Nasira - Kiamwe's Household, Kitchen
Nasira's expression betrayed no emotion as her former master pined for days long past, days dressed in nostalgia and filtered through reminisce. Her eyes watched Alamin's magecraft perform its work, keeping a discerning gaze, inspecting every sway and movement, dispassionately. Then as Alamin finished his question, she closed her eyes, sighing, before opening them up with a sharpened expression. There was an anger in her shining, orange eyes - not a wildfire threatening to consume but a tempered flame, controlled and purposeful.
"The affection of a pet owner, perhaps. An animal you praise for good behavior and faithful follow through with your commands, but one you never strove to understand on her own terms. At best, projecting your own thoughts and feelings and being assured that you're in the right, rather than challenging those assumptions you've made on your own. You say Sheva never understood my decision, but that twelve-year old girl understood more in that moment then than the Sufa standing before me, with twenty years to reflect."
Smoke gathered between Nasira's fingers, taking solid shape into a ring, a ring familiar to the both of them. The ring which once bound Nasira to Alamin, then to Sheva, then to no one. "I made the choice to leave because it was my choice to make. Because it was the first choice in my life I was ever given. Because if I chose the alternative, I would never have a choice again. You claim to hate giving commands, never understanding that so long as you held this ring, every word you spoke was a command. As long as anyone held this ring, any word from their lips was a command I had to follow. And Sheva knew that. Some part of her may have wanted me to stay, but at that night, in that moment, the Sheva who gave me this ring wanted me to have that choice."
Nasira paused in contemplation. "You asked why I left you. The answer is, I never factored you into my choice in the first place. That you frame the question in that way speaks to a fundamental disconnect between us that I doubt we can resolve, at least, not easily and not in a single night. That you considered us a family is disconnected from the fact that I never had a family. The Sufat has destroyed the meaning of that word to me, and to other djinn as well I imagine. I had parents I never knew. If I had siblings will be a question left unanswered. And if I had a child while I was still a slave, they would be taken from me. How can I meaningfully be a part of any family while those conditions remained?"
An Ordinary Oddball
Poppy Blake
Poppy gathered a small bouquet of flowers and bound them with a spare ribbon, which was the best of the lot, or so she thought, being unstained and new as she could guess. Alongside this humble offering of her own, she added a handkerchief she had practiced embroidery on, with her initials in one of its corners, to represent a lady's favor. So, as soon as the preparations for raising the Silver Host were made (and Sword's bleeding horn stump attended to properly), she knelt at the mouth of the Kiln, as it were, and prayed, almost like Nasira had. As if from the Book of Hader. As if she were one of those supplicants from the temples she was never allowed to enter. As if making obeisance to a noble. Her thoughts, however, where nowhere near as calm as what her actions suggested, growing almost to a hysterical, pleading fever pitch.
We peasants—the folk at home—have but one wish. For prosperity, enough to eat. For an endless summer, stretching unto the horizon. The chirping of crickets in the cool night, the harvest to come. Yet too often do the years fly by, with nothing but the intermittent famine or plague or death of a loved one to mark them. What else do we have to remember our histories with? The year the taxes were unbearably heavy, the year a grandparent died, the year the harvest failed. Pressed into the mud, sinking ever deeper, and not knowing why. When sorrow and fear are easily forgotten, it is already too late—they've submitted themselves to the soil of the earth, lying in solidarity with the worms. White bones, pearly bones, skulls stacked in the ossuaries. I cannot tell the bones of a peasant apart from the bones of a noble.
And the promises of aid in hard times, what good were they? There are no eternal summers. Knights forget their vows, nobles forget their duty, their memories as short as the season we yearn for. This land, too, is a fever dream, a mirage borne from rising air and overheated humors. It is an abominable nightmare. A promise of light yokes, unfulfilled. A promise of an immortal dream, unfulfilled. A promise of fecundity, unfulfilled. When will it end? The knights, they slaughter us; the nobles, they use us however they will. Their vows are no good, their status merely gilding for a rotting foundation. Again, I ask: when will it end?
If there exists any hope of succor for the weak, please, come forth. If there exists any consolation for the grieving, please, come forth. If there exists any chance for plenty, please, come forth. I am tired of suffering. Let true nobility and valor exist. Please, I beg you, deceased gods and lords of this benighted earth. Cast your gaze upon my diseased form. Do not forsake me! I beg you. Please. Please...
Edited by JumpingFruit on Apr 28th 2024 at 4:46:27 AM
I wear the skin of the Elder Things, having come unto my own.
roaming, lurking, arguing
Kiamwe's House
The Onna-Musha looked at Eines with the mild curiosity affored to something novel or simply strange, but harmless. Like a little kitten found at the side of the road or a shiny golden coin of unknown origin. She tilted her head, as the little fairy spoke and then looked back down onto her cup.
Then she took a careful sip, not even noticing a few drops falling from her cup as she tilted it too early. She licked her lips and a very rare smile grew on them like a flower. "That...tastes good." She noted, looking for but the briefest of moments almost like a normal person.
She then looked back at Eines. At first it wasn't clear, if she really had listened or simply stared right through her, as the silence between them stretched. But then, before it could become truly uncomfortable, she spoke.
"I....don't know. I just felt like I...had to." She admitted, taking another sip. "Before, it felt more like a dream. I never thought much of it, merely taking my steps in the fugue of a dance than I never learned, but somehow knew. There was comfort in it, you know? To not have to struggle or choose and simply repeat your lines like on a stage. A comfortable...delusion."
"But a delusion nonetheless. And I simply decided to...wake up. Perhaps it was little more than an accident? Or maybe it was...fate? I...I don't know." She shrugged her shoulders a bit, looking down at Eines with those faded, tired eyes.
"But any story ends eventually. No matter how sweet the tale, eventually it has to end. Perhaps we are approaching it now?"
Kitchen
Alamin closed his eyes, as Nasira finally spoke up against him. At first, he seemed shocked. Her anger at him and the life he had given her blindsiding him. Then the shock slowly turned into pain and by the end of it, he didn't even look her in the eyes as if every word felt like a blow.
"I...I never saw you as a pet, Nasira. If you ever felt I did, then it is a grievous fault of mine indeed." He said, before looking at her again and now she was met with a fire similar to her own in his eyes. "But don't dare assume how my daughter felt. She was a child and one that knew you for mere twelve years. I knew you all my life! Claiming that a decision, made in haste and emotion, proves anything is—"
Nasira conjured up a ring on her hand and showed it to him. Alamin blinked and he reached for his own rings. It was a gesture of instinct, his fingers resting on the one single copper ring. The one that marred the set. Where once had been the one that had bound Nasira. "I made the choice to leave because it was my choice to make. Because it was the first choice in my life I was ever given. Because if I chose the alternative, I would never have a choice again. You claim to hate giving commands, never understanding that so long as you held this ring, every word you spoke was a command. As long as anyone held this ring, any word from their lips was a command I had to follow. And Sheva knew that. Some part of her may have wanted me to stay, but at that night, in that moment, the Sheva who gave me this ring wanted me to have that choice."
"It was for your protection and you know that!" He argued. "If it had not been for the ring, any Sufa or even lesser man could have bound you. You know well as I do that even among my kind there are men, who would have done unspeakable things to you. Nevermind the threat your powers would have posed, if there had not been the Binding present. Djinn are as much a threat to themselves, as they are to others. You know, we cannot return to the times where you wild, unbound powers brought devastation and terror amongst..."
He stopped, biting his lip and visibly regretting his outburst. It was a well-tread topic and one they had spoked about many times. One where Nasira indeed had dared to shout at him and his own anger had made him forget himself. Painful memories, where he did not show his grace nor his wisdom and instead behaved more like the "Masters" he so derided.
Silence stretched between them.
"You asked why I left you. The answer is, I never factored you into my choice in the first place. That you frame the question in that way speaks to a fundamental disconnect between us that I doubt we can resolve, at least, not easily and not in a single night. That you considered us a family is disconnected from the fact that I never had a family. The Sufat has destroyed the meaning of that word to me, and to other djinn as well I imagine. I had parents I never knew. If I had siblings will be a question left unanswered. And if I had a child while I was still a slave, they would be taken from me. How can I meaningfully be a part of any family while those conditions remained?"
Nasira could see it on Alamin's face. The sadness in his eyes and the slumping of his shoulders. That weary, sorrowful sigh and for a moment he truly looked old. Not the smiling, ever-wise prince he liked to play as, but the old, worn-down man he was deep inside.
Alamin knew, he had lost her. No...that he had never even won her over in the first place.
"So...that was all it was? A dream? No, a delusion that we held onto and you allowed us to live, even as you waited for nothing more than to leave me and Sheva behind? All these years never meant...anything?" The last word he almost whispered, as if he didn't dare say it out loud. He looked at her and there truly was fear etched onto his dark face. Fear of a truth he rather not have known. And a desperate desire for her to tell him otherwise. That maybe, just maybe, there had at least been something there.
But there would be no answer coming. Alamins eyes strayed from her and over her shoulder. Almamum stood in the doorframe, staring at him. The djinn said nothing, but he might as have shouted. Alamin's composure returned within a heartbeat, like a well-worn mask. He cleared his throat and took a deep breath.
"We shall speak of this...at a better time." He simply said and stepped out. A little bit too quickly to hide the haste, as he fled the kitchen. Almamum watched him leave and then threw Nasira a single glance.
Then he gave her a nod and vanished as well.
Edited by TheNohen on May 7th 2024 at 8:12:34 PM
roaming, lurking, arguing
The Kiln
They had gathered around the Kiln. Sword held her cut horn in one hand, while the other gingerly touched the bandaged wound on her head. Kimiko stood ready, trying to steady her breathing for what was to come. Sheva had her hands roam over the runes, that were etched upon the burnt clay, her face tense with concentration.
She looked at Poppy, who had her own ingredients prepared. The little girl met the young womans eyes and Sheva nodded at her.
"An Oni's horn for strength." She said and Sword dropped it in. The horn tumbled into the impossibly wide cavern of the Kiln and vanished in the dark.
An ember glimmered.
"A child's flowers and cloth, for dreams and hope." Petals swirled within the darkness, while the white, embroidered handkerchief slowly twirled down.
Heat began to rise.
"Silver and clay, for muscle and bone." Sheva slowly and gingerly poured in the quicksilver. It seemed to go on forever, the Kiln readily accepting it without spilling over. She then dropped the empty clay-vase in, as well.
The air began to flimmer.
"Power by Justice, given readily." Kimiko stepped up and put her hands on the Kiln. The runes slowly came to life one by one and she felt her energy, her life, getting drawn away and into the Kiln itself.
A flame was born.
Sheva looked over to Poppy, the girl having walked up to the Kiln. The heat could be felt even outside the room now and sweat quickly dripped from everyone's face. Poppy however, seemed untouched, as she rose up onto her toes and held her hand over the Kiln. Shevas eyes went wide, as a cut opened on Poppy's hand and a drop of blood fell.
"The gods blood, handed over in ignorance, but with permission."
And the fire roared...
The air grew quiet. The wind abated. The sky itself went dark.
Outside the Lervondas, everybody stopped in what they were doing. The hairs stood up, as even the lowliest of lifeforms could feel the power in the air. Animals looked up. Masaru closed his eyes. The Onna-Musha stepped outside and prayed. The Ronin laid down his sword and watched. And Kiamwe smiled in awe and lucidity. Muasa looked away from the ship and towards his distant brother. Tears rolled down his cheeks.
"So it begins..."
The world itself held its breath for a moment of divine creation.
Far away, on the edge of his tower, Iande turned away from the room and towards the window. His argument with Shadow Blossom forgotten for but a moment. He watched, as the sun vanished and the sky turned black and in the distance a light began to grow. His face grew grim and his fingers dug into the wood of the wall.
"So it begins..."
The fire rolled through the ship. It scorched the walls and roared like a thunderous beast. The ground shook and the Lervondas shuddered. Its own mighty groan merging with the fire.
Then it rose into the sky.
The Kiln was ablaze, the runes glowing so hot it was impossible to look at them. The heat was otherworldy and yet it did not kill them. The roar and groan echoed in their ears. And throughout it all, the prayer of a child. The prayer of a goddess. The prayer of faith and hope.
Voices began to emerge from the cacophony. The madness settled into a rythm. A thumping of the drums. A bellowing of horns and the shout of men of war. A choir praying and singing, deep voices praising and applauding the Heavens.
A crescendo of gothic glory.
A hand burst through the Kiln. Its clawed fingers dug into the hardened clay and with a single, fluid motion pulled themselves up and out. The fire ceased just as the man rose from the darkness and stepped out onto the fire-burnished floor.
Two metal sabatons touched the hot wood. They resembled feet...no, they were feet, metal-clad instead of flesh and with the colour of stained, darkened silver. Two legs, with a naked tails swung around them, resembling that of a rat were it not for the length and the hook at the end. Dark cloth and white tunic, overlaid with faded plates, covering arms and shoulders. Not a knight in plated armor, nor a knave in scattered leather. A warrior, clad in what is needed, with floral-carved leather folding over his fingers like a promise and the right wrist bound by the clothed favour of his lady.
His shoulders were broad and his skin was metal, Growing light towards the limbs and dark towards the center. His face was rugged, but regal. A veiled nobility, that would prove a mortal king unworthy where he to look upon it. Black eyes and a gleaming, burning point of silver in the middle. Flowing brown hair, cascading down his shoulders and framing his cheeks. And growing from his forehead, two curled horns resembling that of a ram.
His hand stroked a large bow of dark wood and inlaid with gleaming silver. His other rested upon a single, lone-edged blade at his side in an arcadan style.
The warrior towered over the kneeling Poppy, his gaze resting on her. And then...a smile grew on his features, like a fire within a hearth, full of familiarity and warmth. Going down on one knee, he bowed his head before her and spoke, and his voice was like a flowing river in the middle of summer.
"Tell me, my dear lady, what shall be my name?"
An Ordinary Oddball
Poppy Blake
So this is what the power of creation is like, Poppy thought to herself as the Kiln blazed quite literally to life, and the coalescing power put hers to shame. She could feel, however, a parallel process similar to when she brought comparatively lesser life forth taking place within the flames. Though she tried to grasp the principles of it through her extended magical senses, it was altogether too complicated for her to comprehend. Perhaps even if she were a scholar like Sheva, she still would not be able to understand it.
As it was, she stared up at the Firstborn in front of her with some shock and primarily awe as what she had just been a part of. The tarnish on his silvery skin reminded her of pewter tankards, and even more of the methods those at home had used to forget their troubles. Because even in their destitute condition, Kamelottians had managed to maintain some level of faith and hope through imbibing alcohol.
"Tan..." she began absent-mindedly, almost saying her thoughts aloud, before realizing what she was doing and pivoting halfway through. "...cred. Tancred. I christen you Sir Tancred."
Edited by JumpingFruit on May 12th 2024 at 1:52:05 AM
I wear the skin of the Elder Things, having come unto my own.
Breath of the Sun
Kimiko - Kiln
From her soul flowed light and power and hope and Justice.
She wasn't fully cognizant of the process, entering a sort of meditative state as she fed energy into the Kiln. All Kimiko knew was that she opened her eyes and saw a horned man with a rat's tail, clad in dark cloth and tarnished silver. A rogue who could show real honor to a knight.
"Huh, it's like a fusion of all of us. He has my tail, kind of." Kimiko observed their creation, eying him head-to-toe. "We made a pretty handsome guy~"
She giggled, stepping closer, only to stumble as she suddenly realized how drained she was. "Ooh, that took more outta me than I thought. Woof." Exhaling, she forced herself not to wobble. "Anyway, nice to meet ya, Tancred! Not the name I'd have picked, but I guess Poppy did put the most into you. You ready to dispense Justice?"
What is so amusing about this? Why do you take lives? How can you forget?
The Light That Blinds
Mikias
Mikias let out a shocked screech as the Lervondas suddenly burst into flames, stumbling backwards and nearly toppling over. He frantically looked between the Pilgrims—why is everyone so calm about this?!—then started looking around for some way to put the fire out—
And then it stopped.
And then someone climbed out of the boat.
Mikias was about to quite reasonably ask what the hell just happened when he actually got a look at that someone and found himself forgetting the trade-language.
It was...a warrior. Tall, broad-shouldered, built like a brick house, long hair cascading to frame a regal face...but what really grabbed Mikias were the eyes. Silver irises, black sclera not unlike the vulkende's own.
Mikias stared. And stared. For a perfectly reasonable amount of time. Probably.
He wouldn't know. He was still staring.
His cheeks felt warm.
Val
"Uh—you guys sure this is gonna work?" Val asked, having gotten up from the ground to approach Poppy, Kimiko, and Sheva. "I mean, take it as someone who's from Rousson, conventional invasions...tend to fall apart fairly quickly when you're dealing with a master of..." He held out a hand and started counting off the fingers. "Stealth, and backstabbing, and poison, and taking people down quickly, and an ungodly amount of patience."
He gave a sheepish smile. "There's a reason no one's ever held Rousson longer than a few generations."
"Kept me waiting, haven’t you? Tch. No matter. Dawdle all you’d like. In the end, your defeat remains inevitable."
Eines al'Maelenn - Kiamwe's House, Dining Room
Eines folded her arms together and nodded with an unveiled, albeit misguided, pride as the Onna-Musha drank the coffee as instructed. "Yup, yup, though it's a little bitter for me. I asked Sheva to make mine sweeter~"
Listening to the Onna-Musha's answer, Eines closed her eyes, swaying side to side like a metronome keeping pace with her words, furrowing her brows, frowning. "Dreams... dancing... delusions... stories... That's a lot of metaphors to unpack, Onnana. I think I kinda get it though - an effortless dream where you follow the whims of whatever the dream has you do without question versus trying to get at the truth of things even if it means 'waking up' from what's comfortable...? But the 'story' here is also like a 'dream' in that it's a perpetuated fiction that'll have to end someday... I think? Like you woke up from the 'dream' of Iande's fiction but are still in the deeper 'dream' of your long-lived existence, an old storybook with fading pages and memories, an author's life work waiting to end, and equally a dream you're ready to finally wake up from...? Or maybe the mixing of metaphors doesn't work quite right, since 'death' is often associated with the 'final' or 'eternal sleep,' so you'd be waking up to... go back to sleep?
"Mmm... Though maybe it's not fair for me to say anything about it, since I haven't lived as long as you and if you're suffering then I can't say you're in the wrong for wanting to end it. But even in your sleepy state you seem more aware of the present than Kiamwewe- no wait that sounds wrong, let's go with Kikiamwe. You're forgetting your past but you seem cognizant of the present and the recent whereas he slips and forgets present moments... Both are tragic but unlike him, you still have the chance to shape and redefine yourself to the here and now, sort of like a rebirth or, if you want to stick with the story metaphor, a retelling. Maybe?"
Eines looked up at the old warrioress with a tired, somber expression of her own, even as she wore a smile on her lips - not a false smile, a genuine smile, but one touched with the melancholy of her experiences. "I'm totally projecting though; you see, I came here to the Shards with my mom. I don't know what you know about us fairies, but we can only really live where there's lot of magic in the land and the land we were living on got devoured by demons. After losing her sisters and many of her daughters, she decided that if she could get the Throne of Magic, she could make it so that the Sidhe and the Aetherborn could live and go anywhere rather than being stuck at the leylines. She... didn't make it though. Just me, a little fairy at the end of her life. I dunno how old she was - she could've been older than you or younger than you, not that I know how old you are either. But to me she was like a strong, ancient tree that was always there, something you thought would last forever, only to be chopped down without a thought. As for me, I'd be like a flower at the end of spring, wilting and ready to fall away in the heat of summer, only for the shade of that fallen tree to shelter me. My mom, she-"
Eines felt a lump in her throat but pushed on. "She died, but I don't wanna say that her story is over and done with. I feel like that'd just be too sad, you know? I have to keep on living, keep on telling her story, because no one else will. I know I can't tell it forever - even gods and godbeasts all die someday - but if I could reach the throne in her stead, carry out her dream and spread magic throughout the realms, then even after I'm gone, even after I'm forgotten, her legacy could keep going on, right? That's why- that's why I don't want you to just say your story's ready to be over, not yet anyway. That's my selfish little dream from a selfish little fairy, but I want your story to have a happy ending - or at least an ending that can make you smile."
Nasira - Kiamwe's House, Kitchen
There were many thoughts in Nasira's head she wanted to say. "I've lived for over a hundred years; other men have possessed me, long before you." "And if you wanted to do unspeakable things to me, I would have been powerless to stop you." "And what about the threat of your power, or the power any sorcerer of the Sufat poses? There is no difference in the power I was born with and the power you learned to seize." "That I "allowed you to live" is a delusion in itself. The truth is you allowed me to live, and I had no choice in how I lived or died."
For the better though, Almamum put an abrupt end to the unwanted argument before it dragged further on uselessly into the night. Nasira did not know the other djinn's intentions or reasoning for interrupting his master, but she appreciated it all the same, giving him a nod of acknowledgement before he slipped away after Alamin. Then, she let out a long held sigh.
Ah. I forgot to ask his reason for being here. It is far too much of a coincidence for him and Sheva to have arrived in the same shard as me, of the countless shards there are, not to mention the journey to the Thrones is no mere pleasure trip to take with your daughter. It feels as though an outside force is arranging things to be as such. I can't let his emotions, nor mine, sway me from seeking that important truth.
Rolling the tension from her shoulders, Nasira waited a moment or so more before leaving the kitchen, returning to the main gathering room and exhaustedly draping herself over Caitlin's back. "Sorry, I've returned," Nasira mumbled warily, hands gliding down the captain's arms to meet and intertwine with Caitlin's own. "It seems some things don't change, not even after two decades... may I stay here to recover after a useless talk...?"
AKA Nixer
Caitlin: Kiamwe's House, Main Room
Caitlin, who had been relaxing in the main room of Kiamwe's house once the fireworks from the Kiln were over and done with, reacted with a surprised hum as Nasira fell against her back to hold her. Looking up from her light doze, Caitlin took Nasira's hands as they were offered, lifting her head to meet the djinn's eyes as she offered her a light smile.
"You might as well. Come and sit by me for a while, if you'd like. It's all go on the preparations, so it's hectic to say the least. Trying to find a little peace and quiet to think through it all. A shame to hear your talks with your... former acquaintance fell through."
She gently pulled on Nasira's arm, encouraging her to sit down beside her, as she then turned her attention to her own enchanted tattoos that were decorating her left arm. She hummed again, this time thoughtfully, as if she were mulling over options.
"I suppose I could smash him into a wall with a lethal gust of wind. Or spear him on a kraken's tendril. Or release my lookalike to take care of him while we remain here. Really, what I'm trying to say is: if you'd rather be rid of him at any point, I'd be gladdened to oblige. Of course, if you'd rather he not be assassinated, I'll save my energy."
bork
Sword felt the feelings of her Throne well up in her like it was being pulled up and wound away into something else, draining her vigor but not the feeling itself. The donated horn would do some good. For all Poppy and Kicchan talked about their highest motives, there wasn't much that could kickstart action like greed and hunger. Even though she was ready for it this time, she still felt some fear in her gut as the Kiln started firing in earnest. Small point of pride, though: throughout the whole process she merely let out a low, continuous, "shhszzzsshheeeeee—" without actually turning it into repeated cries of "shitshitshit!" like it wanted to.
Their handiwork, Sir Tancred, was... she pursed her lips. She looked at the super-heroic ninja, and the wizard, and the little girl. And at herself. She felt like this guy was reading her just by existing. It was the same kind of light embarrassment when someone predicted your favorite plays without you telling them beforehand. So while normally Sword was ready to grab this dude up and welcome him as an Underboss or something, no, she stood by and let Poppy handle it, hands on her hips, comfortable right where she still stood.
"That's some good work, Poppy. Sir Tancred. My name is <Thrice-Owned Sword Inscribes the Horizon.>" It came out of her mouth in her native tongue as a couple of sounds, a gesture, and would be written as a single dense character in a speech bubble. "Please, call me Sword. I'm going to be running the Throne of Greed soon enough. I didn't give all that much to you, compared to the other girlies though." She tapped the bandage on her forehead where her horn once was with a small aw shucks expression. "You're making better use of it than me anyway."
Of course the realm of stories was the one where everyone had some damn heat with someone else on the shard. Sword was at first a little bummed that the Guilds didn't have any faith in her gunning for the Thrones, but now, seeing all the people here dragged down by their pasts, suffocating in them even, yeah, this was better. Which meant she had to be the one with her head on completely straight!
She left Kiamwe's hideout following the other real killer here, the one who didn't have other dramatic shit to struggle with: Kimiko. Cooking up a crew in the Kiln with Poppy and Sheva. Whatever the hell Alamin had to talk about with Nasira for instance, was not worth the time. And she trusted that if Nasira needed help jumping someone she'd know to mark them for the full crew.
In the kiln, Sword realized she had forgotten something!
"Sheva, I've got something to return." She pulled out the sack of coins she'd taken from one of the Silver Host. "Maybe toss it in. I've got something else too." She put a hand on one of her horns. This was the part she had the least agency in, the distraction from the Silver Host. She needed a hand on the ball. "Kiln's a rare chance to get a fair trade for something. And I think I'll gladly trade a horn for a Silver Horde with the thuggery and strength of one of me." She held out her other hand. "Gimme a knife or something. And get a bandage ready, I don't think this's gonna be pretty. At least not until after it's healed, it'll look super hard after."