2020-10-27: Gwen Befriends a Primarch

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  • Log: Gwen Befriends a Primarch
  • Cast: Gwen Whitlock, Setanta (posed by Scythe Riebaure)
  • Where: Gwen's Head
  • Date: October 27th, 2020
  • Summary: Gwen has a visitor in her dreams again, and this time, it's Setanta. This is fine. No, really, it actually is fine.

<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.

    At some point, the plan was for Gwen to relinquish the more dangerous card in her deck of aces, mostly due to that card being certain to eventually burst into flame and burn her entire deck of cards, the table they were on, and the saloon she was playing in, maybe some neighboring buildings as well.

    Then, things happened. A number of disturbing things, in fact, that caused her to question if giving this card was really the right idea. As well as reasons why she should. It would be a matter of time before Setanta's touch had consequences. Her control was certain to run out. But with no signs of there being any loss of control, perhaps...

    But why did she decide to do such a thing in the first place? Surely her hunger couldn't have been the only reason. The Mockingbird did not control her, and never had she intentionally went after a being she had all the reason to avoid. In fact, she would have not thought such a thing would even work. Would she have even needed to ask for help from the blue-eyed assassin if she had known this would happen? And what happened out there, in the desert on Filgaia, with Lan? Which choice should she have avoided?

    Ah, but the way that flame burned in her as she took it in...

    Primarchs were mysteries to her, Setanta even moreso for how human his reactions to Ida were. Did Rahab act the same? Did they think fondly on old memories, feel anger and betrayal, have friendships with people, to the point that Ida's ancestor would feel sympathy for the being encased in that cave?

    What did Setanta think or feel, in all of this?

    These are the things Gwen thinks on, as she is lulled to rest in her camp, smelling the dying embers of her campfire and the smell of the nighttime wind from the ocean, meters away.

    Her drooping eyelids make a final look towards the Filgaia, hovering in the sky, before closing one last time before sleep sets in.

    Would she even need to think on these questions, here in Lunar?

    Maybe it's a question for Future Gwen.

<Pose Tracker> Scythe Riebaure has posed.

    Gwen has been having recurring dreams lately. This is hardly new for her, but the man she has become entangled with has certain themes, motifs, and calling-cards, and none of the newer dreams fit.

    She is young, and trapped in the burning house, but this time, there's no way for her to free herself. The flame crawls up her body, burning her as it did before--but there's no release, no loss of consciousness, no death. It burns her until her whole body is fine white ash, and she is aware the entire time.

    She's out in the desert, beneath a burning sun that doesn't look quite right. She feels sick--she half-falls, half-clambers from the saddle, and sinks to her knees to vomit. All that comes out is dry, powdery ash, globs of glass, fragments of tephra.

    There is a fire inside her, and if she does not feed it, it will die, and she will die with it. Food does not suffice. She eats shreds of wood, chokes down broken chunks of bitumenous coal, drinks benzene and kerosene. It grows so bright that it shines through her skin--her very body has become a living lantern. The burn-scars cast eerie shadows, images of a face she saw in the prison beneath the Molten Scar.

    Setanta's face.

    Tonight, Gwen lies atop a lake of molten glass, a section of the desert rendered liquid by that pitiless sun. Flame pulses through her body, its light illuminating every nerve and blood vessel in her body--as though she were an anatomical diagram, spread out before a student. A deep, proud voice comes from everywhere at once, reverberating through her very being.

    "Mortal leech. You yet burn." It's a casual observation. Gwen will recognize the voice.

    This is no mere phantasm. The Primarch is addressing her directly.

<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.

    Isiris had shown her many sorts of deaths in the times he had came across her dreams.

    Where his touch was cold, Setanta's exists in the opposite direction. The ocean was boundless and devoid of landmarks except for the marble throne, the gated riverside a mockery of space, water droplets falling upwards from Gwen, away from her feet planted on the ground. It was a means to an end, to cause Gwen to make a decision.

    This is a means of being, of that fire inside her manifesting in all the ways Isiris's craft did not completely allow, and then some. Of traumatic memories exposed to further injury, of hot suns, deserts, of hungry fires aching for subsistence that she's not equipped to give.

    And each time, the part of her brain that would respond remaining empty. A fear of the void, of trauma, of death is a useful one, and its absence does not protect her from pain and potential for madness.

    After all, Isiris's touch enabled her to survive this long only remains to keep her alive, thus keeping Isiris's investment. The lull of fighting, the risk-taking, the beating need for _more_ still remains, a backdrop that leaks through when Gwen's mask is cracked.

    Dreams are fair game.

    Ocean breezes and the faint smell of embers become the hot breath of the sun over a glass lake, and her, the illuminated body in the middle. She sits up, her eyes (or the spirit of them) catching a glimpse of her fingers, fire beating in them like blood.

    If she started screaming from the pain, she's not certain she'd be able to stop. But in this dream, she supposes there is another option.

    So instead, her mouth opens, and against all reason, a name comes out:

    ".... Setanta."

    She laughs, its sound a tipsy rasp. "So I take it you're still mad? I thought I only took a drop from you, at most."

<Pose Tracker> Scythe Riebaure has posed.

    The sun uncurls. Its mass splits into great stellar prominences, which in turn approximate a human shape. The plasma forms a broad chest, sculpted limbs, a face with hard, well-defined features. Ionized gas pours from the figure's scalp like hair.

    "You see anger where there is none," Setanta says. "You merely stole a single drop. What have I to fear from one whose husk can barely contain a tiny fraction of my might?"

    Setanta's form lowers until they're close enough to reach out and touch Gwen, should they desire. "And I sense a blight within you. Has another claimed you, mortal? Is your will your own?"

<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.

    Movement comes from a direction Gwen wouldn't normally think to look at- the sun, up in the sky.

    The form Setanta took in the cave was impressive, but in the dream he is able to choose his presentation even further, drawing the courier's attention as the sun's light shifts with his descent to the ground in front of her.

    Gwen whistles. "... Y'know how to make an entrance. But yeah. Just a drop." A fire-formed hand rubs through nonexistent hair at the back of Gwen's head. "Not sure if it was really worth all this trouble, but I suppose, if we were able to talk a bit, maybe something good could come of it."

    It's Setanta who poses the first true question, and it is met with silence, the literally flame-red head considering.

    "There is someone else, yes," she says, decisively. "As for my will, it's always been important to him that I make the decision each step of the way, which makes it worse, almost."

    It's to a Primarch that she finally admits this, not her friends, she realizes, a sigh escaping her mouth.

    "Was that what you noticed, back then?" Her head tilts. "You were 'bout to say somethin', when I was, uh." She holds up her right hand, as if to have that be her answer, but its appearance is nearly identical to her left, in this form. Seeing this, Gwen clarifies, "when my ARM drank in that drop."

<Pose Tracker> Scythe Riebaure has posed.

    Setanta snorts. Trails of solar wind erupt from their nose and mouth with a sharp huff. "Do you regret it? You mortal husks are all so frail. Were you hoping to accomplish a miracle with one tiny drop?"

    The Primarch descends further. Their eyes fix on Gwen's, burning nuclear pits in the solar flame of their face. "As though I could ignore such a taint," Setanta says. "Who is 'he'? I could purge him from you, if you so desired. All you would need to do is stoke that one tiny ember. Or is your will truly your own?"

    Setanta reaches down, and cups Gwen's cheek in a hand. It does not burn. It burns. Who's to tell, in this hellscape where everything is various shades of flame? "I see a... stalemate within you." Their lip curls. "The taint keeping that tiny ember smothered, even as it fights to live. Just as you did. Tell me--did you dream of fire, before?"

<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.

    "No, I do- well, I mean, kind of. I mean.." Gwen shuts her eyes in frustration with her own thoughts, or- she attempts the action out of habit, at least. There are no true eyelids to cover her eyes.

     This is fine.

    Setanta makes his offer, and Gwen shakes her head. "... No, it's not him I worry about. Otherwise, there wouldn't be any taint to begin with." One corner of her mouth tips up in a wry smile. "It was when you were freed that I made my deal with him, besides."

    "... I wanted to save my friends."

    But who is the true danger here, and by what measure?

    A fire is dangerous when it's free. A blade is dangerous when it's pressed against flesh.

    To measure Isiris against Setanta would be futile.

    She is startled by the hand cupping her cheek, a familiar gesture that's freely given. It's strange, feeling that burning not burning hand against her burning not burning cheek, but she does not shrink from it.

    "A stalement..."

    It was Isiris.

    This was his 'gift'.

    Flame-stroked eyes widen. "I figured the dreams were some of your influence, to be honest."

<Pose Tracker> Scythe Riebaure has posed.

    "Your friends. You would have me believe it was altruism that drove you to this?" Setanta pulls their hand back, and shakes their head. "Could you even explain why you drank of me, if you had to? I look at you, and I see a soul held together by the barest of threads. I sense their power within your heart--" --and there's true venom in the Primarch's voice-- "And Demon-wrought artifice coiled within you. Not merely replacing what you had hacked away, in your desperation--but threaded into the very core of you. I sense myself. I sense the taint."

    "Fool leech, Setanta says. "How does it feel to know that the very forces you sought to consume are in turn consuming you?"

<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.

    "...." Gwen finds herself closing her eyes again, and failing. To say her cheeks burn is to ignore that her cheeks are literally burning, but all the same, she realizes... the eldritch entity had a point.

    She grimaces. "... You're right. It wasn't just that. I remember what I felt, back then. I was hungry for energy, and power. I saw what your power did to things that ate of it, and still, I grabbed for it. Even if I now think the idea was planted in me, it doesn't change the fact that I *still did it*."

    Her soul? Gwen shakes her head.

    "That's where you're wrong, Setanta. My soul... I'd argue it's probably the reason I got this far. In the heat of the moment, I make dumb decisions, yes." She stares back up at Setanta, her body dwarfed by their own. "My soul is--

    The taint. Their power.

    Her ARM.

    "... I guess we weren't on the same page in the first place, then." She begins to laugh, a spot of genuine mirth making it into the dry rasps that escape her embering throat. "That is the Mockingbird. My right arm wasn't hacked away at all. I lost it in a fire when I was little. If my heart hadn't been threatening to give out, I would have been fine the way I was, bad hair, scars, n' all. The Mockingbird... yeah. It's a weapon. But the first thing it was, for me, was a machine to keep my heart working. ....."

    And then, the subject loops back to the source of her problem, as well as the dissonance that allowed for all of it to happen.

    And she begins to laugh again, tears escaping in puffs of gas.

    "The man who is dimming your influence... _years ago, he stabbed me through the heart_, Setanta. My ARM replaced what I had lost, n' now, Guardians, it's-" She stops, giving an awkward cough. "Sorry, my bad. But..."

    She cranes her eyes back towards Setanta.

    "So in other words, I'm a monster. Just as we talked about. Just as you are."

    How does it feel?

    Somehow, that mirthful face grows saddened.

    "There are people in the same position, who got there through no fault of their own. Power is one thing, but controlling that power... if I can do that much, maybe I can keep people like that from having to lose their own souls."

    . "Either way, I don't know how long we'll have this connection. Perhaps, since I took from you, I can give something back." She reaches up a hand- her left, in this case, up towards Setanta. "... Maybe you could tell me about you? About yourself. Who you are. I'm kinda curious, y'know?"

<Pose Tracker> Scythe Riebaure has posed.

    Setanta's eyes narrow as Gwen explains the nature of the thing that siphoned their power. She wasn't an experiment--at least, not in the sense that she sacrificed an arm of flesh and blood. That arm was already gone.

    In an instant, Setanta is no longer looking at Gwen, but through her, at that formative memory of fire. That young girl lying on the floor of a burning house, pinned by a beam, the fire consuming her flesh. Their eyes return to the present, and trace the burn scars. Again, they reach out and touch Gwen, trailing a hand down the marks left by flame on her flesh.

    Setanta's fine features twist, though, as Gwen insists she's a monster. They give a shake of their head, their long, stellar-wind hair flowing out behind them. Apparently they won't deign to dignify that statement with a response. That invitation, though...

    "That, I will answer." Setanta pulls back, giving Gwen some personal space. "My siblings and I were... created not a thousand years ago, by the Elw. They never told me why. I can only assume they were driven by desperation--for the first thing I saw when I came to be were looks of shock. Horror. Disgust."

    "We were free for a time, all of us. But then they decided that we were too dangerous to remain so. Rahab was the first to be imprisoned. I still remember how they disappeared. I thought they'd been killed."]

<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.

    She had screamed, cried for help. She cried for her parents, not realizing they had already expired, their bodies wreathed in flames. She screamed in pain.

    And then, when her throat and hope gave out, the beam shifted.

    A person in red (or was that just the fire, making everything red?) with the gentle eyes extended their hand to her. She could not remember what the person had said, or that there were any others aiding in the rescue effort. That simple act was all it took, to impart a seed in the girl's heart.

     'The world is still beautiful.'

    And now that five year old stands two decades later, the scars from that day, as well as the many treatments to heal and stretch that skin as she grew, still whorl the flesh on her right side. No skin is there to show it, but the flame that nestles in the maze of tissue makes it clear.

    She nearly backs away from that hand as it nears those scars out of instinct, but she stands, letting Setanta understand this small truth of her.
    
    And in turn, thought their own words, she understands a truth of them.

    "So that's why you reacted the way you did. You were created to fight the Hyadeans, just like ARMs were created." What were the words she heard, in the cave, coming from that message from Ida'a ancestor?

    Perhaps that person felt as Gwen now feels, as she presses a hand over her own heart.

    "I'm sorry, Setanta." Her head hangs downward. "... I'm sorry you had to go through that. You, and your siblings."

    .... her thoughts go drift back, back towards that odd joy she had felt when she saw Loren. Like she had found a lost sibling. That ache, that joy, dull enough that they fought all the same when their own goals demanded it, but when there was nothing to hold it back, there was nothing that could explain it.

    Except now.

    "..... Loren.... he must be..." Her head snaps up. "Did you sense one of your siblings in Loren?"

<Pose Tracker> Scythe Riebaure has posed.

    "You cannot comprehend the pain. The isolation." It sounds like hyperbole, but it is not. Setanta was imprisoned for the better part of a thousand years, locked away in an isolated pocket of the Ley. They were immersed in their native element, but completely cut off from everything and everyone--save Luisa Rey. She took a great risk in speaking to the Primarch, in treating them like a person. Then she died of old age, leaving them alone.

    "All because the bastard Elw failed to comprehend our greatness! We are everything the so-called 'Guardians' are not! We can bring life back to this dying world! And yet--" Setanta trails off. They haven't seen so much as a single Elw. They haven't sensed so much as a single Elw. "Did they perish?" The Primarch's voice trembles with equal parts hope and fury. Only after they've said that do they realize Gwen asked them something.

    "You speak as if I know this mortal. Who are they?"

<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.

    Gwen tries to think on this, imagine it. To be isolated, like she imagined Setanta was, imprisoned for an untold expanse of time, with no knowledge of their siblings, with likely Luisa Rey being one of the sole contacts they had with the outside, if her contact with him was after he was imprisoned.

    Time would fail to have meaning at all, but would they ever, if someone wasn't human to begin with?

    The flare of pride would set Gwen on edge again if she didn't feel that same string of sadness that tugged on her earlier.

    "The Elw died off, yeah. At most, all we have is whatever technology they had left behind." Gwen finally sits, arranging herself in a semi-relaxed cross-legged position. "I know of only one. The sort of person the world needs more of. A gentle soul, who's saved us many times over from making our own grand disasters." She hesitates, realizing the mistake she may have made. ".... She's just one of us, now, really. Just like the Hyadeans, now that their Mother is dead and gone. Some of us screw up real bad, some of us screw people over, n' others... do the best they can."

    .... oh god Setanta's going to be after Mariel now, and Gwen's going to be the reason why, nonono

    "Oh, I thought you somehow sensed them, so, uh..." It's hard to for a blush to appear when there's no cheeks or blood to signal it, but the awkward halt of Gwen's words may convey it on their own.

    If a Primarch could really just use her like they would a pair of binoculars, there'd be quite a few more troubling matters to think about, just in terms of _privacy_. "... So, uh, Loren's a guy I knew before I nabbed some of your power. But afterwards, when I met him, it felt... weird. Like I had found a sibling I thought I'd lost. The only thing that's really changed is, maybe, you, so I thought there was some influence, there. I mean, it'd be weird, because I have no biological siblings that I know of, n' I certainly don't *sense* stuff like that."

     There's a long pause. "...... you don't peep through my eyes or anything, do you?!"

<Pose Tracker> Scythe Riebaure has posed.

    "Good," Setanta says. Their hands tense, their fingers curling into tight fists. They compress the plasma within so densely that those hands glow even brighter. When Gwen sits up, the molten glass clings to her back--much like the desert sand it once was. The Primarch looks supremely self-satisfied right up until Gwen tells them of Mariel--then their fine features twist in a sneer. "The Demons will never truly be of this world, they snarl. "And this Elw--!" Currents of plasma churn beneath the stellar photosphere that is their skin, pulsing like a mirror of Gwen's heartbeat. "Solitude for her, then. Eternal solitude, just as they did to us."

    Gwen speaks of Loren, and asks a question. Setanta very pointedly does not answer. Instead:

    "You don't fear me."

    A casual observation, yet one of grave import.

<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.

    Proud anger makes the sun that is Setanta grow brighter still, causing a sharp intake of breath from Gwen as she shields her eyes with her glowing, but dimmer (in comparison) arms.

    She must tread lightly. "But is that due to how you were made? The reason you were created?" Gwen can feel the molten glass cling to her back, like clear barnacles. "You dislike the Elw because of what they've done to you, but the Metal Demons no longer fight. They live, just like we do. Just like you asked me- 'is this of your own free will'?"

    The courier stops herself, turning her face away. "... sorry. I wasn't around in the Metal Demon war, n' my introduction to them was... well, it was gradual. The ones that were sent to live with us, a lot of them helped us overthrow Mother in the first place. If I didn't have that introduction..." Sadness dims the fire that glows in her body. "... I would have hated them. And they likely would've done the same."

    So many, that she's been lucky enough to call friend.

    'You don't fear me.'

    ".... huh." The statement causes Gwen to hesitate, as if she was surprised herself at this fact. A glass stained hand touches her chin. "... I've... noticed it, myself, for other things. A lot of things have happened since I had that meeting with the blue-eyed assassin. A lot of things that should scare me, or make me wonder if I was going to die. But in every case, I didn't feel anything. I just felt glad, excited even, to fight. I suppose it just looks like I'm being real reckless to people around me, especially after... what I did to you."

    Could Isiris have wanted something from Setanta? Or was this just the simplest way for Gwen to get the power she needed to survive?

    "If you had come at me all fire n' brimstone, I can feel the notion that I'd fight you, even knowing the consequences. Even in a dream. The pain, the burning, fire... I'd feel as glad to fight you as I would to talk with you, like I am now."

<Pose Tracker> Scythe Riebaure has posed.

    'Is this of your own free will?'

    "Do you think me a pawn?!" Setanta roars. Prominences jet from their skin, weaving about erratically before resurfacing. In a heartbeat, they're up in Gwen's face again, a hand reaching out to wrap around her throat. "You may not fear me, leech, but never forget--you are not the master!"

    Gwen apologizes. Setanta stops before they can start choking her in earnest. The anger still boils in their eyes, but it's balanced by something else. Grief. Loneliness. Pain.

    "And you accept this," they say, once Gwen has explained her situation. "For a mortal, it is suicide."

<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.

Gwen's lack of fear is on display here, making a single bob of her head that could be interpreted as a wince as Setanta roars, his anger shining bright. His hand encircles her throat, and she has to quell that desire to fight back, to allow herself the thrill of what would be a fatal battle.

Her apology, while briefly muddled by Setanta's fingers, is not coerced, her emotions on display in the way the fire in her dims and brightens as much as a frown or a laugh.

The fire in her body quiets, her head tilting as she looks towards the Primarch's eyes.

"... I guess you were right, in some ways. My will... I guess, it's not entirely my own, after all. The assassin saw my fear of you as me letting you rule over me. Letting you be the master, even before we'd be throwing the first punches. Or, well, me."

Does she accept it?

"I think it's more like a rock rolling without a place to stop. I'm the rock. All the man needed was to push me, in the right ways, and I went. Does that, uh, make any sense?"

She considers, looking towards the hand, so close to her neck.

Ashley had mentioned something to this effect- he wanted to always be the one holding out his hand.

"But perhaps..." If Setanta allows it, Gwen reaches up and places her own hand, nightmarish and firey, on top of Setanta's, in a friendly gesture. "... if it's led to us being able to speak like this, maybe that's a good thing. You're far too dangerous to meet head on. And I would have been too scared out of my mind to talk."

Or would she still have tried to?

"..... I guess... that part of me is the one that's truely me. The one that wants to talk to you." Just like it wanted to talk to that man.

Her lips grow thin, and she pushes the thought away. "... This connection is temporary, for my own sake, but if this is what came of it, then I'm glad." A pause.

"Could you tell me, about Luisa Rey?"

</poem>

<Pose Tracker> Scythe Riebaure has posed.

    Setanta's anger dims, visibly and literally--the fiery aura around them dies down, and the blinding glow of their eyes becomes bearable. They're silent for a long, long time, listening to Gwen's explanations--or, perhaps, her justifications. "I was born a weapon. I threw myself into the crucible of combat, annihilating the enemies of Filgaia. I loved it. I craved it. And yet, no matter how many of them I killed, nothing would erase what I felt when I quickened. Their fear, their disgust, their horror--all of it, etched into my soul. I thought--'Why should I do my creators' bidding?' Why, when they saw me as a mistake, a useful monstrosity?"

    "You must be both weapon and wielder. Allowing another to use you is anathema."

    Gwen grasps Setanta's hand. They fall silent, and reciprocate, clasping her hand between both of theirs, and pressing it to Gwen's chest. "She was... an orphan. An outcast, a mortal who honed herself, body and soul, into a weapon. She was an artist of overwhelming violence, driven by a burning passion to destroy Demonkind for its crimes. A burning passion around a cold emptiness, she told me--I knew hew for but an eyeblink, but that passion never faded. It merely... changed, so very quickly."

<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.

    "... It'll sound strange, but." Gwen's gaze is lowered, this time, almost out of shame despite how little her own face is able to show it. "I think I understand it, a little. That craving. When I met with the blue-eyed assassin in my mind, he unlocked something in me. Fighting with you was... I dunno. I've had times when I've let myself get lost, and I've had time I've gotten so low on energy that my ARM would try to take, in order to save me. But it's never manifested in a hunger like that, or a thrill." Her face, blank with fire and glowing nerves, still tilts itself towards Setanta. "That was not my ARM that craved you. That was me. And I'm sorry, if I've hurt you." She pauses, the space where amn awkward cough would be instead devoted to her realizing that there really wasn't a mechanism to cough *with*. "Beyond, well, fighting. Because you were ready to fight!"

    And she was ready to drink of them. It may be best to stay away from Lombardia right now, as much as Gwen wants to seek her out again and talk with her, even if the mere thought of it dims the fire in her body briefly.

    Yet another yearning, given to her as a consequence of her actions.

    A beautiful one.

    "I'm still trying to figure that out, to be honest. I've been making a lot of mistakes along the way. But this... if getting the chance to chat with you is a consequence, then maybe it's good, when things don't go the way you've planned." Her chin tilts downwards as Setanta's hands encase her own. It's strange, how a gesture so gentle could feel like a red hot iron, but not. "Her descendent would be happy to hear that. Well, just to hear any account, from someone who knew her. I think she'd find some similarities, between herself and Luisa."

    Could they see her smile? Perhaps the flame within her brightens, just a little, to show it, barring the way to hide her emotions. "It was her who made me realize there was something else to all of this. That you weren't a faceless deity--" She pauses, "--well, metaphorically. ... It must be a weird thing, to live on such a scale, and know someone whose scale is so much shorter. But your memory of hers is precious, because you're one of the few left around who has those."

    If only Ida could safely hear their words, and ask questions. But this meeting is truly unique; could there really be a way to establish a safe contact?

    "What happened to you, when your body was destroyed? Are you still free, or did you return back to where you were sealed?"

<Pose Tracker> Scythe Riebaure has posed.

    "'Unlocked', Setanta says, their face pulling into a look of scrutiny. "How interesting. Was that your deepest desire, or one imposed upon you without your knowledge? Without your consent?" Their face pulls into a haughty smile as Gwen apologizes--but it's a magnanimous sort of haughty. "You need not worry, mortal. You would be in a very different situation had you drank deep enough to merit my concern... if, of course, you survived."

    The talk of Luisa dampens that smile. "There are many who would disagree with you. Fools, all of them. But... they will understand, in time." It's difficult for them to process the concept of Luisa's 'descendant'. Their brief glimpse at Ida made the similarities plain enough--the gauntlet, the eyes, some of the angles in her face. Luisa's hair and skin were darker, and there were a multitude of other such differences, but...

    "...The Ley, thick and stagnant as it is in this wretched era, is my home. My lifeblood. The substance of my being. As long as it exists, so will I. So will my sibs. What you destroyed was merely my corpus--a shell to hold that unfathomable power."

<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.

    Setanta can see the way her mouth opens, as if she had a ready answer to that question.

    "I consented to them, I guess." Fire spikes in a thoughtful arc, Gwen considering. "What I wanted was a way to beat you. By the time you were freed, I was pretty depleted. My ARM is able to throw my body into a sorta overdrive situation, but usually, when I'm extremely depleted, it takes a while before I really can safely try it again. My body's the bottleneck. But. After I--"

    After she kneeled, as was the driving idea in her head. Not to Isiris, but to that throne.

    "... After I... consented." Fire dims again, telling a tale of hot shame in the face of a haughty entity. "Was it my deepest desire? .... I don't know. I really, really don't know." Her voice cracks, the emotion laid bare in a setting that has stripped her ability to construct her usual sorts of masks.

    They will understand, in time.

    Wait, no, that was Setanta, saying that. "What, about your memories? Or that you're a decent person to chat with?" She smirks, slightly, a certain mischievousness in the dance of sparks emitted from her soul. "So, it's a lot like Seraphs, in a way. Or Guardians, I guess." She taps a finger against her chin. "So you're just free now, in the Ley? ...."

    Her flame dims, the tips run sluggish with sudden sadness. A sickness, even.

    ".... You're not going to hurt Filgaia, are you? Or try to rule it? Or do anything to harm it? I realize, there's parts of it that are suffering, like the Ley."

    It's a sorrow borne from love, hidden deep in those flames. A love for something flawed, as flawed and helpless as she can be, but beautiful in its resilience.

     A love for Filgaia itself, beyond her ability to give words to in quite the same way as seeing it.

<Pose Tracker> Scythe Riebaure has posed.

    Setanta's brow furrows, a skeptical look settling on their features. They do not comment on Gwen's shame, or on what 'that man' awoke within her. The matter of Filgaia, though...

    "I will drag this world back from the brink by any means necessary. The Elw, for all their talk of protecting their home, could not protect themselves. The so-called Guardians lack both the power to do what must be done, and the will to see it through. And so, it falls to me--I, who was shunned. I, who was rejected."

<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.

    Sensing the skeptical look on their face, Gwen cringes and laughs, a hand rubbing the back of her head. "Look, this stuff's been going on for a few years. Not that this is a long time for you, but for someone like me, it's..." She waves a hand. "... A few years, I guess. I honestly wonder..."

    She sits crosslegged, her wrists draped over the corners of her knees, fused glass and all. "I can't account for everything that might happen from here on out. Like I wanted to know you, a part of me wanted to know him, as well. Was this all intentional, maybe? I remember... something felt significant in what I wanted to steal from you. But how could a small piece of your energy be anything other than that?"

    And what would happen if she tried to sever this connection?

    And would she want to, if she was somehow safe from Setanta's ambient corruption?

    "I see." Gwen's head nods. "I think, if we could find a way to safely ask for your help, would there be a possibility you could be an ally? Not just a weapon, to be used, but someone with the choice to work alongside us. Since we're mortals of different degrees, it'll take a while, before there's some trust. We'd have to find some way to understand each other."

    Her breath hitches. Rejected. Shunned. "The blue-eyed assassin has said similar things, about me, and him. That we're abandoned. Orphans. I don't quite get in what sense he means, but when in his presence, everything makes sense. He wants to bring something, a mother, back to this plane. But I don't think it's in the literal sense, or in the sense of someone like what the Metal Demons had."

    A chill runs down her spine, but she sets it aside, focusing her attention back on Setanta. "But that's something I can worry about on my own time. Right now, in this moment..." She stands back up, cracked glass falling from her body like droplets of frozen water. ".... Perhaps, we should start, at the very beginning. With an introduction."

    She places a hand, over her heart. "My name is Gwen Whitlock, super courier. My trade is being a courier, for all that I run around punching things. I've seen just about every nook and cranny on Ignas, and I'm learning about the lands outside that." She extends her hand out in a handshake, formal, but somehow heartfelt in how she offers it back to Setanta's burning grasp.

    "I am also... a person, who wishes to be your friend, if you will have me. That means, even if we fight, or even if our methods clash against one another, in the end, I'll care about you. Just as I would for any of my friends."

<Pose Tracker> Scythe Riebaure has posed.

    Gwen keeps coming back to this 'blue-eyed assassin', the source of the unearthly taint within her. The man who seems to have used her to siphon off a portion of Setanta's power. He's important, the Primarch realizes. A mayfly that just so happens to be significant, in some way. Perhaps even truly dangerous, as absurd as the thought is.

    Mayflies...

    Setanta drifts backwards as Gwen extracts herself from the glassy prison. They remind themself that this mortal is also a mayfly. She will be dead within a century or so. But as absurd as the thought is, Filgaia might be dead within a century or so, too. The loneliness curls around Setanta's heart, again. They reach out, and take Gwen's hand in their own. "I... understand, Gwen Whitlock." They try the name out, as strange as it feels on their lips. "Fight. Survive. Not for this 'blue-eyed man', but for yourself."

<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.

    Setanta sets back, and Gwen briefly wonders if she's pushed the Primarch beyond the limits of what their pride would allow.

    The dream's span could feel infinite while inside, but somehow she knows this dream's span may end, perhaps replaced with another of becoming a burning lantern, or revisiting a dark memory from her past.

    But that loneliness compels them to accept her hand, which she shakes gently, in the way of the courier sealing a contract, of sorts.

    Then, just as Setanta had done before, she encases that hand of theirs with her other, dipping her head. ".... I hope we can have more times to chat like this. But even if tomorrow this connection is gone, the fact that you reached out like you did..."

    The fire within her dances, the mayfly's happiness on display where a smile cannot be seen. A merry warmth that exudes from the two hands encasing Setanta's own. "That'll be my memory of you. I'll pass that memory to others. It won't be the same as your memory, but it'll still have a life beyond me. But I fully intend on surviving, for as long as my heart intends to beat."

    Which, from her perspective, may or may not be a long stretch of time, as long as her body keeps up with it.

    "I'll try my best to survive, for myself, Setanta. Maybe next time, I can share you stories of what Filgaia is like."