Lacuna's Song

[OOC This is a tale told by an unreliable narrator, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.]

Lacuna misses her sister, Marichia, bitterly. Marichia’s role in this is will be the hardest. She stifles a sob in case she wakes Spettra. Today had been hard, and her sister needed her rest, as will she when her turn comes to sleep.  She stirs the glowing embers of the camp fire and glances at the sleeping outline of her blood-sister.  She wonders at this new thing. Often, she had suffered cold while patiently trying to tease out mats from her beloved Prime Roots, and now this… She stands up and kicks the dead Matis male in the head. Idiot. He thought the fire would keep him safe through the night, like the comfort blanket his mother, no doubt, gave him.  The fire kept one warm, and offered protection from things that lurked in the dark places.  But fire also attracted their attention - a double edged blessing, much like Spettra’s axe.  These fires will make them weak. Good!  She would drag the idiot’s corpse out beyond the Ruins of Cryton Farm later.  The gruesome kirosta that had taken to following her and Spettra needed feeding if it was to grow strong. It had stopped trying to kill them a week ago, and now it seemed content to eat the gifts she and Spettra provided.  Lacuna stands and smiles, maliciously.  Soon, if she and Spettra successful, males would die.

    She walks back to the camp fire and extinguishes it by pouring out the beer she found in the male’s bag.  She sits on her haunches and listens to the Song of the Prime Roots as she keeps watch. Lacuna has no memories of divergent histories, as many homines do. But then she cares little if Thesos was burned or not, only that it will soon.  She has no memory of whether parasite kings died well or not.  Inconstancies of cultural memory do not bother Spettra.  Whenever Lacuna asks her about it, Spettra merely shrugs and says, ‘Males.’

    Lacuna’s first memory is of waking in the ranger camp in Silan, and the cruel, ugly, leering Matis face chasing her to consciousness.  A face that haunts her dreams and waking hours to this day… and the lumpers. No one ever believes her about the lumpers.  She scowls. But memories will not hold in her head.  They shift, meld, and at times she wonders if she is not confusing dreams with memories.  Misremembering.  The word hurts.  She does not know it, but, as is so often the case, it is there in her head - a niggling itchy word.  She wonders if Spettra has any sweets hidden in her bag and her thoughts slip away.  Silan.  It was here that Lacuna met Generallee, one of the very few males who deserve to live.  

    Lee taught her the love the hunt, the kill.  She had tried to teach him her love of digging, of splitting one’s mind in two - so as to achieve communion with to the Bark.  How to listen to the rhythm of weather, season and hour, and the harsher discordances in the songs of kitin and other predators. Communion? Discordances?  She snorts at the memory of Lee sticking his pick through his own foot when he tried to follow her lessons. Males. But Lee was gone.  He lied; he promised he would come back.  There was no honour in the Burning Desert now, only greed.  Her thoughts turn to the surface.  She knows others think of her as Fyros, but she feels nothing for the desert, and the cowards and hypocrites who pay lip service to the ideals of an imaginary god.  To her, the desert is as bad as the Forest, where liars, frauds and sycophants crawl on their bellies and abase themselves in front of their worthless nobles.  The Witherings is full of mystics lost in a fog of moss and love of their own cleverness.  To her, the Trykers care for nothing but the debauchery of alcohol and profit.  And the marauder camp appears to be little more than a bordello now.  Hairdressers!  Rather than luring weapon crafters and warriors to camp, they lured hairdressers! Pffft.  I suppose one cannot start a revolution unless one has the perfect dye and cut.  She gives an envious glance at Spettra’s long pink queue, and bites the ends of her own fringe.  She sneers at those who are slinking back into the nations to beg for forgiveness and the scraps from their master’s tables.  As for the Rangers… well at least their meddling has brought back the KP.  She gloats at the thought of how many males must have died, maybe even a few too badly hurt to resurrect.  And now there are fools who proclaim Tryton a saviour, and whisper freedom while they cling even harder to their chains. As usual, thoughts of the surface make her rage.

    She smiles at a memory of Astarth giving her her first axe.  The smile breaks into a grin at the thought of the first time she buried the axe in Eikichi’s back as he slept at Zora stables.  She wonders if Gasket will ever work out what she watered his beer down with.  Gasket.  She cannot remember if she killed him, or not. The jagged memory a Tryker lying face down in the mud, with her spear buried in his back, intrudes.  ‘I’m not evil,’ she mumbles. ‘I told him. I’m lovely!’  A little giggle escapes her lips at the thought of Eruv’s bloody, drunken suicides as he tried to teach her how to dig Prime Roots.  Her thoughts turn to other lost friends… Karrael, Kiela, Leonora, and Ink.  

    Ink. Lacuna deeply misses Ink. Ink had shown her how to start not being afraid.  But Ink had fed the lumpers and so she had to go away.  Lacuna often goes back to Furtive Waters to see her.  After Ink went away, Lacuna wandered the Prime Roots for a long time. She shunned the company of others and dwelt on her sadness and grief.  It was now that she learned to listen to the Song of Prime Roots.  And it was the Song that stopped the sadness and loneliness from consuming her.  When she finally returned to the surface, she sought out old friends.  She tried, for what felt like an eternity, to teach Binarabi and Ozelott the Song, and how this would let them move through and dig Prime Roots.  For a while, she harboured spiteful little thoughts that they were male, or were being deliberately suicidal just to annoy her.  Later, she realised that it was false consciousness that stopped them from hearing the Song.  GoS was infested with males, the guild, like Atys, needed cleansed.  False consciousness? Her head was starting to hurt again. This always happened when she thought too deeply, or tried to remember too much.

    It was soon after her return to the surface that Lacuna met her sister, Spettra.  Though Lacuna was told she Fyros, and Spettra was obviously Tryker, both she and Spettra recognised each other as kindred souls.  Spettra had only recently arrived from Silan.  As a means of distracting herself from the call of the Song, she volunteered to help Spettra train her combat skills.  She was afraid that she would answer the Song and never be able to return.  Soon they were training together every day.  Lacuna taught Spettra the lessons she had learned from Lee and, in turn, Spettra taught Lacuna that she was not alone.  She helped Lacuna through the terrors in her head, and helped her see that males were not to be feared, they were to be killed!  

    Lacuna stands, kicks the dead male again. I’m not evil!  She drags the corpse to the out-skirts of the abandoned op. She can hear the kirosta; it seems to be impatient for her to leave.  She wonders if Spettra’s decision to name the kirosta, Gaalh [Blood], will be prophetic.  Maybe tomorrow night Gaalh will finally enter their camp to feed.  Soon they will find a way into the Deep Roots, and, hopefully, there they will find a way to kill males beyond the higher powers ability resurrect them.  


Some spoke of a dragon…  

[OOC Sadly no males were harmed in the writing of this tale.]


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Last visit Fri Nov 27 05:33:33 2020 UTC

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