it down. I’ll eat later.” Probably not. Aside from lacking an appetite, everyone knows not to accept food from your enemies and Iskra seems to have more layers to her than meets the eye. She was dangerous when they first met and she seems twice as deadly now; injuring herself, caressing her hair, and now asking her about her evening in such a cavalier manner Verity is convinced––in fact she knows, she is being teased. If Iskra is going to toy with her then she’ll do just the same.

The comment about her bone spikes brings a smirk to her lips and she teases, “And yet you still stand. So either my spikes really aren’t all that bad or, perhaps, the rest of your crew is full of cowards? Do they all just ride on the laurels of their captain, Iskra, and the Perilous Wind?” She wants to tell the pirate that name is ill-fitting. That it’s not the ship’s name at all. But it’s supposed to be bad luck to rename a ship and she figures why wish well to this insolent crew––who think at such a rudimentary level that comprehending travel as more than steering a wheel and getting from point A to point B would be beyond them. She scoffs to herself, ‘Let them find a fate fitting of the crimes they’re committing against you, Inure.’

“No, I’m not sure I can forgive you. I was expecting the finest seafood money can buy so I am quite disappointed that––what is that?––hot boiled vegetables? Is all you have to offer,” bitter sarcasm continues to pour freely from her mouth––still reflecting some of the prior arrogance she held earlier. Who else talks to their captor without a show of concern? And it's not that she isn't concerned, but if the pirate won't be true then neither will she.

Her eyes fly over the room when Iskra asks about the accommodations and while the captain sounds genuine, Verity trusts her eyes more. “Oh and I’m completely charmed by the set-up. It’s been a dream of mine since I was a little girl, running through the brackish of my homeland, to have my dream home be a dank prison below deck the ship that brought my people home.” A ship this pirate and her crew have no business being on, she reminds herself angrily. Still, she also reminds herself to show the anger in flares and let the eventual eruption speak for itself. With that, she sighs, pinches the bridge of her nose before shifting her tone into something softer, still hot but cool enough to handle. "This seems standard,” she shrugs. Her fingertip sweeps across the grime on the walls, rolling it into a sticky ball and flicking it at the barrier ('tsss'). Verity is used to being in the dirt. Seven years a princess and she never let herself forget it and she never tried to––never even hid her humble upbringing. She spoke about it proudly, confidently and pushed for better practices to take care of the rural communities suffering most from the shortages. So this cell? It isn’t much but it is a room that is her own and from here she will rule its small Queendom.

This pirate is unique in the ways she chooses to toy with her prisoners. So she wonders what would happen if she were to make a request? While she doesn't expect Iskra to follow through on anything, the response will be information––whether she laughs in her face or uses her needs against her. This will all be research on her style as a captor as Verity still doesn’t know just what kind of animal resides in this den. “Though a room with a view would be nice––perhaps you can make that arrangement?” she asks and while true, it’s an obvious overplay and she reels back to something more reasonable. “But if that’s too much... it is cold down here and I’ve only got my clothes. A blanket would be generous––I’m not sure I can miraculously evolve the proper antibodies to fight off whatever virus that may take advantage of my poor shivering body.” She looks to Iskra through innocent eyes; it’s a stark contrast to the bold Verity who had launched to kill her within 10 minutes of meeting. But a snake can shed its skin a thousand times and it will still always be a snake––a sage could've said that about Verity. Though, Verity thinks, they must have said pretty as a painting, deadly as poison of Iskra.

“Is that all? Certainly you’re not here to grace my presence with meaningless frivolity and pleasantries.” Her brow arches, and when it arches its high peak reaches towards the cosmos, as if to say, 'You want something from me, so what is it?'

*time pieces: a simple object that looks like two marbles, one representing the Ether and the other the present, connected by a short chain that can travel with the user back and forth between planes; this is a way to ensure that the user does not spend too much time away. In everything, there must be Balance.

 

[Syntra]

"No," Iskra replied, a hint of something sharp in her voice-- like a dagger wrapped in silks, really. Perhaps the crew was a sensitive spot for the captain? Because, so far, she had never used this tone with Verity. "You are mistaken. They are just wise enough to value their lives." Which, of course they were. Value was determined by scarcity, and life was the most fleeting thing there was. One misstep, one tiny slip, and off you went, tumbling down and down into the abyss, never to emerge from it again. (Beautiful, wasn't it? Balancing on the knife's edge, and the fragile equilibrium of it all. The stakes, the thrill, how meaningful everything was. ...perhaps, had it been like this for her, Iskra would have valued her life, too. Perhaps not, though. Who could, after all, dare to predict the inner workings of a mind touched by the Shade? By the shard of the Godhead, sharp and cold and always gnawing, gnawing, gnawing? Certainly not her.)

As Verity continued to rain down criticism on Iskra, though, there was a curious shift-- the anger went out, and instead, it seemed to be replaced by... what, hesitance? Guilt, even? For some unfathomable reason, the menacing warrior from before suddenly resembled a kicked puppy, with her shoulders slouched and her gaze cast downward. 'I'm sorry,' her body language said. "I am sorry," Iskra said with her actual words, too. "I-- I didn't expect to have a visitor. This is how we normally eat, though, so you'll have to get used to this. It's not like we feed you scraps-- I had the very same soup today. It's nutritious enough, if nothing else. Healthy." Ah, yes, the joys of discussing one's diet with one's prisoner! It was absurd, even Iskra knew, but... well, Verity was a princess, wasn't she? At least according to her intel. And princesses-- princesses were surrounded by luxury, their tongues accustomed to the finest of delicacies. Now, what if she refused to eat? What if her dignity was worth more to her than her own life? That would be a problem, as Iskra very much needed her alive. (Damn princesses and their whims, some distant part of her thought. The Holy Vessel had also complained of everything-- of the beds not being soft enough, of the food not being flavorful enough, of the soldiers not dying prettily enough. Presumably, she would have also complained of Iskra's sword not being sharp enough, but that was somewhat difficult to do with your mouth full of your own blood. ...no. No, don't be rash. She's not her, and has nothing to do with any of that. Harshness without direction is just cruelty.) "If you don't believe me, I can join you for dinners," the pirate offered in what appeared to be desperation. "You can see for yourself that I eat the very same meals that you will be eating. We can also-- discuss things, I suppose. Discussion fosters understanding, or so I've heard."

Compromises also fostered understanding, however, and so Iskra considered her request. It was... brazen, yes, but perhaps she could make it work? Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. (Lately, her entire world seemed to consist of that word.) "We shall see. For the time being, you'll stay here, but I'll ask my people whether some of the... uhhh, less depressing rooms can be re-purposed to house you. We-- we still need some safeguards in place. Surely you see the need?" The need for her to be locked behind an energetic barrier, to put it bluntly. While Iskra imagined that Verity may not have agreed with it, she probably understood why it was necessary-- because, you know, of that whole prisoner thing. ('An honored guest,' that was the label Iskra preferred, but let's call a spade a spade, shall we? Water didn't turn into wine just because you poured it into a wine glass, and a uniform didn't magically transform you into a commander. And a crown? The thin circlet didn't give you the right to rule, either. Oh, how intimately she knew now!)

When Verity looked at her, though? Her gaze bore into Iskra's very soul, and she felt naked underneath it-- her core exposed to the outside world, the rot within plain to see. (Ugly, wasn't it? Just like most things about her.) There was a flicker of panic, a response as instinctive as retreating your hand upon touching something searing hot, and for a second, Iskra seriously considered running away. Just to escape that look, you know? Because she wasn't used to being perceived-- not like this, anyway. (She dwelled in darkness, safe and comfortable and familiar, and this... this girl was bringing a lantern. What, exactly, would be left once the shadows got dispelled? That scared her, alright. More than anything else.)

Once a soldier, always a soldier, though, so she didn't run. Dodging her responsibilities? No, that wasn't who she was. Instead, Iskra slipped out of her coat in one motion and handed it to Verity through the barrier, her lower lip trembling slightly. "To keep you warm," she explained. "For now. I-- I don't get cold, so I forgot. I'm sorry." Why did she feel like a mouse that was being played with by a cat? The positions should have been reversed, but her heart was beating wildly in her chest, her head spinning.

"But-- yes, you're right. The wayfinder," she said, quickly, as if to direct her attention away from-- from whatever this was. Away from the forbidden zone of strange feelings, really. "I wish to find it, and I trust that you have the means to do so. Is that correct?"

 

[starboob]

♕ PRINCESS VERITY (EXILED) ♕​

This. Verity has no words for this or what is happening. This is certainly not the same Captain Iskra that had bested her in combat and put her in this cell? Out there she seemed confident and down here... Well, confident is not the word that comes to mind. Several other words dance through her mind instead (despondent, genuine, concerned, unsure) and she rejects every single one of them, intuitively. This is another trick, another game, another charade and of all her titles (peasant, poet, princess, pariah, prisoner) she is an actress that can take on any role necessary––never confident enough herself to be entirely true. And if truth is not her foundation, it is easier to gloss over what is there in perfect clarity and believe this pirate is not only an expert in the blade but a master of masquerade—an actor as good as she regards herself. This fabrication begins to set inside her judgments like cement, but she is interrupted by a curious voice in her head, one that is small like a child and this child whispers, ‘Look closer, Verity.’ (When warnings or suggestions come to her, it always causes her to freeze. They are disruptions to her own internal processes and that usually invites resistance, though that is always temporary. When she realizes what is happening she relaxes.)

Pushing pause to judgement, recognizing it as the shield protecting her in dangerous territory, she leans into what feels like malignant curiosity. Her finger smooths over the broach, like it's a touch-stone, to comfort the fear and remind her of a way out (no doubt Halen is already searching for her but the beacon would speed up the process). She meets Iskra's eye again, taking in all that she has to say before coming up with a response of her own. This time, she listens with a different ear, the ear of child who has no reason to be fearful. The paramount question, though, lingers in her head, 'What kind of fool will I be if I trust the words of a pirate?'

Careful, ever so carefully, she homes on something in Iskra when she offers sharing their meals together and it sounds almost as if she is suggesting communion between the two of them. 'What do I have to understand from a pirate?' then a second later, 'Perhaps a great many things.' Again, her brow arches at the suggestion and her arms close over her chest, still not fully open. "It seems you are the one with the freedom to make the choice for me––whether I eat alone or with company... whether I eat anything at all." She is not intentionally trying to remind Iskra that she has the the power here, but Verity cannot help but to criticize the captain for not wielding it (though she doesn't register it as weakness either; she doesn't know what she thinks of it other than foolish). "What grand understandings do you hope to reach by sharing meals?" The question bites, but she is serious. She also does not outright reject the invitation. "And why do you want to understand me at all? Won't that make killing me later much harder?" Verity still feels guilt over the victims she had slain during the trials of Glory & Gore and she hadn't even known them––only that they now had families who could only reach them through the Ether.

Again, Iskra continues to send surprise through her as she actually appears to genuinely consider the bold request for a change of scenery. She knows it's genuine too, because of how she talks about the security measures that are necessary to having a prisoner over a guest. "From one cage to another, I see." It's a sour statement even while she nods. She has the right to be upset even if she does not expect freedom just because she would be outside of the prison. "I'm sure I'll still kiss your feet should this happen––after all, generosity is currency."

Words are fickle. They can be twisted and manipulated; stripped and cut together to create sound bites that incite violence, suggest treason, or expose ugly truths. Words are the vehicle through which the mask is fabricated. Tone, delivery, vocabulary all change the meaning and intimacy of words. Verity knows this better than most and it's how she knows to take words with caution. So when Iskra chooses an action that seems to corroborate her words? Well, the prisoner is, once again, shocked. The immediate action taken to her request? It is as if she didn't even need to think twice about it––and that strikes something in the exiled, speaking loudly to her. Even she cannot rationalize an ulterior motive to such a spritely response. Her brows furrow together and her arms drop from her chest to her stomach. The gesture softens her though her guard is still up.

An awkward amount of time passes between the two of them, Iskra's arm through the barrier and Verity staring at it with suspicion. 'Look closer, Verity.' Nodding to herself she gets up from the cot and approaches the pirate. Slowly, with centuries of hesitance, she reaches for the garb. Except, when she does, she brushes her hand over the captain's own, innocently enough, feeling the difference between the other's warm hand and her cold one (typical for her and nothing to do with the chill of the prison, though it certainly doesn't help). It seems like an accident that she grabs her hand instead of the coat. (Again the thought of pulling her forward and sticking another bone weapon in her, this time in her chest, crosses her mind, but she knows this is not the time.) When she drops her hand to actually grab the offering, she lets her thumb brush and smooth over the back of Iskra's hand first and then takes the coat. She brings it around her shoulders and feels the leftovers of the pirate's heat still clinging to the seams before her own body greedily claims it as its own. "Lucky you. I'm almost always cold." Then, a second later, "I appreciate the kindness." Even if it doesn't make sense.

The mention of the wayfinder, however, changes her posturing once more and when it becomes clear that the pirate doesn't have it she is dumbfounded. Mostly because she assumed Inure wouldn't operate without it––but perhaps that explained part of the ship's anguish (like something of Herself is missing, aside from proper care and inhabitants). Anger bubbles through her once more, because of the sheer audacity the pirate must have asking her to help her claim a piece of her culture's history and very identity, presumably for herself––an outsider with no claim to its power! It's hard not to let generations of tongue whip the other when this is the clear reason why she is still alive. "I'm not sure I want to help you," she says, barely containing the fact that she feels insulted by the suggestion.

 

[Syntra]

"Not true," Iskra said, her voice cracking like a whip. "It's always you who gets to choose. I... shape the circumstances, yes, but you decide how you will operate in that context. Even if I insist on eating with you, you can always turn around, and not acknowledge my presence. Technically, I'd be there, but would that really matter? I don't think so." And, hey, maybe she was running away from her guilt-- from the realization that in donning a monster's mask, she herself had become a monster. (That was the problem with nothingness, really. It yearned to be something, and when there was nothing else to mimic? Well, you can put two and two together on your own.) So, yes, a part of it may have been cowardice. At the same time, though? The pirate genuinely believed in her words-- that, if you tried hard enough, there was a choice in every situation. That even the most powerless could seize a moment of agency for themselves, despite it necessarily being something as petty as refusing to speak to one's captor. 'Petty,' however, didn't mean 'insignificant'. Oh no, no, no. Just like a seed didn't sprout overnight, you didn't blossom into a hero as quickly, either. It didn't work like that. In time, though, small deeds added together, and... well, who knew? Perhaps, perhaps they might grow into something larger than life-- something larger than you. Every storm, after all, had once been but a butterfly flapping its wings! (That was Iskra's hope, at least. Or had been? Whether she still believed it, or simply followed the same path due to the momentum, unable to change the course... that was the real question here. A question she dared not answer, not now and possibly not ever.)

"You can also choose not eat at all, but I'd prefer it if you didn't do that," Iskra continued quietly. "I don't wish for you to die. Again, though, you may decide to do so, and I would not be able to stop you." No bars could contain a spirit, could they? Viewed through those lens, death could be one route to freedom-- to salvation, even, depending on what exactly you believed. Many of Iskra's enemies had opted for it, favoring their own blade over hers, and... well, she kind of envied them. Just having that option seemed freeing, you see? Instead of always needing to march forward, forward, and forward, no matter how much the blisters on her feet bled. (And where was she going, again? The compass within her heart pointed towards-- towards-- oh, damn her if she knew.) "But I-- I think it would be a shame. There is much to be gained from our cooperation." Because, no, Iskra didn't want her help for free. Surely, surely there had to be something Verity wanted as well? That, after all, was the one constant, the one element uniting them all-- the hunger in their souls, and the need to sate it. (Deep and primal, like a demon lurking within her mind. For as long as she had this, Iskra guessed, she wasn't entirely lost.) "Discussion might help us discover whether we can meet each other in the middle." ...and, yes, she realized just how empty it must have sounded, coming from her jailer and all, but so what? Verity had originally come to murder her, so Iskra figured this treatment wasn't really unjustifiable. (Death was no laughing matter, after all.)

The pirate seemed deep in thought, and she was, indeed, but when Verity touched her like that? Iskra flinched, retreating her hand back to safety. Once again, her cheeks were burning, and you could practically see the question marks floating above her head. Just, what? Nobody had ever done this to her before! (To her, touch was the lash of a whip or the cold kiss of steel, not whatever this was. And in that respect? Their first interaction actually had been more comfortable, for it had been familiar. A devil she knew, and one that could no longer hurt her-- not in a way that would matter, anyway. Couldn't get new scars if there was no place for them anymore, could you?) "I... um. You're welcome, I suppose," the pirate stumbled over her own words. "It... I don't know. Seemed like the right thing to do."

By the Shade, Iskra. Get a hold of yourself! Even she, after all, could hear just how dumb she sounded-- dumb and agitated, with her heart racing for some reason. Why, though? Why, why, why? She was barely moving, and so there was no reason for her body to require more oxygen! (...could she be ill? No, preposterous. The Shade shielded her from ailments, just like real shadows shielded you from the sun. Maybe it had something to do with the girl's unique physiology, then? Not impossible, Iskra supposed, with the spikes and everything. Clearly, a healthy dose of caution was in order.)

"Understandable," she said, ignoring the lightness in her head. If left alone, it would disappear on its own, right? It would, doubtlessly. "Is there anything you would like in exchange? We can treat this like a business deal, and trust me, I can get many things done. I don't mind getting my hands dirty, either." And why should she? They had Promised her to Shade, long before she had been born, and debts-- debts had to be paid. (Blood debts especially.)

 

[starboob]

♕ PRINCESS VERITY (EXILED) ♕​

Choice––Verity could laugh in the pirates face and she almost does; it almost bubbles straight from her belly out of her mouth, but she doesn't because Iskra actually seems serious. Like she is speaking words that are so true to herself she cannot step into the reality around them to expose the dastardly lie. This only makes her want to challenge the pirate more, as seems to be the current pattern that she is cycling through. Once again, her arms return to their crossed position over her chest and she lets her gaze speak before she does (pointed like an arrow straight for the soul). "Oh, I'd love to live wherever you're from if choice exists in the excess you make it seem––the streets just must be overflowing with the wealth of choices the peasants can make. I'm sure the one who died because she couldn't afford medicine made the choice to lose her resources. And I'm sure the one that starved decided that as well. And what choice did the little girl have when the pirates came for her village? Did she have a choice when they cut her down? Did she decide to lean into their swords? And what choice did the pirate have?"

Of course she recognizes the extremes of her examples and that, in essence, yes, people have choices. Some have more than others. Others have choices made for them. There are some choices that stain the spirit, but had to have been made; others stain because they were unnecessary. Even now, Verity can recognize her choice to resist her captor as much as she able. "Choice is complex. It is not achromatic," she concedes, acknowledging through suggestion alone that she sees Iskra's point. (Curiously, she does wonder how the captain will respond––her responses so far have been stimulating and engaging. Of course, watching paint dry might have been interesting in her captivity so perhaps this isn't saying much.)

Still, her stubbornness does not allow her to see outside of what she wants and chooses. While her judgments are suspended, and she dips into neutral territory, she is still too hot to really make any meaningful progress in terms of opening up to her jailor (though it is wholly reasonable that she remains guarded). "My cooperation benefits you only. Do you take me for an entire fool? This... This partnership you want is entirely on your terms. You may be captain of this ship and think yourself a Sacred Sage because of it, but just because you say there is choice and freedom on my end does not make it so." She blows a strand of hair out of her face through the corner of her lips as she sits down on the edge of cot. At this point she may as well be spinning wheels on a cog, aimlessly going in circles, because this is going nowhere. Though she never intended on going anywhere by countering everything Iskra said––she only intends to point out all the holes in the net she tries to call a blanket. Verity will not be fooled. The ancestors graced her with a name meant to guide her and give her clarity.

The brief pause in conversation as Verity watches the colors on Iskra's cheek change and blossom gives cause to wonder. Wondering exactly what it means. Of course, Verity had been purposeful in the action, but had the pirate not started this when she stared into her eyes and caressed her hair? And now she seems so bashful. The animal in this den must be a lizard with a dragon's ferocity, she decides. 'What else will color her cheeks and kickstart her heart?' This could prove to be an interesting game.

Her anger does not quell as the conversation carries onward. In fact it seems to swirl faster in her stomach like dark energies of the universe. Somehow she manages to keep it mostly inward, though keeping things inward are something she is practiced in; the current moment is only difficult because of her apparent connection to the ship's tangible, overbearing burden of carrying this crew through space, lifelessly, purposelessly. (Yes, even ships have purpose, even ships have desire––listen to the hum of its heart and anyone can understand that.) Her mouth is hot again with fire. "It's not about what you have to offer me––even if I did trust you to follow through. I don't think you understand what you are asking of me––I don't think you understand that you have insulted me and the vestiges of spirits that are collected in myself and this arcane ship." She can tell the other did not pick up on the insult in her tone so she names it now, framing it on the wall so that all can see and admire its colors. She will not deny herself in bitter silence. "Your goals seeking out this relic most certainly will interfere with my own. So it seems we are at impasse, because I will not let another piece of my people's past be sullied by greedy pirates, treasure hunters, and tomb raiders. We have lost enough history. So if that is what you want from me, I will not help you." There is no compelling reason for her to do so either. Not when she needs the wayfinder––and if this pirate wants it for herself? Well, it is not an object she can afford to share––least of all with an other.

And yet...

'Look closer, Verity.' She pauses as the suggestion crosses her once more and she doesn't know what it means, but something suggests giving Iskra a chance to explain. And though her words are technically invitation alone, she decides to ask the bold question in order to ensure she gets her answers. (Something in her or someone next to her understands this may as well be her only chance at getting closer to this object. And she realizes she doesn't have to be truthful about what help she will or won't give; the wayfinder would only bind itself to purposeful leaders and even if this pirate were passable in character, she still is not a Descendant of Celestia.) "Why do you want the wayfinder? What do you even know about it?" A pause, and in this time she rises and stands as close to the barrier as she can manage, staring directly into the captain's eyes and daring her to lie. She continues, "Convince me your heart's intentions are as sacred and pure as my own." Though she doubts they will be she doesn't know this for certain. And if the pirate does surprise her, as she has done many times over since they have met? Well, then Verity will draw up her list of demands and have them ready by the morning.

 

[Syntra]

The girl, Iskra decided, was mocking her. It was written on her face, plain as day, and, really, the best response to that would have been to shut up. No point in throwing words at someone who refused to listen, was there? Such an endeavor would only serve to feed one's ego-- with a participant this unwilling, she may as well have been talking to herself, and admiring the sound of her own voice. A fool's errand, really. Despite knowing all of that, however? Iskra still found herself opening her mouth, and words sprang forth like a waterfall. "You are not engaging the argument in good faith. Never once have I suggested that you can control your fate entirely, or that you have a choice in everything. Obviously, you don't. There is never a situation in which you have no degree of agency, though. Even if-- even if you can only choose to accept your death gracefully." And, hey, some people would say that it didn't matter-- that the result was the same, and thus you didn't have to bother. Iskra, though? Well, Iskra liked to think that it meant something. In the vast coldness of space, even single spark was precious, was it not? Because, even if entropy would ultimately prevail, the existence of the struggle itself had certain... comforting implications. There was a beauty in trying-- in lighting your heart on fire, and letting it illuminate the path before you. Illuminating it for others as well, maybe.

(Once, she had been able to do exactly that, but the sparks were dead now-- weak and faded, not even strong enough to light a cigarette. A pathetic imitation of itself, really. And the fire Iskra had kindled? Oh, she could still taste the ashes on her tongue. Ashes, and the disappointment as well. These things, it seemed, she'd never forget. ...whether that was a blessing or a curse, that remained to be seen.)

"I don't think myself to be anything," she blurted out, her gaze once again landing on the floor. (By the Shade, why did this feel like navigating a minefield? A single step in the wrong direction, a single mistake, and boom, Iskra would be no more, torn asunder by Verity's... words. Words, which objectively couldn't hurt her. Least of all the words of a prisoner! The girl truly had no power over her, and the insults should have been just wind to her-- mildly annoying, perhaps, but not more than that. Why, then, did an iron fist grip her heart? Why was it getting difficult to breathe? ...perhaps because she sees you for what you are. Filth, who hides behind the concept of honor. It's a pretty shield, isn't it? As long as circumstances don't test it.)

When Verity pointed out the insult, Iskra looked up at her-- her eyes were large and alarmed, like a deer caught in headlights. Innocent, maybe, if using that word to describe someone like her hadn't been a cruel joke. "I never knew. I am sorry." That was all she could do for Verity, though, for acting on those feelings was out of question. Was it unfortunate? Well, yes, of course, but Iskra hadn't gone this far, hadn't sacrificed so much, only to say 'whoops, my bad, take the ship and have a nice day' now. Blood once spilled couldn't be washed away this easily, and a kingdom couldn't be built out of ashes. Again, debts had to be paid. Paid, paid, paid, in whatever capacity available to her. And since Iskra could only really speak the language of the sword? It to be her coin, her salvation.)

"I didn't mean to insult your people, either." Hadn't meant to, but that was exactly what she had done, and would continue to do. Did an apology count if you never intended to correct your attitude? Somehow, Iskra doubted it. (Stepping on someone's neck and refusing to move away, that was what it was. Worse than that-- she also had the nerve to beg for the victim's forgiveness! What was it like, having your people's legacy trampled upon? Watching it get dragged through mud, again and again, and sold for parts? There were centuries of resentment, most likely. Resentment she, personally, was deepening now.) "I-- I wasn't aware of the significance, and I would have chosen a different path, but... I don't know. I've tried everything." That, if nothing else, was true. Without the necessary context, it told Verity very little, but at least she wasn't lying.

"I don't presume to brand my intentions as sacred," the captain finally said, after a few seconds of silence. (It hung between them, heavy with the weight of that which had to stay unspoken.) "I don't even know if what I'm trying to do is right, or if it will work." In the past, that had seemed clear enough, but where had those good intentions led? To chaos, deeper than anyone could have imagined. The Pale Moon graced their skies now, while children wept and tore their own flesh. (Clearly, confidence was but poison.) "I am trying to help my people as well, though. To preserve their memories, so that we could learn from our mistakes." My mistakes, really. "The wayfinder can do that, right? That's how I wish to use it. I-- I don't want to sell it, or anything like that." Please, try to understand. Because, if she didn't? Iskra would have to get, uh, more persuasive, and neither of them would enjoy that.

 

[starboob]

♕ PRINCESS VERITY (EXILED) ♕​

"No, I didn't engage in good faith––but certainly you understand exactly my response when it's coming from a captor to her subjugate? Acceptance or resistance are the ultimate choices we make each day––I do agree with your point there." That is the only choice that is truly guaranteed. And she continues, "If you think of yourself as nothing then that is your choice too. You are who you choose to be in the circumstances that are presented." Her simple words speak to her own ironies and all the people she has chosen to be––not all bad, in fact most good. Though it all came from a sense of duty than her own will and desires––choosing to exile herself (and now look! Becoming truly exiled in the process).

However, when Iskra explains herself, Verity's gaze is cold. The air seems to drop in temperature and if Iskra cannot feel the frostbite? Then maybe she feels its weight and she would be wise to pay attention to that shift, because outside of her eyes Verity's face remains impassive. Her neutral smile even fades into a meaningless line across her features; pensive is a frightening look on the princess if only because one never knows what she is thinking. The pirate's words have done nothing to inspire the princess to fight for her cause. There is nothing in her spirit that can see beyond what is in front of her because there is nothing beyond that. Another crusader who justifies desecration in the name of selective salvation. Saving one people at the cost of another––asking the sacrificed to put the stake in her own heart. Oh, this pirate seems to be fluent in insults and shallow apology.

"Your apology lacks what it needs to be forgiven." Forgiveness comes only when one is sorry; it comes when the other has named their offense and asked for the forgiveness of the offended; it comes with change. Iskra apologizes to absolve herself; she does not apologize to mend the wounds she has caused. This is not lost on the prisoner. "Insult me in a creative way next time." Where Iskra may not want to destroy the piece for currency, she still refuses to return it home. She still wants to use it. She wants to abuse it. 'And what exactly are you trying to gain from it? Are your intentions different just because of your supposed birthright? What is birthright when we all are made of Stardust?' She ignores the questions that would call her a traitor to her own cause if she answers them.

Instead she turns away from the pirate, no longer interested in this conversation. (No longer interested in a great deal of things.) She picks at the pills on the thin mattress covering. There are words, entire generations of thunder sitting at the edge of her tongue. All she has to do is open her mouth and push them tumbling over the edge, but she doesn't. The captain's intentions were always going to upset her––it had been with naive hopefulness that she imagined a possibility where their goals aligned, somehow. It is clear now that they will never see eye to eye. So what are her choices? Iskra claims she has so many and now she lists them off in her head, selecting the one that keeps her power intact.

"AND, I can understand the plight of the people." She offers the small slivers of truth that will help this character come together; she even offers some sympathy in her tone. "My own suffer a great deal, too. Their pain exists in my veins as I'm sure yours seems to exist in you. It's that pain that led me to your ship." She recalls earlier she had only let on about her interest in the ship and criticized the pirate's lack of knowledge on how to properly use it in tandem with the wayfinder. As far as she can recall, unless Iskra read her intentions differently, she may not know her actual goal had been to claim the ancient talisman. "It's imagery would help rally those who still live in their fear even if they see the need for Change." She turns her attention back to the other, the ice from her eyes seeming to have melted into a plea. "My reputation has been more or less shredded––those I thought were friends now close their doors on me or only acknowledge me in secret. I have no allies for my cause. What resources could you lend me there? Were I to provide my insight, that is."

Many things are power––there is power in a great deal. In choice, in tenacity, in currency, in sex (some might say), in knowledge. If this is the power that Verity has over the desperate captain? She will make a happy throne of it and wring it for all its worth. Then, when she is ready, she will take back what has been stolen and return what has been lost. If Iskra wants an ally, that seems an easy enough role to fulfill. Easier than being a princess at least.

 

[Syntra]

Did she notice the change in atmosphere, the way Verity's heart froze over in an instant? No, not really. Iskra didn't truly sense cold anymore, and numbness-- well, numbness had become a faithful companion, a best friend she had never had. A familiar flavor of not-exactly-evil, bitter like good coffee and just as addictive. It was better than nothing, you see? And, in a way, it felt... comforting, just a little bit. The emotional rollercoaster of anger, with its highs and lows? That was exhausting, alright. Terribly, terribly so. (Iskra still remembered the times she had burned, burned and burned, even if she couldn't remember why that had been the case. What could fire bring you but ashes? Ashes, and the smell of smoke clinging to your skin? No, wrapping yourself in a blanket of indifference was far safer. It hurt as well, of course it did, but if she were to draw a graph, it would be a straight line-- a constant, low buzzing in the background, easy enough to ignore with some degree of practice. A bearable kind of chronic pain, rather like having a bad knee. One could easily live with such ailment, right?)

So, this actually registered as 'normal' to the pirate-- more normal and thus more comfortable than the gaze Verity had given her before, intense and searing. (If this was a little preview of their future relationship? Iskra could work with that, she supposed. This was a familiar territory-- a path the pirate had taken thousand times before. Just like with the dance of the blade, all the steps had been outlined for her, and wasn't that wonderful? There was no space for doubts, no space for drifting thoughts. Uncharted waters were treacherous, and she had no need of such things. And why should she? Her own mind was treacherous enough.) "I didn't mean to insult you," Iskra said, "though I understand that probably couldn't be avoided." How did one find common ground between two positions that were separated not by kilometres, but by light years? Entire planets could fit in that distance, Iskra knew. (Planets, yes, but not understanding. People were fickle like that, and while she didn't really think she necessarily counted as human anymore, there were some... residual traces. Kind of like when you burned fuel, and could still smell its presence.)

"I won't do that, though," she blurted out, for some reason. "Looking for a more creative way, I mean. I don't-- I don't want to do that." Pointless, pointless, pointless. Why was she trying, really? Even if Verity understood Iskra derived no pleasure from hurting her, it would mean nothing-- since, you know, her feelings didn't really change the outcome. (Boo hoo, so the person who stepped on your neck also felt sad about it. Touching, right? Except that, no, it wasn't. The emptiness of her own gesture felt overwhelming, enough to make her head spin. Perhaps Iskra should actually abandon this pursuit? ...tempting but, no. No, she couldn't do that! This was her last chance-- her last chance at honor, at some sort of redemption. Verity had come to her out of own volition, too. Surely, surely that had to mean something? Fate smiling upon her for once, maybe?)

And maybe that analysis was right, for Verity... turned around, or at least it looked like that. Iskra looked up, disbelief written all over her face. (She took a few steps forward, too-- perhaps thinking that closing the physical distance between them could make their hearts grow closer as well. A foolish position, Iskra knew, but one that comforted her, and wasn't that enough? Comfort was such a rare treat here, among the cold, unfeeling stars.)

"Thank you," she whispered, "for considering it. Make no mistake-- I do appreciate the willingness." So shared pain could bridge the gap, huh. Who would have thought? Perhaps they could learn to understand each other one day, if Iskra tried hard enough. (The hope was faint, a mere ember, but it hadn't gone out just yet. What a splendid, unexpected gift!) "And as for what I have to offer..." Your life, some ugly, dark part of her said, but the pirate hushed it. (Verity had just opened up to her, like flower in bloom, and stomping on it would be cruel, cruel, cruel. Like something they'd expect her to do, you see? For soldiers only knew how to wear boots made of steel.) "Money. Connections. Reputation can be built anew, with friends in the right places. Freedom, eventually. And..." Iskra dropped on her knee spontaneously, her head bowed, "myself. I am not sure how much that means, or whether it even means something, but should you help me in my endeavor, you will always have a friend with me. You shall have my sword, and my heart."

 

[starboob]

♕ PRINCESS VERITY (EXILED) ♕​

"You waste your words with emptiness. The air between us doesn't need to be anymore suffocating," she dismisses the pirate's sincerity not because she doesn't see it, but because she does not believe it––it's easy to sound sincere when one hangs on the thin threads of truth. Until Verity knows more, she will assume the pirate is as shallow as she. Neither of them owe each other trust as they have both been untrustworthy (Verity more so, but being held prisoner is not the holding environment for assurance). Yet, for the time being, they need each other. At least until Verity flips the tables. At least until that opening makes itself known––and it seems she may have all the time in the world to play this charade with the pirate. "Someday, I hope to hear a sincere apology from your lips as I'm sure it will sounds as sweet as the well-wishes. But wishes without action are just idle worship."

There are many striking things about this pirate, about Iskra, and Verity has made several notes during this interaction; through each interchange noting and finding the mirrors that existed between them. "I suspect you will continue to insult me a great deal; perhaps I, you as well––I won't pretend to absolve myself of offense." Her legs cross one over the other, body language suggesting she is coming closed or perhaps she is just cold. "Though, I suppose I wouldn't want to purposefully insult you either," she muses, knowing she will, in fact, find the time to insult the pirate. Sometimes subtle and innocent, other times purposeful and calculated––pushing buttons to see which responses are activated. Maybe a game she shouldn't play with her captor, but Verity must keep her entertainment somehow. Prison, isolation are boring on their own.

As the pirate crosses through the yellow barrier, Verity freezes recognizing somewhere her vulnerability and unsure if she had overplayed her hand and now would come punishment (punishment she has never experienced before, but has heard of and reasonably knows it should be feared). Though it never comes. Words and words and promises tumble from the captain like a check-list. However, intrigue melts the scared girl and returns her to the strong woman she is when the pirate drops to her knee and pledges herself to the princess. And as a princess she should be used to this, but as a former peasant? The gesture still shocks her each time. While her heart races with the leftovers of uncertainty, her brow arches and she almost looks unimpressed. "Is that all?" Verity knows her desperation most likely makes her words true, but that does not mean much until she can confirm this. "These are all pretty promises––you have my ear, but not my conviction." Really, the pirate could have promised much less and Verity may have accepted anyway––after all, the real prize is in what she will take. 'I took it, so it's mine,' hadn't Iskra taught her that earlier?

"Don't mistake me for a fool." She leans forward, unfolding her arms as she hooks a finger under the pirate's chin, mirroring their earlier staging, as she lifts her gaze to meet her own. "I don't trust your word yet, Iskra." She uses her name purposefully––names are sacred after all. They tell entire stories about the individuals––whether ironically or transparently there is power in a name, in an expectation to live up to. Some might say names are purely coincidental; that people would live their lives the same regardless of their name, but those naysayers were probably forsaken by their ancestors. Now, Verity uses Iskra's name to invoke respect. It's not untrue either––she does have some respect for her adversary and Verity is smart with how she reveals her truths. In fact, most of what she says is true, but it only the truth that the pirate needs to hear. That is where she begins to weaves her story, the one she wants the pirate to believe––a story based entirely in lies is contrived and harder to follow. This one? She could pull together something believable even if prior actions contradicted the current character.

"Pirate or not, you are a stranger to me. Your plea intrigues me, your promises excite me, but whether or not I help you depends entirely on what I come to understand of you." (To see what can be exploited.) "Until then, I won't be sure if your sword or heart are things I want––I have many of those already, what is yours to my collection?" She pauses, then drops her finger and leans back. Easily she could have, and still could, attack the pirate again. Though perhaps they both know how fruitless that would be, now. After all, she needs to begin showing her own trustworthiness. Even if images of reaching into Iskra's mouth and tearing out her tongue do strike her interest, she quells them with other, calming images. Her wicked thoughts need not overwhelm her as they had earlier. "Join me for breakfasts. I'd rather know when the day begins than when it ends."

 

[Syntra]

Of course, Iskra thought, that it isn't enough. And how could it be? A beggar willing to give up all of their riches couldn't hope to buy a house with it, either, and that was essentially what she was doing-- offering nothing at all, in exchange for everything. For Verity's honor, and perhaps the survival of her people as well. (Her own people needed the wayfinder's guidance, true. What of Verity, though? What of her concerns? How could it be right to doom one planet to save another, and, as if to rub the salt in their wounds, demand their leader's cooperation as well? ...a tree was only as good as the seed it had sprouted from, and the seeds she was sowing were rotten, rotten, rotten. Dead, for they couldn't spark a new life. And since rot always consumed itself in the end, eager for more and more? This would backfire on her somehow, Iskra was sure. It mattered not, though. She was her mission, and her mission was her. Who even needed an instrument after its job was done, anyway?)

So, yes, Iskra understood Verity, and her reluctance to accept. She didn't even hate the idea of not being able to convince her right away-- time flowed differently in zero gravity, more molasses than a cascading waterfall, so she had as much of it as she needed. It worked in her favor, just like Verity's own head eventually would. The human was a curious being, you see? And, without fresh stimuli to keep them occupied, their minds cannibalized themselves. Overwhelmed by their own insignificance, by their own mortality, they turned against their owner-- which was when she'd strike, like a hawk biding its time, and give her a new purpose. (An ugly tactic, yes, but ultimately, all of them were. There was no clean victory. Oh no, no, no. You always had to break your opponent, one way or another. Why, then, was breaking their body seen as more honorable? As more romantic, even? Once again, Iskra didn't have an answer.)

It turned out that wasn't the end of it, though. Not even remotely. Verity touched her, touched her in this strange way only she could pull off, and in that moment? In that moment, Iskra remembered what it was like to be cold. Cold and helpless, too. (On the rational level, the pirate knew that she would be able to snap Verity's neck in an instant-- rather easily, too, for she had the constitution of a freshly hatched bird. Rationality, however, was outside of her reach right now. It was like trying to catch water with her bare hands, like attempting to capture lightning in a bottle, and, by the Shade, Iskra felt scared. Scared of... what, exactly? Of darkness, maybe. Of the unknown, and the claws you couldn't see. Did this girl have them, too? Thorns to her rose, poison to her kisses?)

"I-- I see. I get it, too," Iskra managed to say. (Her own words sounded weak, weak and faded, and oh, how she hated it. Slowly, her shadow was getting thinner and thinner. How much time did she have? Months? Years?) "Naturally. You must have... a lot of admirers, I'm sure. I-- I mean, a lot of followers." Not many of them decided whether she got to live or die, Iskra presumed, but pointing that out? That would be like burning the olive branch, and she had had enough of ashes. Enough to last her a lifetime, really. "Very well. I agree. Let us talk, Verity, and get to know each other. I shall be honored to do so."

The rest of the day felt like a feverish dream-- too surreal to be real, and also too surreal not to. (Nobody's mind could conjure up such a wild scenario, Iskra was sure. Stories, after all, required some internal logic, some semblance of structure. A clear beginning, along with a clear end. That was the sacred rule of storytelling. And, as she sat in her cabin and attempted to record what had transpired between them? Iskra couldn't see any of that. Couldn't, couldn't, couldn't, no matter how hard she tried. What was she supposed to write down, even? How to capture the interaction? Which words to choose? For the first time in years, the hand in which she held her quill shook, and Iskra... Iskra had to set it down. For the time being, anyway.)

The night went away entirely too quickly, and that meant the pirate had to visit her prisoner once again. Shade, give me strength, she prayed to the entity sleeping somewhere within her. (Did it answer? Well, no. It never did, and for that, Iskra was thankful. For someone who was never truly alone, silence could be a blessing-- an illusion of privacy, no matter how flimsy. A sign that Harvest wasn't upon her yet, too.) Still, it changed nothing about the fact that she was to meet Verity. Verity, with her large, observant eyes that made her so, so nervous-- Verity, who could shatter her entire world with a single touch. How was she to keep her cool? Just, how? And, more frustratingly, she also had to win her heart somehow! ...by the Shade, this truly was a waking nightmare. A nightmare of her own making, too, so she only had herself to thank. How delightful!)

And so, as Iskra entered her cell again, she did it with certain apprehension. Smile, the pirate told herself. That's what people do when they want to seem friendly, don't they? The result was strained, a parody of smile more than anything else, but it was something, at least.

"Good morning, Verity," Iskra said, in a tone that she hoped was normal. (What was normal, though? Because this certainly didn't feel like that.) The barrier sizzled as she walked through it, and a few seconds later, the pirate was making herself comfortable on the floor and handing Verity some... pastry, probably? Yes, pastry, definitely. (It was still warm to the touch-- fresh out of the oven, then.) "This is what we usually eat for breakfast," Iskra began, figuring that this topic was reasonably safe. "There's, uh. A vegetable filling." Riveting, truly. A conversation to end all conversations, indeed! What else should she say, though? 'Hey, has your self-worth deteriorated enough for you to actually work with me?' That-- that didn't seem right. (Nothing about this set-up did.) "Ah. Wait. I just remembered something. I-- um." Fumbling with the pockets of her coat, Iskra produced a single rose-- a rose red like blood, with its petals covered by tiny blue crystals. The crystals reflected the light from the barrier, and the sparks danced across her face. "For you. I grew it. Well, not from my body, obviously, but I-- I tend to a garden," Iskra said, almost shyly. "In my spare time." When I'm not killing people. "It is customary for a lady to receive a flower when you're eating with her, so... here you go, I suppose. For the privilege of your company."

 

[starboob]

♕ PRINCESS VERITY (EXILED) ♕​

Verity's night had been uneventful and she figures her life may be uneventful for this Time. But Time, as with all things, moves forward. Sometimes it moves forward around you, but most often people move forward with it (though the entirety of Verity's people could hardly say the same in their insistence on stasis). In this, there is comfort because it is not permanent, nothing really is. Eventually, she will come out of this prison and rise higher than it could ever hope to contain her. (Clearly, her spirits are strong and the ancestors in her can keep her strong for much longer than one with less spiritual fortitude, but everything can crack. She even has some insight of the breaks from earlier events, and knows they will only grow if not attended to properly; thus, the princess must remain mindful of these cracks if she is to persist with her plans, her own mission. Her connection to her lineage may help.)

When the pirate leaves, she paces through her cell, little more than five steps in each direction. Eventually she moves the cot and basin to the center of the room and paces in sixteen step circles. At some point she wraps her cape back around her shoulders, staving off of the cold underneath it and the pirate's coat. The circumstances are not ideal, in fact they are just shy of abysmal, but her even strides are enough to bring her to a meditative state and soon she finds a child, who barely reaches her hip, walking beside her in the small cell.

'Where are you?'
'You can't see?'
'No, you are in a fog.'
Oh... How about now?'
'Better. How did you get here, Verity?'
'I––What do you mean? You know how this happened...'

.............​

Eventually, Verity had put her room back the way it had been when she first arrived and curled herself into a tight Sleep, but the Ether haunted her and had hardly been restful. She's almost grateful when the sound of steps breaks her fragile slumber and calls her back to her prison cell (somehow better than being trapped in her own mind). The same sickness as before comes over her, but it's somewhat less jarring than before. Iskra kept her word and for that she is grateful––there is some semblance of grounding knowing it is morning of the next day. She sits up on her cot and swings her legs over the side, hands gripping the edge as she tilts forward, hair cascading around her face to obstruct her own vision and features. She clutches the cape around her tighter as the cold bites her cheeks. This time, the waves come in sharp and rip across the upper part of her abdomen, but they come in threes and after the fourth round it passes.

Alarm registers once again as the pirate crosses through the barrier, but as she watches Iskra settle on the floor in front of her she sees no reason to worry. The pirate's awkward pleasantries also remind her just how strange their interactions have been––how abnormal they have been considering who is the pirate and who is the prisoner. In some ways, it does provide a sense of security––one that she, logically, knows she shouldn't take for granted and yet...

For a moment, she considers staying on her bed, giving herself the advantage of height and ultimately decides against it. A snake does its best work hidden in the grass. So she slips off the cot, onto the floor and scoots forward until there is only about meter of space between their chests and mere centimeters separate their knees. The close distance, this time, is not entirely purposeful and is more a product of the prison itself as it doesn't allow much more space than this.

"Oh? Thank you," she says, taking the pastry from Iskra and inspecting it not with caution (though there is some of that) but curiosity. It's warm. Flakey. The crumbs fall to the floor and onto her lap as she turns it over and examines it. She takes one of the crispy flakes, crushes it between her fingers before dusting them off and then setting the pastry on her lap. Though she no longer believes that tainted food is how the pirate will kill her, as she understands that she is useful to Iskra's mission alive, her appetite is still absent. Her mouth no longer waters and food lacks it usual flavor, pleasantness, so she hasn't eaten much since fleeing. Halen had tried to encourage her and really only succeeded in getting her to keep herself functional––outside of that she struggles to find the desire to engage in this mundane task. (Something that had been a heartbreak of its own as Verity, once, had enjoyed exploring new destinations with her tongue.) "I'm not sure I've had this before."

Verity, now settled, takes a moment to look at the pirate in front of her and waits, somewhat expectantly, to see where this communion will take them. She is about to open her mouth to say something (probably sarcastic), but Iskra stops her when she produces a rose from her pocket. It's hard to be unfeeling or neutral when this gesture is so unexpected––and she wonders exactly what the pirate wants from her; last night she wanted a guide and now? What does this rose mean? Still, she takes it, watches as the glitterings dance around Iskra's features and light her in a different way. A whimsical way––which both does and doesn't fit the captain and somehow that contradiction makes sense. Iskra is a contradiction that Verity is trying to figure out and these actions and interactions offer confusing answers. Her head tilts to the side as she looks at the flower; it does make her smile. She's received thousands of flowers and bouquets at this point and they all have made her feel pretty and admired––even loved when they came from the right few. But she doesn't know how this flower makes her feel. Bewildered, of course, comes to mind––as if she had been tossed around by a storm and spit up in a strange land.

"Is that so?" she asks, eyes still on the rose, rubbing her pointer and thumb over the stem so that it spins between the fingers. "I wish I had something to offer you in return, then, if this is custom where you are from." She understands flowers to be an exchange of affection or even celebration and she is not sure the same is true for wherever the pirate is from. Given their position, she guesses or fathoms that it does not mean much more than a pleasantry. An idea flits across her mind and with a playful grin, she leans forward and as quick as she is gentle, pecks the highest point on Iskra's cheek. She whispers, "I think that is as close I can get to a flower for now. I hope it suffices." When she leans back, she then removes the broach from her cape and fastens the rose to it using the accessory.

"Yes, I believe most flowers bloom in gardens or in the wild––not from people's bodies; though I suppose poetry can be like a flower?" she muses, eyes latched onto the other. Iskra hardly seems like other pirates she has heard of; she hardly seems like the pirate that she had rumors about; for some reason, this fact softens her and has her walk-back on prior judgments. After all, bastard truths of herself lingered through the galaxy, now, and she hardly likes the reputation they all give her. Moreover, each new thing she learns about the other seem to peak her curiosity and draw in her in further past these protective judgments––even last night their banter had lit a spark in her. At the same time, where she holds this investigative interest in the pirate, she also holds the bitter truth of their union. Believing there is still room to remind Iskra of this, she questions, rather pointedly, "Though, I am curious what use is a garden to a pirate? Does it take your mind off your... deeds?" (At least she chooses a softer word than, say, crimes or even modifiers like ignoble.)

 

[Syntra]

Had Iskra had the option of watching the scene from afar, as an unbiased observer, she probably would have concluded that Verity was trying to kill her. What, after all, was this, if not an assassination attempt? A brand of poison, sweet but no less deadly? The human body needed a heart to function, dammit, and hers all-- hers all but stopped. (Who even did these things out of the blue, anyway? Kisses were meant for... meant for... well, people who weren't her! And since Iskra very much happened to be herself, she wasn't included in that group by definition. That was how words worked, dammit. So, maybe someone should explain that to Verity? Because the princess didn't seem to understand. ...she didn't understand so, so many things. And honestly, why expect anything else? Nobody but her sisters ever had, and those were dead, dead, dead. Resting, finally.)

Needless to say, though, Iskra was not an unbiased observer, and thus she thought nothing at all. Instead, the pirate just... stared at Verity, really. Instinctively, her hand flew to the spot where her lips had been, but other than that, she didn't move. Most of all, she resembled a statue-- a statue carved out of cold, unfeeling stone, which was exactly what Iskra should have been. (She was a sword, and a sword couldn't waver. She was a shield, and a shield couldn't stagger. Instruments only existed for the sake of their purpose, which meant that those who didn't serve it well deserved to be scrapped. It all made sense, didn't it? And yet, yet a storm was raging inside of her-- one that threatened to tear down all she was, too. Her heart beat so loudly it was all she could hear, and the spot on her face stung, and for a moment, Iskra wanted to-- wanted to--)

Nothing. What a silly, silly thought! A Seed didn't want-- at least not in the way humans might want, anyway. Their desires were fleeting, like the life of a star, and Iskra-- Iskra had her mission. That had to be enough. Everything else was just a distraction, you see? (...and some distractions were more dangerous than others, as she was very well aware.)

"Um. I-- I. Thank you?" the pirate finally broke the spell, her voice thin and small. (The Iskra that had once gone so far as to stab herself, without a hint of fear? That must have been some phantom version of her, surely, for this was someone else entirely. Someone much less scary, and much more vulnerable.) "I... don't believe this is similar to a flower, but, uh. I shall treasure the memory. I think. If I can. I-- I mean, I don't really do favoritism when it comes to memories, but yes. This was nice, sort of." Oh, by the Shade! What are you even talking about? With every word that fell from her lips, Iskra felt progressively dumber and dumber-- to the point that cutting her own tongue out seemed like the more dignified option here. Seriously, what was up with Verity? She had only known her for a day, and yet she made her feel as if-- as if her insides had transformed into jelly. Her brain especially! Could she be influencing her thought processes via secretions, or something similar?

Thankfully, though, Verity provided a different topic, and Iskra used it to anchor herself. "No," she said, with some of the old confidence back. "No, I don't wish to not think of my deeds. That wouldn't make them any less real, anyway. Moreover, I believe there is much to be gained from introspection. You are what you do, and rejecting the parts of yourself that you don't like would make such endeavors worthless."

"But, to answer your question," the pirate took a bite out of her bun, her eyes fixed on Verity, "I tend to a garden because I happen to like it. Often, space travel is dreadfully boring. You just... sit in a chair, and watch the stars pass you by. Doing something with your hands is much more stimulating. It feels more real, you know? The soil between your fingers, and the flowers that grow from it." ...more than real, though, it felt good. Her hands had been trained to kill, and knowing that they could also do other things? That they could grow new life, instead of crushing it mercilessly? It filled her with hope, even if it was likely unfounded. (Maybe she didn't need to be what she was meant to be. Maybe, maybe, maybe.)

"You mentioned poetry," Iskra remembered suddenly. "Do you enjoy it, Verity? I have to admit, I don't understand. Poetry is just words. Why would anyone marvel over those?"

 

[starboob]

♕ PRINCESS VERITY (EXILED) ♕​

In the small cage, not much goes unnoticed. Not much can go unnoticed. So Verity watches and carefully deciphers Iskra's reaction to the small gesture. Though her reaction does leave something to want and that is shocking to the princess who is not used to stone-women. However, as her words tumble thoughtlessly from her mouth, she realizes just the effect the kiss had and takes a careful note of the observation. If the pirate comes undone this quickly over a small peck on the cheek she wonders what a larger affection might produce. Though that thought is tucked away and saved for later. These things take Time and Time is all she has. Making a pirate (and this pirate, specifically) fall in love with her will be the easiest task on her agenda. The rest of the crew will be the challenge. And if a nation can love her, then what is a pirate's crew to that?

"You don't have favorite memories?" She asks, deciding to spare Iskra instead of investigating other ways the kiss may have affected her or even experimenting with other flirtations. If they are going to understand each other, and if Verity is going to make like she is drawing bridges so they can reach understanding, she may as well share some things. "I have a favorite memory from my grandmother's childhood that I like to come back to often. I don't know why she kept this one for us, but I like it. She's sitting outside, on the dock outside our home; the ocean licks at her toes as she tangles them over the edge... The sun lights the entire sky up in a pink ember..." She sighs, wistfully, the image easily coming to her now and it's almost as if she's in a trance before she pulls herself back to the surface, blinking a few times as she refocuses on Iskra. "It's the essence of our home, I think, is why I like it so much."

After that, she looks down at her lap and at the pastry sitting there. She picks at the edge of it and tears off a piece, holding it for now as a distraction against the homesickness, the ache for home that creeps in her. Maybe she shouldn't have shared the memory; quickly, she returns to the topics that had already been laid out. "And what have you gained from your introspections, Iskra?" she asks, eyes lifting to meet the other. Then, with a dangerous amount of naïvety, she continues, "Do they make you kinder?"

"Regardless, I suppose there is a certain poetry in being able to both end and create life... Or I suppose you aren't creating it, the seed was already living, technically. You just foster its environment... Still..." Her eyes dance off into the distance as she thinks of this more and then entertains the image of this pirate, the pirate who stabbed herself, the pirate who caressed her hair, the pirate who imprisoned her, the pirate who asked her for help, as the pirate who also gardens in her spare time. The contradictions continue to layer ('and yet, what person is without contradictions?' Verity wonders.) "Do you use the ship's greenhouse for your garden?"

When Iskra asks about poetry and explains her own opinion on the subject, the princess looks aghast––offended even comes to mind. While the pirate has insulted her before, her features now are not intermixed with anger. Verity is not angry about this. Simply, she cannot believe that someone wouldn't like poetry. For all the ways that the pirate is able to articulate herself, she may have assumed she also favored words as much she did the sword. Though, as she thinks more about their interactions... Yes, Iskra has a way of articulating herself that draws Verity in, but she realizes it is not a place of poetry but passion that shines through. Still, a passionate person may as well be a poet too.

"Yes, I very much enjoy poetry," she finally says, eyes still wide though her lips are not unhappy. "I cannot believe you don't understand it––it's like a painting with your words. It doesn't even have to mean anything if you can convince others it sounds pretty enough." It's a completely auditory art form, in her mind or the way that she constructs it––writing being rather uncommon and reserved for more complex matters. "And there's no right or wrong way to do it––" she finds herself getting more animated as she talks, hands moving in front of her as if to help her syllables come out in order. "I––" she used to be a poet once. A storyteller once. And without meaning to she slips out of character into... Into herself. "I mean, I suppose it's not for everyone but it is fun to wonder in whimsical ways that I think poetry allows."

 

[Syntra]

"No," Iskra said, much too quickly-- almost as if that single syllable served as her shield, and it was her instinct to raise it. "All of them are precious. All of them exist for a reason, too. I see no reason to elevate one over the other, for they all sprang from my decisions. So, they're mine." Which, yes, there had been choices that Iskra didn't really like-- many of them, even, enough miserable links to form a whole miserable chain. And at nights, with nothing else to do? With her thoughts wandering forbidden places? It often felt as if that chain was wrapped around her neck, and every attempt to take a breath only made it tighter and tighter and tighter. (A noose of her own making, truly.) Still, though, a chain was a chain, and its purpose was to bind. Every misstep, every wrong turn taken, ultimately connected her to her current self-- to the person who was standing here, now. (Without them, would Iskra have been standing anywhere at all? Maybe, and maybe not. Causality was a hybrid between science and magic, its unloved bastard child, and hoping to understand it was the equivalent of trying to catch sunlight with your hands. Futile, just like most things were.)

Speaking of sunlight, though? Iskra could see it in Verity's face, briefly, as she shared her favorite memory. Was that what the princess was like when she didn't feel the need to guard herself? When surrounded by those she could trust? Verity had chosen to show that aspect of herself to the pirate, true, but... well, it didn't sit well with her. It couldn't. Such a sight wasn't meant for the eyes of someone like her, and Iskra knew it. Why, after all, would you offer a song to one whose ears couldn't hear? A picture to one whose eyes couldn't see? To her, 'grandmother' or 'home' were just concepts, sort of vague, as if shrouded in fog. (When she tried hard enough, reached for the memories buried in the oldest and deepest graves, Iskra could swear she remembered something-- a casual caress here, a forest path there. A lot of green, that she was sure of. Even so, how real any of that was? Those memories had been conceived long before her archives, long before it had even occurred to her to record anything, and filling in the blanks was an automatic mechanism. The brain disliked white spots, you see? So, it may very well have been a dream, or something someone else had told her at some point. An illusion of a normal life, before it had been drowned in blood. ...bizarrely enough, however, Iskra treasured it all the same. Real or not, it meant something! It said something about her, perhaps, and that had to be enough.) "Sounds like a nice memory," the pirate said, despite it all. Or perhaps precisely because of it? "Hold onto it. It is precious, as I'm certain you know."

The pastry was both delicious and provided her with an excuse to not speak immediately, so Iskra took another bite. Kindness, huh. What does that even mean? "I'm not sure," she admitted, leaning a bit closer to Verity in the process. In search of common ground, perhaps? "I mean, I've been doing this for ages. I don't know what I would have been like without them, or whether there has been any effect at all. I also don't know what your definition of kindness is. Does it mean not raising one's blade with the intent to hurt a person? If so, then no." Because that was what her life had always been, and always would be. Iskra was her sword-- that was the purpose they had engraved into her skin, back when it had been soft and malleable. Sand rather than glass, really. (And glass? Glass would break before it would bend. ...the shards were often more dangerous, though, so Iskra would prefer not to.) "But I do believe I wield it with greater precision, if nothing else. Not everyone needs to be hurt. Some should be, though not all. What do you think kindness is, Verity?"

Reading expressions... wasn't something Iskra was good at, to put it mildly, but Verity's distaste for her opinions was so glaring it managed not to slip past her radar, wonky as it was. So that was where she drew the line, huh? At slandering words? Oh, how peculiar! Peculiar, and as she had to admit, fascinating as well. "Is it?" the pirate tilted her head aside, her interest obviously piqued. "I don't see words. They don't paint anything for me, Verity. I have never once thought about the way they sound, either. Does it even matter? I mean, I speak when I wish to convey information. Isn't that the very purpose of communication? The phonetic aspect is a-- a byproduct, at best. Kind of like, when boiling vegetables, you get both boiled vegetables and water that is slightly more savory." Still, the other woman must have spoken from experience, right? And dismissing the experiences of others was always, always short-sighted! A one way ticket to failure, really. "But very well-- perhaps I just haven't heard a good poem yet. Would you paint a picture for me with your words, Verity?"

 

[starboob]

♕ PRINCESS VERITY (EXILED) ♕​

As Iskra talks, Verity listens. As any good audience member does––yet her attention is not forced. She is wholly captivated by the pirate and savoring each detail she shares. Yes, again, a prison and even being a prisoner for less than an entire day may have factored into her intrigue. However, it is undeniable, even to herself, that this is the most interested she's been in something outside of her own head in months. It could be the freshness of this dank environment, but it could also very well be the candid nature of the pirate and how she doesn't... 'She doesn't present as anything other than herself.' This revelation comes swiftly and it is so daring she naturally has to reject it first, but it's there. Alive and living in her head as she observes with her clear, emerald eyes.

It's surprising to her that the subject of memories seems to important to the captain. There's something endearing about it too––because whether Iskra knows this of Verity or not, and even with all the things Verity doesn't know about Iskra, this link to memories speaks to the nature of her own identity (as well). More important, though, is the pirate's complete ownership over her actions through her association of memory. It's not an unfeeling kind either––the kind that is callous and says, 'They had it coming.' It's something full of sorrow that adds, 'Regrettably.' Suspended in this curious space, she isn't sure what to believe despite everything telling her what's to believe is sitting right in front of her, with, 'Pools of ocean set between stone...' "I cherish mine all too. From the grandest mother, to the young who barely breathed, to my own I've created with happy friends and perilous circumstances." 'I smooth my hand over each one like river stones...' "But... they can be torturous gifts too. So I choose to elevate some over others––I think I'd be in constant agony otherwise," she admits, again, letting herself out of the self-imposed prison she had created (how many prisons is she subject to? Several, yet only one is physical).

The subject of kindness ties her gut into knots. It's not just because Iskra has decided to close some distance by leaning forward––that doesn't really bother her in the comfort of the context they have created. What ties her into knots is mainly that Iskra had asked her about her opinion of its definition. Usually quick with these answers, always able to find something to latch onto in another's words to mirror what they have said, but not exactly what they had said, just enough to give the idea there is common ground and that she is not in disagreement... Instead, her heart beats, pulse quickens, and she feels her face go hot as she tries to figure out an answer she wants to say, because a measured truth isn't coming to her near as quick. So she deflects, first, "If kindness is sparing Pain then Death is always the kindest mistress and Life is always cruel." She chews on her lip as she continues, "I guess..." What would Iskra want her definition of kindness to be? Does she even want to hear something that pleases her, strokes her, soothes her of all the atrocities she has likely committed? No, that doesn't feel right––this pirate is too self-aware to care about being absolved (at least through words). Does she really want Verity's answer? Hesitantly, she offers it, "I guess kindness is the choices we make when no one is watching, without the expectation of reward. Kindness isn't just doing good, it's being good... Being as good as you can afford, causing as little harm as you can. Being the hearth in each household that keeps people warm during their darkest winters." 'By my own definition... How kind am I?'

Idly, without really knowing, she brings the torn piece of pastry to her mouth and eats it. She doesn't register the flavor, her jaw doesn't strain and zing to life at the conquest of food, but she does chew it, she does swallow. It's not until Iskra starts insulting poetry again that she returns her attention forward, brow going straight to the cosmos. "That is the most repulsive and ignorant thing you have said to me so far and you are standing on the neck of an entire people." Obviously, an exaggeration as she does still think the latter offense is egregious. "You have never heard words so beautiful they moved you to tears? Heard a story filled with so much wonder you wanted to explore the galaxy? The words don't just have a sound they have their own feeling and choosing the right one to carry the image with your mouth so that others can see the world as your soul does... It's like a spell."

And when she's asked to share? Her mind starts racing, heart fast (again), and heat building around her brow as she's put on the spot. It's not that she doesn't enjoy an audience or attention, those are the arenas where she excels and is most comfortable, but to say a poem here? Well, she tries to think of the ones she's heard before––from the word-weavers she felt were more important than her, but as if by some joke the only ones she can find in all the clutter are her own. So tries to pick one that is not so personal. One that won't hurt as much if its rejected––pirate or not, Iskra is a person and laying bare the style of her soul is something intimate (this intimacy is something she needs to be careful with). "Okay, well... This one comes to mind most immediately..."

ALL HAIL THE QUEEN
Her face
Sharp as an axe
and twice as cruel
Eyes of cold steel
And lips with edges
that borrowed flesh
with their kisses

and and
and yet

Yet her cheeks... Her cheeks
Were sun speckled strawberry fields
Hair so silken it sang
And her laugh as brilliant
as the birth of nebulae
Oh, sweet Sages,
When she laughed the whole world
cried

Time,
I beckoned
I begged
Four more minutes with her
Before I met the girl
with a face like an axe
and a silver whip tongue to
Cut through all my amour