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theorememes2026-01-03 07:00 am
TDM #2, arc 1.2: as she bends toward the sun
I sing for you and me
I sing across the sky
To find a place of life
Where all of this is true
I bring this into you❞
BUFF
For those who are bonded to the Fathomless, they will, one night, wake up from a startling dream in which they remembered a memory they had forgotten, or had glossed over.
DEBUFF
Bonded of the Empty Machine will experience insatiable hunger this month, and will never feel satisfied no matter how much they eat.
At first, you feel a pull. In which direction, you do not know. When a portal of shimmering black and glittering stars appears in front of you, it only seems natural to step into it. On the journey, it is as if you see everything: ancient galaxies wheeling through space, cultures born and growing and leaving their planets, lights creeping over landmasses and them winking out all at once. You see the hungry arm of a black hole, an enigmatic smile under a mirrored mask, a fist clenched tight around an endless sword. Fangs shining in starlight, bandaged feet that have traveled so many miles and still remain sturdy, and code shattering under titanium will.
And then your feet touch solid ground again, and what you have seen is suddenly hard to recall, the merest of glimpses springing to mind when you try to think back.
All you know is that you witnessed something enormous, something you probably shouldn't have seen.
As you struggle to refocus your gaze, all you see for a long moment is white. White walls, white floor. Narrow white cots lined up against a wall, screens blinking above them in tones of soothing aqua and mint. You are in a medbay — a highly advanced one, given the lack of bulky machinery — but perhaps the most eye-catching thing about the room is a long window showing endless black and twinkling stars outside.
Before you can give voice to any thoughts, a small robot flutters toward you, and perches on the back of a chair. "Hello, Wayfarer!" the birdform chirps cheerfully. "I imagine you must have many questions; allow me to enlighten you! You have fallen victim to a quantum accident and have been pulled to another universe, but the Ascendants, in their generosity, intercepted your signal and brought you here so that you did not wind up in empty space. You are aboard the Theorem of the Astral Rose; our mission is to explore uncharted space and search for the Song!"
They pause, thinking, their little blue eye aglow, and then brighten.
"Oh! Introductions are in order! I am Starling's Lament in Flight, but you may call me Starling's Lament. I am one of the Hosts of this exploration vessel; we will do everything we can to ensure a safe voyage for you. Unfortunately, at this moment, we cannot send you home. The Ascendants have indicated that their search for the Song may play some key role in doing so." They whistle a merry tune. "Please enjoy your stay! The other Wayfarers are currently on planet Epsilon-355, you may join them at any time!"
And so, you take a shuttle down to the planet; an orb of a nearly unbroken gold landmass and pale pink clouds scudding across the surface. On the journey, the pilot Host recites for you why this planet was picked: it is a possible match for a planet mentioned in a story about the Last Pilgrim, one of the most enigmatic of the Edicts. If there are scraps of the Song to be found, it may be in the path they traveled there.
PLANET TYPE: arid world
ORBITAL CHARACTERISTICS: close orbit to native sun, no eccentricities in orbit
ROTATION PERIOD: 31 hour days, 405 day year
NATURAL RESOURCES: iron-rich silicate, limonite, titanium oxides, sodium, nickel
BREATHABLILITY INDEX: safe for humanoid respiration
WEATHER PATTERNS: occasional sandstorms, very little rain
LANDMASS: 98% of planet
AVERAGE TEMPERATURE: 31c
SURFACE GRAVITY: average
BIOSIGNATURES: indicates a narrow range of native life
ARTIFICIAL STRUCTURES: none found
On-planet, activity is bustling.
Research & Archives pinpointed a clue in the story that would make finding the Last Pilgrim's trail easier to find: a pathway of bones that the caravan traveled upon. It is unknown how long this pathway is, or even if it still exists, depending on how long ago that story came from.
Science & Engineering, meanwhile, concluded that the golden sand of this planet is wholly unlike the sand of other deserts, made up of not just silicon dioxide and fossilized marine life, but of many inert chemicals and minerals, a scattered rainbow of compositions. Epsilon-355 was, they concluded, at one point the closest planet to its sun, and that has sown a strange field upon it: the golden ash and viscera of a star's fiery tempest and the powdered remains of a destroyed moon. It is, quite literally, made from stardust and moondust. The glass that litters the sands was put there by chaotic lashings of star plasma, whips of heat so intense they penetrated through the atmosphere and raised burned lines of melted sand over its surface. Luckily, the orbit of the planet has since taken it too far away from its star to do such damage again.
After long-range scans, Wayfarers were able to find signs that pointed to a large deposit of inert biological material that lay to the north-west.
As you pack up your camp, the weather is clear, and the sky is bright. For most Wayfarers, adjusting to the 31-hour cycle of Epsilon-355 has been difficult, but midday naps and staggered sleeping schedules have made it easier. The sand has proven to be a constant irritant when the breeze picks up, but the creatures largely prefer to hide, and there have been no more sightings of the barren-racers. It seems they travel only alongside the sand-whales, and the sand-whales only emerge after a storm.
With all of your supplies stocked on people's backs and the hover-sleds the Hosts have brought for easier travel, you set off to the north-west.
After the storm, the glass outcroppings had been scrubbed clear, and they still remain that way. The path north-west takes you through something of a valley, bordered on both sides by sharp juts of the glass, enormous spikes just waiting to impale anybody who sets a foot wrong. As Wayfarers move through this valley, the reflections feel like they are watching you, but you can never quite catch any coherent image in them outside of your own selves.
Until, that is, you happen to glance at another, and see a vision of something you regret. A past action you took, a decision you made, a fate you changed. It's a static image, like a photograph reflected in the glass's surface, and it does not fade when somebody else looks at it.
They all remain like specters lining the path you are taking, watching your every move.
After two days of travel, you find them.
At first, the Wayfarers find the trail of bones mentioned in the scrap of story you're following. It is just as described: a pathway of enormous bones, presumably of the last titans the story refers to. They are neatly laid in a winding pathway over and between the rolling sand dunes, bleached white by sand and time. Most of them are meters long: humerus bones three meters long lining the path like a border, rib bones twice as tall as a person creating elegant fan shapes.
On the side of the path, greater remains may occasionally be seen. Enormous titanic skeletons half-buried in the sand, watching the pathway, like they simply laid down and died as eternal sentinels.
Astute observers notice that the skulls are all pointed in the same direction, and so, that is the direction you follow, until finally, you find life.
You hear them before you see them; music and laughter carrying through the light breeze. And when the Wayfarers crest a massive dune, you look down upon a valley where there winds a serpentine path, and upon it walks a long caravan of people. You catch up to them, and as you walk alongside them to get to the front of the line in hopes of finding a leader, they all greet you warmly, like old friends that simply have not met yet.
There is a brightly painted wooden wagon with a group of old women in the back, their faces stained with red ochre, their eyes blind, and their mouths laughing. A young boy wearing red pearls leads a metal hover-craft with a pilgrim painted on the side, and a pack of young children in aquatic water-suits run with him, giggling bubbles into the water in their helmets. Young women of dark skin and magnificent wings trail in a line behind a four-legged robot, singing helio-cycle poems and carrying bowls of vivid fruit. You identify what must be the lapho-beasts from the story: huge quadrepeds built like a gorilla with hooked beaks, the size of a three-storey building, plodding along at a sedate pace, their backs lined with rolled up tents, and barrels of grain and water that sloshes with every one of their thumping steps. A small group of tall entities with featureless faces and elegant robes walk along a pair of rock-skinned hexapods. A squat creature with a head shaped like a mushroom dances alongside them all, strumming music on a long instrument that emits color and light with every note. Everywhere you look, there is music, and laughter, and celebration.
It takes a while to get to the front, but there, you meet the ringleaders of this pilgrimage. The first is a tall robotic entity with limbs as thin and straight as sticks, a narrow rectangular face, a bright red woven cloak, and a hat that resembles a dǒulì, wide and conical. Her name is Elegance, and she introduces you to her wife, Rēza, a short woman who resembles an upright moth, with large furred wings and compound eyes, her antenna waving in the breeze. The scarf around her neck and mouth is of many colors, and looks charmingly handmade, a little rough around the edges.
They tell you that this caravan has been traveling for thirty days, and they are not far from their objective. The unknown temple, they believe, lays little more than a week's travel away. Everybody you see has come here from local systems, hoping to find something in the Last Pilgrim's footsteps. Thousands of pilgrimages have been doing the same, one after the other, for eons.
Everybody, they say, finds something different. Something you did not know you needed until that very moment.
If you ask them if the Song is to be found there, Rēza laughs, and says they do not know. But perhaps, if you need it that badly, it will be what you find?
Elegance and Rēza are happy to have you travel with the caravan, and encourage you to meet with everyone. They also think it would only be appropriate for you to help with the caravan's various ventures: the story-tellers are trying to compose an epic poem to mark their trip, and the hunters are catching local flora and fauna to stretch out their rations. Or, you can join the sand skimmers, racing on their boards with brightly colored sails taking them through the dunes, scouting ahead for an oasis to seek more water.
Medical, perhaps, might be asked to help with desert-given injuries, sand rashes or injuries from the bone pathway. Engineers might be approached to help with the sand stuck in the joints of mechanical entities. Research & Archives might be pulled into hearty discussions about the story set on this planet.
When dusk begins to fall, the caravan draws to a stop, and they begin to make camp.
The Wayfarers do the same, setting up your tents and supplies. The carvan sets up in a series of circles, some small and contained to family groups, others large to hold dozens of people. Silverthorn is gathered for small fires in the middle of the circles, and many set about making dinner. Soon, the smells of smoke and dried meat fill in the air, stews bubbling with vegetables and foraged Firelight Brush roots, Speckled Runners turning slowly on spits to roast. Grain is pulled from barrels and pounded into powder on wide, flat rocks, mixed with scant water supplies to make a bread that is nonetheless fluffy and pale yellow once its dark crust has been broken open.
The caravan gladly shares their supplies with the Wayfarers with no expectation of the same in return, though it would certainly be polite. The lapho-beasts lay down so that their burdens may be taken off their backs, and slumber noisily next to the circles, curled almost entirely around some smaller ones.
Once dinner is served, the caravan turns to the members of the Theorem's crew, and begs: tell us a story.
You see, they have been traveling for a month, and they have already told each other all the stories they know. Stories from their own lives, stories that they were once told about others. Here, in this desert, the only currency worth anything is stories, and they are all eager for new ones. Is that not the domain of the Last Pilgrim? Is it not an honor in their name, to share stories of progress, of journeys, and of learning?
Children crowd around you eagerly, old men and women with sparks in their eyes lean in close, and the light-making music-playing creature of before hushes everyone, readying the crowd to listen to whatever story you choose to tell.
Or perhaps you are more content to listen as other circles share the stories they have told already, finding new details to highlight or new questions to ask. Either way, a lot of tales are being told around these fireplaces, and it would be wise to listen to them.
You spend the next week traveling.
It's not easy. On one day there is another sandstorm, and the caravan has to hunker down and wait it out. The following day is spent avoid the sand-whales and the barren-skimmers, but luckily, they don't go near the path of bones. You make friends with people in the caravan, you share stories over spiced drinks and good bread. You help where you can, and in return, the caravan shares everything they have with you.
You learn that they are here chasing a story: a rumor that visiting the temple at the end of this pilgrimage will grant them something they want. It does not cure illness or bestow riches, they say, but it gives you something you never knew you needed until that very moment. Some of the caravan have nothing besides the clothes on their backs, and some of them are wealthy, and some of them are seeking meaning. Some of them are from Alliance space, others are not.
A week later, Elegance and Rēza call the Wayfarers to the front of the caravan. You will have first honor of cresting the next row of sand dunes to catch the first glimpse of the temple. And as you scramble up the dune and peak its crest, you see it in the distance:
A long, almost mountain-like range of sand dunes, taller than any you've seen so far. Beyond them, the pale purple sky is lit up with fractal reflections in every color; atmospheric blue and x'enuda pink, the same orange as the optics of a robot family in the caravan, the gentle gold of the Theorem's shield.
Whatever is beyond that dune-range, it is giving up a spectacular light show.
They say it will take another day to get there, but for today, you will stop at an oasis. 
The presence of water has allowed tall canyons to form around its exterior, so you must descend downward to find the shady oasis. The water is a perfect aqua blue, so clear you can see the very bottoms of the shallow pools. Here, there is life different from the tough, scrubby plants you encountered among the dunes: plant-life whose roots are able to draw in water from the pools, crowded around the edges of them in small clusters of orange and red leaves, white flowers peeking out among them.
First, the caravan must take enough water to fuel itself. But after that, anybody is free to take a dip, to bathe themselves or merely to enjoy the cool water.
If you do, you'll find yourself curiously refreshed, like you've just gotten the first decent night's sleep in a while. It may even cure minor wounds, and ease the aches of travel.
Tomorrow, you will finally find the temple that the Last Pilgrim visited.
Stelle | Honkai: Star Rail
Support
Foraging
(in a manner of speaking)
Life Imitates Art
Stargazing
Oasis
Wildcard
Wildcard (i'm normal i'm normal i'm so normal)
It's probably this tendency towards entertaining smaller groups that he's going on evening number three of reciting one Amphorean epic after another, regaling children on anything from the heroic deeds and grand quests of bygone eras to humorous fables featuring hapless Titankin. The stories are light, diverting around some of the more grim and tragic story beats with some agile ad-libbing (who's going to tell on him anyway?).
For those familiar with the legends, myths, and epics typical of Ancient Greece, there are more than a few passing references and similarities. In fact, there's even a brazen reference to a Trojan Horse, albeit named a Janus Steed, and apparently capable of traversing space and time, he's partially through a tale about its misadventures when his voice starts to give out on him.
Promising to continue the next night, he retires to the outskirts of the gathering, nursing a cup of sweet tea to salve his throat. And, as attentions drift, he slips back into the dark between tents, cup in hand.
The injuries he'd sustained during the glass-and-sand storm last month have... well, mostly healed into tender lines of new skin and some scarring; the deepest cuts still have medical adhesive suturing them, protected by translucent patches that serve as excellent bandages and, unfortunately, do nothing to cover the marks absolutely covering him from neck to toe.
His coat is in tatters, and his other clothing too bulky and warm for the desert, so he's dressed in a lightweight, breathable tunic and pants, and what of his blue and gold cape could be salvaged has been fashioned into a kind of sash, tied at one hip and covering one arm from shoulder to elbow. Sturdy boots and the usual collar make a full outfit, but the lack of sleeves leave the myriad markings in full view.
The spiced, sweet tea in his cup catches starlight as he swirls it with a roll of his wrist. As he drinks it, he realizes behind the cloying sweetness there's a taste of something bitter. The dregs of the pot, perhaps, or the tea was steeped for too long. It does the job, either way, and his throat stings less when he joins a different fire, to listen instead of speak.
Someone fills his (recently empty) cup with something else. Blindly, he passes it along to the person he senses near him, and only when he peels his eyes away from the firelight (a storyteller sitting down after telling their tale), does he have reason to glance twice.
Not at the person he'd handed his refilled drink off to, but the girl next to them, with grey hair and eyes that remind him of home. Not even rubbing the heel of his palm into one eye manages to clear this mirage from his eyes.
Apologies to the rest of this campfire group, because a noisy reunion is about to go down. ] Partner?!
(please, I know who we are)
Every campfire is an amphitheater in its own right, stories shared between strangers, strangers leave acquaintances, leave friends, leave a little lighter in their steps, even if the stories were heavy, because they are now carried between the shoulders of others. Stelle flits between them, quiet and restless and unobtrusive, not lingering long enough to be called on to share stories of her own, much more content to listen to others, to try her hardest to remember them, to learn from them, though whether to hone her own craft or to plot her next bout of shenanigans, who can say?
There's a chill wrapped around her shoulders, despite the soothing crackle of the fire and proximity of others, and Stelle finds herself curling in on herself a little, rubbing her thighs before she decides it's time to find the next fire, the next story, to warm her hands and quiet her heart.
She slips into an open space in another circle, her gaze politely on the current storyteller alone, in apology, paying close attention to make up for her late arrival or potential distraction. So much so, she fails to note anyone else in attendance at all. So much so, she almost doesn't realize she's being addressed, until she seems to come to herself when her eyes lock with the familiar gaze of the noonday sun over the ocean, and a smile splits her face in such abject, spontaneous joy as she has yet to show at any point of this expedition. ]
Phainon.
[ Of all the campfires in all the endless desert... ]
You're here.... you're here???
[ Look, okay— ]
You're—
[ Apologies to the rest of this campfire group, because she's out of her seat and wrapping her arms around him, one way or another. ]
no subject
Right now, they're doing a little storytelling of their own, entirely by chance, a brief chaotic tangle of arms wrapped around one another and 'you're here's and laughter, at least on Phainon's part, a delighted peal of a sound that's nothing like the often deflective, reassuring, or uncomfortable chuckles he's been imitating since his arrival.
There's plenty of implications to dwell on later; Phainon's immediate reaction is the flash of his teeth by firelight as a joyful smile broadens on his face. She's surging out of his seat, and his arms are open to catch her as he stands. It's a spectacle - and one that nearly gets the innocent bystander (by...seater?) between them knocked over. Phainon notices this, if barely, and backs out of the ring of seated spectators with the Trailblazer in his arms, attempting to apologize.
It's a lot suddenly happening at once; his attention rubberbands back onto Stelle, as he sets her back down on her own two feet, clasping her shoulders. ] I kept saying this is exactly the sort of thing I could see you doing! And here you are!
[ He wouldn't be surprised if the entire camp suddenly erupted into flame and he wakes with a start in his cot - that'd track, actually - disappointed, but not that surprised. Except this is no dream, and the shoulders under his hands feel solid. ] When did you-?
blanket amphoreus spoilers warning at this point tbh
Her own apologies are half-hearted at best, though hopefully no one ends up with too much sand in their tea as Phainon extricates them from the circle of of their now audience. She'd feel a little bad about that, if it weren't for the fact that she was being carried by a living memory. Not much else would matter more to her right now than this.
Stelle's fatigue is swept away as Phainon sweeps her off her feet, as the warmth of his arms embrace her, the strength of him familiar and grounding, even before he sets her back on her feet. And oh, that laugh. She's not sure she's ever heard it. Something similar, perhaps, but not even in the Eternal Page... But he's here... how is he...? ]
I was about to ask you! Since when can you read my mind?
[ Never mind that it's the obvious question, her amber eyes flickering in the firelight, still locked on his face even as all the new ink threatens to distract her. She reaches up, sets her small, rough hand atop his for a moment before she slides it up his forearm, as if the many circles and symbols would have some kind of texture to take note of. There is none. Just him. Just a very muscular forearm. ]
It's been... [ her expression glazes over while she attempts to do math ] a little over a week?
[ The days have been a little hard to measure, truth be told. ]
I woke up on the Theorem and they wasted no time putting me to work.
[ She hardly sounds put out about it, though. This has already been An Experience worth having. ]
I'm guessing you've been here longer.
no subject
That’s so you, hitting the ground running without a moment’s hesitation!
[ Phainon’s joy at their reunion is soon tempered by the circumstances - and how public their display is. For the moment, their rapid fire exchange pauses and although his radiant smile fades, it doesn’t vanish (and neither does she).
Hoping to spare them any further awkwardness, Phainon takes her by the elbow and wordlessly coaxes her away from the modest crowd. As they walk, he speaks, ]
About a month, [ he has some uncertainty about that, for reasons he’s sure need no explanation. The tents they pass sit silent and dark, all the activity centered around the campfires.
There’s suddenly so much he wants to say and ask, and he struggles with where to begin. With him recovering from his injuries, he hasn’t been roaming as broadly as he likes, and realizes the others might have already run into Stelle too. ]
Not a day has passed without thinking of you. Tell me, how are you? Have you run into Sunday yet? Or Jiaoqiu?
[ Or Mydei, who is a lot harder to miss! ]
no subject
Some things she can't imagine getting tired of seeing, though, and that smile on Phainon's face is one of them. He's fought hard for it. And it's just as real as he is, as real as the hand on her elbow leading them away from the suspiciously quiet circle around that campfire and okay yeah, maybe they should take their two-man flash mob of a spectacle somewhere a little more private after all...
She nods at his answer, follows him wherever he leads without question, past quiet tents and dozing animals, for once her attention fully held so much so she's not even glancing around for potential treasure hunting opportunities.
Not a day has passed without thinking of you.
How is she supposed to even begin to respond to that, amber eyes wide even as he continues, as it takes her a little too long to realize he's listing off the names of people she knows, but how does he...? ]
Hold on, wait, Sunday is here?
[ Oh, that's. He has to be having A Time. ]
I ran into Jiaoqiu the other day, but not Sunday.
[ Her eyes narrow. ]
Just how much have you been talking about me?
no subject
[ As for how much he’s spoken of her, he only scrubs at his hair. ] Haha, it turns out the names of certain places tipped them off. Naturally, it didn’t take long to discover our mutual connection.
[ That gentle admiration in his gaze fills in the lapse in his words: that connection is Stelle herself. ]
I’m not surprised that your deeds have touched so many that I’d even run into others you helped this far from Amphoreus.
[ There’s a question or two lurking in there, but he has brought them to the edge of the oasis, and here by the sound of water softly lapping at starlit rocks and sand, he sits. ] Mydei is here, too.
I don’t know how or why we would be taken from Amphoreus at such a critical juncture… I only hope that-
[ And at the worst time, his voice cracks; pausing, he touches his throat with a wry smile. ] Forgive me, there’s been a lot of talking.
no subject
So, you thought I was exaggerating my fame as the Galactic Baseballer. I'm wounded, Phainon.
[ He's said nothing of the sort, and her eyes are too full of mischief and affection to be even remotely serious. She just can't help teasing him.
She sits beside him as he settles in, but facing towards him, her legs crossed in front of her. He's not escaping her gaze as long as she can help it, tonight. And then he continues and her eyes widen before a warm smile settles on her features. Of course Mydei is here, too. The only surprise is that he's let Phainon out of his sight. ]
Amphoreus is safe, now.
[ His voice cracks and she reaches out automatically, her hand landing softly on his knee and gently squeezing. ]
All it needs is time. And I think it can spare you for some of it.
[ It's no longer fully on his shoulders. It's been written in prose and published and spread to the known universe, in fact... ]
I haven't seen Mydei, either. Are you sure you haven't been hiding from me?
no subject
Phainon stills, his hand loosely draped over his throat, his gaze fixed. With a subtle saccade, his eyes mark the moment he starts to doubt his ears, but they settle on her and there they stay.
When he was very young, he was playing on the dock. A rotted plank gave way and he fell into the water. The sound of water full around him sounded a little like the silent roar in his ears now.
Then, as gently and suddenly as a bubble bursts, the world crashes back in like a tide. ]
Is it… finally over?
[ She’s asking about Mydei. He should be hearing this, too. Phainon should be tracking him down right now, but the urgency has yet to trickle down to his extremities; he feels…
He feels-
Like a poorly fired dolium, too brittle for everything that’s been poured into it. Joy and relief dominate, golden and brilliant as the sparks the bloom from the strike of a blacksmith’s hammer. There are so many more feelings in him than there is man to contain them.
She’s more of a jester than he ever was, but she wouldn’t joke about this. Visibly shaking himself, he wrestles out of his shock. ]
The dawn… Home. At long last…
life imitates art
There's robot people. People who can't breathe without water in their helmets. A guy that looks like a lil mushroom! People with wings! Big pack animals even bigger than dromases! It's crazy, is the point, and Cipher has been gleefully enmeshing herself in every conversation that she can, learning everything that she can. She's already come away with curse words in three different alien languages, one of which she can't even pronounce without sounding like she's hacking up a hairball.
So-- cool body painting? Cipher is so there. ]
Like I could turn down a gift from Miss Mystery herself. [ Cipher's grin is all fang. ] It had better be good, though. Some cool pattern. Not a trash can, or a dick and balls, or whatever your little troll heart wants you to do.
[ She'll even be gracious and leave the choice of color up to Stelle! That's how nice Cipher is being! Look at how nice and magnanimous she is. ]
no subject
First of all, a trash can would be the greatest honor I could bestow upon you.
[ Deadpanned as ever and resigned more than offended, but she knows not everyone shares her eccentric tastes. And she knows she's a bit of an acquired one, herself, so she'll play along. For now. ]
Secondly, that was one time and Mydei bet me I wouldn't, so blame him.
[ He had also been no help when she'd had to scrub the “artwork” off the wall once it was discovered, so she's not about to make the same mistake twice. Besides, she doesn't actually want to troll Cipher. This time.
She pats an empty cushion next to her, and once everything is settled and the paints are selected, she takes Cipher's hand in hers, and squints at it, in what she hopes appears to be an artist deep in communion with the muses.
For a solid five seconds she considers trying to pass a 69 off as a yin yang. The moment passes. An image of gold coins comes to mind, instead. She wishes, not for the first time, she'd had more time to get to know the Dolosian better.
She selects a thin, shimmery gold that almost disappears if you angle it the right way, or shines brightly if you angle it another. ]
Okay, I have an idea!
[ She holds the brush aloft a moment longer, however. ]
Last chance to back out.
Stargazing
So it's not really all that surprising that he doesn't find sleep easily. What surprises him is that Stelle isn't either. He would have thought she could sleep through anything and just about in any situation.
Don't mind him as he sneaks up on her, leaning over as she lays back on the sand. ]
It gets a little chilly at night if you're not prepared for it, Miss Stellaron.
[ Thinly veiled concern? Probably. ]
no subject
The desert does, indeed, get colder than one would expect after sweating all day in the sun. She's still not used to it. Not used to needing to get used to it.
Tonight finds her deep in her thoughts, connecting the dots of the stars above, guessing at constellations, so much so she truly doesn't hear Aventurine approaching until suddenly he's blocking her view and she startles, eyes wide before her expression scrunches and she reaches back to swat at his calves. ]
So, what, you're giving me a heart attack to keep me warm?
no subject
If it gets you moving to generate a little body heat.
[ A smile! But he steps back and looks up towards the expanse of stars against the night sky. ]
Credit for your thoughts?
no subject
It was grounding, actually, considering how much time had passed for her, if not in reality, to know that the rest of the universe kept on turning, and the people she'd come to know hadn't forgotten about her.
Okay, and that the universe was still around at all, but she digresses.
Her eyes remain narrowed on him until he glances away, and she can't help it as her expression softens at his next question, even as it means she's gearing up for a little sarcasm. ]
Are my thoughts only worth one credit to you?
[ Her own gaze returns to the sky after a moment, though. ]
I'm just counting stars. It's been nice to see them again.
no subject
Well. None that expose him or gives anyone something they can use against him anyway. The fact that Archer had seen through some of that had been. Interesting. To say the least. ]
Considering I don’t even have one credit to my name here, I’d say it’s a pretty high price.
[ Aventurine chuckles, completely standing upright. His hands are in his pockets as he looks up at thr sky as well. ]
They always are absurdly bright where there are the fewest people to witness them.
life imitates art;
He lingers around the group painting their hands (like an art class, he thinks), perhaps longingly. Different colors, different shapes, different people, different lives coming together at a crossroads to share a moment with each other instead of immediately defaulting to suspicion and conflict. (It makes him wonder why it couldn't be like this every time.)
Fortunately(?) for him, Stelle's callout shakes him out of his thoughts, and he looks up at her, eyes wide and hands in the pockets of his sun hoodie. ]
A-All right...?
[ He walks over, steps and voice unsure, but that's less about the invitation and more about the suddenness of it. ]
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Don't worry, nobody here bites too hard.
[ Cheerful and intended to be reassuring. And also a joke.
She pats one of the small, round, unoccupied cushions near her. ]
Have a seat.
[ He gets about that much time, to settle in, at least, before the inquisition begins: ]
What's your name? Do you have a favorite color?
[ A quiet chuckle behind her from one of the others present causes her smile to turn a little sheepish. ]
I'm Stelle, by the way.
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My name is Shion. Um...
[ He hesitates, debating between two choices. Red like the blood that runs through the veins of so many, the color that monopolizes the vast majority of his dear friend's hair, or something more familiar?
...... ]
I don't know if I'd call it a favorite, but pink should do.
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Hi, Shion.
[ Stelle has met so many kinds of people, of all makes and models and races, that it really doesn't... stand out that he might be carrying a bit more weight than his frame belies. It makes her curious, of course, but even she knows better than to ask about that directly...
Okay, well, normally she still might, but she's warm and full of tea, and has a willing
victimvolunteer to practice her new arts on. ]As long as you like it! Pink is a good color.
[ Some of her very favorite people are very pink. ]
How do you feel about flowers?
[ Because as willing as she was to let a stranger draw whatever they wanted to, well. She knows she's not as concerned about some things as others think she should be... ]
Stargazing
A brow is promptly quirked.
Swaddled in the shadows of the dune, Nao continues to observe the young woman from a distance, unwilling to reveal her presence. She waits and she waits and she waits for the sleepy sneaky to do something, anything, snore even, but there's no further movement.
'Is she breathing? She's probably still breathing... right?'
Staring after the woman's figure for a moment longer, Nao decides to be uncertain for a number of reasons. For one thing, it beats the stalemate in her thought processes. She moves forward, steps and breath as silent as the pure dark that eludes them, and stops, still silent, behind the woman.
Perhaps she should have made a sound. Perhaps she should have done something, anything to alert the person to her presence before the fact, but fact of the matter is, Nao wants a good look at this potential time waster's face before it can be tailored to any scenario. That's why, rather than a greeting or anything remotely polite, she chooses to lean forward and over, doubtlessly obscuring the sky into which the person was staring so she can do some staring of her own. Right into that person's eyes with her own gold-amber. Wordlessly. Upside-down-looking due to the direction from which she decided to walk up on her as though it's a totally normal thing to do. ]
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She really should have expected someone else to catch onto her, though, considering it's really not the safest, or smartest, idea to break away from the camp on her own. But it's comforting. Both the little bit of rulebreaking and the solitude.
Which is all to say, Stelle is once again far away wth her thoughts, eyes on the stars, hands clasped over her stomach peacefully, when the sky darkens abrubtly and she finds herself staring into a mirror. Her eyes widen in shock, and then she gasps, sitting up and scrambling back from the stranger before she catches her breath, clutching her chest dramatically. ]
You know, it's rude to sneak up on someone like that.
[ Backlit by the sparse light of the camps, she can't really make out the age, much less anything else, about the intruder... but if they'd meant her harm, she figures it would have come to that, already. And therefore: she sounds very much like she's scolding a child, as some kind of default defense mechanism. ]
foraging
He wonders which Division she's chosen. At that moment he thinks maybe Research & Archives, if she's out here digging in the sand for... who knows what. When Cain approaches, climbing the dune in black boots that slide down the other side, he's armed as an obvious member of Security with the pulse rifle strapped to his back.]
Hey, what are you doing? [It's his job to be out here paying attention to stragglers, so he feels no guilt getting into her business right away.] You're taking too long. You better wrap it up quick unless you wanna get left behind.