Most of a lioness emerges onto the rooftop to join the Furnace Knight. Gone is the bombastic style of a Captain, or even the regalia of a trusted lieutenant. She wears the garb provided by her host; lightly colored to reflect the heat, breezy in the wind, unrestricting for invalid and initiate alike. Without finery to hide behind, the weaknesses of her bloodline stand exposed in the sunlight. The base ingredients faded long ago, yet their legacy remains. Too muscular here. Too soft there. Claws sharp, but not sharp as they should be. She pads across the bare stone, too loud for the predator she might have been. Not enough herbivores in her family tree to still the rumbling in her stomach, as she arranges a platter of choice fruits to graze on. Why would snakes have fangs like that if they never wanted for meat?

It is one of the few harmless curiosities here. She savors it as much as the fruit.

Of her newfound wealth of knowledge, she has added a few more treasures: Wherever she finds him, the Furnace Knight always stands a little off-center, always leaving a little room for her to join him in his contemplations. He will not answer every question, but neither will he despise one, asked respectfully. Hades is not always present. Hades is never far. Neither are in a rush to explain themselves. With these jewels, she buys herself some comfortable distance from the uncomfortable possibilities of Lord Hades. She takes a spot beside her host, leaning against the battlements to take the weight off her blackened ankle. She picks over her meal. She takes in the worn-down island. 

She knows she has to start somewhere.

“Why stay here?” She asks, into the silence. “Salib is a ruin. Everyone I’ve seen is either a slave to the past, or profiting from the former’s enslavement. There’s no desire to change themselves or the status quo. It has been this way, and it will be this way for a long, long time.” There is familiarity in her assessment. A little spite, yes. But a spite that can only come from someone who’s lived through the same hell, and knows its face well enough to despise the details. “Your home itself is isolated, I don’t take you for the type to get involved in the rest of high society without cause. So why are you bothering to stay around? Why an old island on the same planet, when you could live anywhere you like?”

**********************************************

A good servant carries out their work with silence and efficiency. The only sign of their passing should be a task completed to perfection. Come when called. Speak when spoken to. Disappear afterwards. 

It is only natural that the chef should cry when there are none but the waiters to be disturbed by his sobbing.

All that is familiar is dead. His body is wrong, in ways he never knew it could be wrong. She stole the strength from his limbs. Nothing moves without pain. Some things move without asking. She stole the softness of his coat, and replaced it with empty holes and sticky iron. She stole the gentle bleat of his voice and all he has left are ragged cries. No way to breathe right. Burning. Sweating. Freezing. Cold. It’s so [i]cold.[/i]

Hard to think straight. Hard to see any of it. It’s not possible. None of it’s possible. Despair, so deep and so total as to entrap completely, even with no one around to enforce it. How?! How can something so horrible be real? How can, how can so many live...how do they live? What, must it be…?

The waiter clutches her face beside him. She shakes. She heaves. She doesn’t see him. Doesn’t see the knife in his hand. Covered in, covered in, no, no, that’s not, it’s the knife. In his hand. Raising up. Knuckles white. Nothing left to color them.

[b][i]*CLANG*[/i][/b]

Piercing the slop. Ringing off the deck. Louder than his voice can manage. His hand falls. Catches her sleeve. Tugs. His eyes screw shut. The tears still leak out.

“I...I’m sorry…”

His breath comes in shallow gasps.

“I...knew it was bad...couldn’t...how much worse it was, for...you…”

Be herself. Be another. Somewhere in there, she would hear him. She, she had to hear him…

“I didn’t know...I’m sorry, I....I didn’t know….”

She had to know this wasn’t her fault.

[Pay a Price: Spending a Food for the ruined meal]