#kysurax

[rivaldi22]

Senescence

“Can you come down for a second? I’m tired.” Heulog-12 waves to the Wizard listing from side to side in the afternoon air above, her metallic skin catching the desperate light of the setting sun and throwing it back into her weary eyes. “Kyse, sweetheart, please, can you c—I’m tired, my legs need a rest. Is it alright if we stop for a bit? Come down here so I can talk to you. Kysurax!”

The Wizard, startled from her reverie, loops downward. “I apologize, I was admiring these changing leaves, the precise methodology by which the color fades its way across the individual pinnae. To me it makes of death a beautiful pantomime.”

Heulog-12 leans against a tree, massaging her hip. The trunk groans a protest in the form of a quiet creak, and a single reddish brown leaf comes loose, spiraling through the cool air until it lands on her shoulder.

“Oh? Not a mockery?” she asks with spent amusement, as she considers the leaf on her shoulder.

Kysurax rumbles a laugh, twirls in the air towards the Exo, picking up the leaf and examining it closely. Her eyes narrow, and her mandibular flankplates draw up and in. A smile. Heulog-12 forgets her sore hip for a moment.

“You are correct: a younger Kysurax, a narrower Kysurax would think so,” she says between scratchy hums. “That this cycle mimics a pattern of death and rebirth that makes no mark into the flesh of the universe, that cuts nothing away, that takes nothing out, solves nothing.”

“And now? What does a Kysurax so tempered by the ceaseless procession of her own experiences think?” Heulog-12 asks, her voice colored by loving, playful curiosity.

Holding the leaf’s stem between her thumb and forefinger, Kysurax spins the leaf and peers through its blurred, decaying form at the exhausted Exo beside her. “That each new leaf bears the invisible scars of its forebears, and sings silent testimony of everything that has ever happened to it.” She holds the leaf still in her palm for a moment, running a single claw down its papery face. The dry lamina gives way under the sharp pressure and a small tear forms. This prompts Kysurax to raise the leaf to one of Heulog-12’s antennae and impale it in a form of crude ornamentation, humming in satisfaction. “It is beautiful, and true.”

“Like molting,” Heulog-12 suggests, caressing the Wizard’s chitinous forearm. “Each fresh casting another movement in the stepwise dance with our most current selves. A miracle of becoming I am privileged to behold.” She takes Kysurax’s hand and presses her cheek to it.

The Wizard drifts closer, placing her free hand on Heulog-12’s other cheek. “Even the Exo facsimile has its aging processes; the various servos, actuators, and couplings need maintenance and replacing. It is not quite the same, as these replacement parts are not born of you specifically, but of the Human apparatus. Your body bears the history of your entire culture. Also beautiful.”

Heulog-12 admits a small sheepish laugh. “I suppose. A living history exhibit. Normally this would all be irrelevant for the likes of us, with our Ghosts. Any time our bodies failed us, there we’d be, fresh and new. But since everything that happened inside the Traveler, it’s been…quiet. Relatively speaking, of course. There’s always a conflict somewhere. I’m thankful that the Vanguard has been letting me take a step back from regular duty, to let me spend more time with you, to…age.” She looks down at her aching hip.

“A small blessing to—is your leg bothering you?” Kysurax gasps. “You were trying to get my attention. Oh, my sharpness, I am sorry.” The Wizard cradles Heulog-12’s face in her hands and presses her forehead to hers. “Shall I carry you home?”

Heulog closes her eyes, sighing with a reluctant nod.

—

Kysurax floats slowly by the rows of trees as she makes her way back to the Guardians’ quarters, Heulog cradled in her arms. The Wizard had read about various Human matrimony traditions, and allowed herself to indulge in silently relishing the similarities.

“You should let me carry you more often; I am stronger than you.” Kysurax said with a chirping trill: a sound only possible because of the spiracular passages that form part of her Deathsinger modifications, a sound that colors her boastful claim with jocular mischief. Heulog-12 loved these unique sounds, the products of a weapon bent toward peace, the invisible scars that sing their beautiful testimony.

But Heulog-12 had long fallen asleep.

[gnostichor]

That Cloud and Its Auxiliaries Are Forever

Heulog-12 drops herself onto the shaded bench, slouched shoulders heavy with inelegant worry. She had just returned from Titan by means of that disorienting portal installed aboard the HELM, and the nausea caused by whatever esoteric technologies that power that thing had yet to wear off. She wearily sets her helmet next to her, and when its clumsy placement sends it clattering to the paving stones she cannot bring herself to reach down and retrieve it. The helmet’s metallic ringing fades, giving way to the familiar silence of this darkened back alley behind the Tower Bazaar where she and Kysurax like to meet.

A nearby wall tears open with a green scream, and from between the bricks emerges the Risen Wizard herself. Gliding closer, she wordlessly picks up the helmet and lowers herself awkwardly on the undersized bench. At first she says nothing, looking down at the helmet in her lap as if it were Heulog herself, then asks, “Is it true?”

The Exo sighs, leaning back until the metal of her head pings against the brick. “It is.”

Kysurax fitfully runs her claws down through the grooves of the helmet’s shell, tracing its history through the etches, marks, and gouges found along its weathered surfaces. “When is it to take place—will it even work?”

“Soon, and I have no idea if it will work. There’s a small angry wound somewhere inside me that hopes that maybe it won’t.”

In response, Kysurax finally looks at Heulog, her eyes green-hot with some inscrutable emotion. “Why wo—”

“BECAUSE SHE HURT ME, KY.” She hadn’t meant to raise her voice, pulling herself from the wall to meet the Wizard’s gaze. She quickly realized that she had never actually said those words aloud before, and they simply had needed to get out. “She led me to believe that she wanted to change, that just maybe she saw ahead of her a possible path born by the fruits of honesty, reparations, and,” she struggles with the word, “...forgiveness. That there was space in the world for the likes of us, and that it was worth searching for.” She turns away, facing forward as the heat of her indignance gutters out. “That she was my friend. And I believed it.” 

After a moment she looks up at Kysurax, all anger given way to sadness. “I used to read to her. Off-duty, I would bring whatever I could from the libraries that week and just…read to her: novels, textbooks, old newspapers, poetry. She told me how happy it made her, how fascinating it was just how much she could learn about me merely by what I chose to bring down with me each time, how nice of a change it was to have a fulfilling relationship with someone after all those countless gray eons. A Cloud withdrew from the Sky. Pre-Golden Age poem. She told me it was her favorite of everything I ever brought to her.”

Heulog sighs, shaking her head. “And then she was Risen. A new start. Memories wiped clean. It broke my heart, finding out that that had been her plan all along: that every moment she spent with me was knowingly going to be tossed away like a shed skin.” Her voice catches in her throat. “But that wasn’t the plan, was it? She left a trail of clues for this desperate, heartbroken and guileless Warlock to follow, and got her memories back—some, but not all. Just the useful ones. Not the time we spent together, or the things she said to me, or all those supposed insights gleaned from my behavior. She just…she did not want it.” Heulog felt the modulation of her voice, the microtremors cascading through the tiny actuators that clicked and whirred beneath the plates of her face, the gentle flickering of the lamps behind her eyes: she was crying. 

“She could have, I don’t know, she could have made something else so she could remember, some—something different, for us, a new, different thing for us, for the altar, to remember with the altar, before she ran away. Before she ran away to die and forget—to forget about me. But she didn’t want it. She didn’t want it and she forgot about me. She didn’t—why didn’t she want me?” Her shoulders heaving with sobs, Heulog throws herself around Kysurax’s midsection as best she can, clumsy and awkward as her metal fingers tangle and catch on the chitinaceous cage of ribs and spines. Kysurax carefully extracts the Exo’s hands and gently lifts her upright into a more comfortable position and wraps her arms around her, pulling her in close while stroking a shimmering cheek with one claw.

“I am sorry. I did not know all of that,” says the Wizard as tenderly as her flayed throat will allow.

“That’s because I’ve never told anyone—I’ve never talked about this with anyone before; I suppose I never felt like I could. I am,” Heulog sniffles with a newfound sense of self-consciousness, “very sorry for throwing all that at your feet, all at once.”

“It was something you clearly needed to do, and it sharpens my bones that you trust me enough to have let it out.”

Heulog turns to look up at Kysurax, ducking under the claw caressing her cheek in order to readjust her positioning to rest her head affectionately in the Wizard’s leathery palm. “But this news clearly weighs upon you too, and it is unfair of me to dominate our conversation with my clearly-biased reactionary nonsense.”

Kysurax’s three eyes flash. “It is NOT nonsense. As the shape of the Sword defines the shape of the cut, so too does the cut in turn redefine the ever-wearing edge of the Sword. What we call a life is a collected series of impressions left upon us by those we touch and those who touch us. Your hurt is as real as the blade that gave it to you: the threat of Savathûn’s return manifests that hurt in ways you have not had to deal with in over a year.”

Kysurax haunts the alley with a soft sigh. “To clarify my own feelings: I also find myself wondering if it would be best if the ritual failed.”

“Really? Why?”

“I am afraid.”

“That she’ll come back and simply return to her pernicious bullshit?”

Kysurax laughs, or makes a sound that Heulog has come to recognize as laughter: gravel being sifted through with a rusty shovel. It’s one of Heulog’s favorite sounds, and she has made it a lifelong goal to hear it as often as she can.

The Wizard composes herself, returning to her usual, more serious affect. “No, I am afraid,” she takes a deep breath. “I am afraid that she will not. Afraid that the person you thought she was will finally arrive. Seeking redemption, forgiveness. What sort of future, then, would we have to look forward to? What does such a world look like? Is one even possible? What if she comes back to us seeking change and is denied it, held down and chained by a vengeful cosmos unwilling to move beyond the countless millennia of aggregate harm she has inflicted upon it, irrespective of any alleged motivations she may or may not have had at the time? What kind of world makes allowances for the existence of Savathûn the Witch Queen, Repentant? What are you or I in the face of such uncertain tomorrows? What would become of us? Would you still love me as you do now?”

With each enumerated concern, Kysurax’s words become increasingly pressured and frantic; Heulog has never seen her like this before. She sits up straight and reaches one arm behind the Wizard’s back to cradle her thorax, while carefully slipping her free hand between the ribbed lattice of her bony exoskeleton. She reaches around, searching for the dense nerve bundle deep within and finds it, recognizable by its faint, rhythmic thrumming. She places her palm on its tough surface, and begins to hum a softly-dissonant melody: a lesser invocation calling on the strength of the listener, normally sung to newborn Hive just as they are being administered their worm larvae—a lullaby, once used by Kysurax to calm Heulog after a particularly harrowing encounter down in the depths of the recently-returned Titan.

Heulog holds herself as close as she can and continues to hum. She couldn’t yet form the vocalizations, and maybe would never be able to do so, but she hoped that for now the acrid notes alone would suffice. That through the burgeoning haze of unchecked anxiety Kysurax would be able to recall the invoking words and hear the earnest appeal to her inner strength, the words that define that strength as extant and obligate it to come forth, to inhabit her bones and manifest as the truest form of her will. The words that assert that she, as a single unified force of will and body—in defiance of all existence—shall persist.

Heulog feels the thrumming slow, its rhythmic cadence aligning with her own deep breaths. She gently removes her hand from Kysurax’s torso and feels the Wizard’s arms close around her, pulling her into a tight embrace.

“I am afraid,” Kysurax finally says, calm returned to her voice. “But I temper that fear with the certainty that I will be alright, because you are with me.” She looks down at the Exo in her arms, into the starblue flames that are her eyes, and smiles. “I do not doubt, for I have seen your heart. As you have seen mine. That is the power intrinsic to the Yielding Inquisition: there is no obfuscating act of misdirection, no factor of deceit that can withstand the abrading blade of trust conjured by the ritual. Truly, I have known you, and that secret knowledge is a weapon with which I joyfully flense and cast aside any and all flesh given over to the rot of doubt.”

At the ritual’s mention, a sense memory comes rushing unbidden to Heulog: the sour burn of the soulfire clinging to her lips, the infracitrus sting pooling on her tongue. She nestles close, her face half-buried in chitin; a non-verbal reciprocation of Kysurax’s expressed sentiments. It had been quite some time since that night, and the memory of it was a constant companion in Heulog’s thoughts. Maybe she would finally allow herself to ask Kysurax if she wanted to perform the ritual again. Maybe tonight, Heulog thought to herself as she listened to the rise and fall of the Wizard’s calm breath, watching the clouds over the City recede one by one into the horizon.

[rivaldi22]

Hey! One of the things I've been working on in recent months was doing some animation for this Multi Animator Project!

It was a lot of fun, a lot of work (42 individual drawings!), and everyone involved did an amazing job!

Hey everyone!! Look what's premiering in one hour!!!

This project was so much fun!!! Everyone did amazing with their parts PLEASE go check out the video description for everyone's socials and show them some love!! We all worked super hard on this and hope you enjoy it as much as we do!! ｡･ﾟ･(ﾉ▽`)･ﾟ･。

[antlerlad]

bug wifes for @rivaldi22 !

[gnostichor]

Neptune

“The names you give your planets,” asks the Wizard, breaking the silence between the broken glass crunch of Heulog-12’s footsteps. “What is their meaning? What is…’Jupiter’, what is ‘Neptune’ or ‘Saturn’?” Heulog hadn’t noticed, but the Wizard had slowed their glide to stop in front of a stylized mural depicting the Sol System; such displays were not uncommon in the Cosmodrome.

Heulog hums in astonishment. “I didn’t realize you could read Old Russian.”

The Wizard hesitates for a moment, sinking a bit closer to the floor. “...I cannot. I have read the records of them in the World’s Grave. The Grave is replete with empiric information: names, locations, recent history, but there is little by way of semantic relevance. There is little there concerned with meaning.”

“Meaning?” Heulog is surprised to hear such soft concepts be sanctioned by such sharp teeth. She thinks for a moment, then sighs. “I don’t suppose this counts as Vanguard intel, but nevertheless let’s just keep these…encounters to ourselves for the time being, yeah? This is like the third time in as many months that we’ve bumped into eac—”

“Coincidences and nothing more.” The Wizard hisses with pressed urgency.

“As you’ve insisted. Repeatedly. Now, the planets. They come from old religions. Pre-Golden Age. I’ve read in the Cryptarchy about the mythologies of ancient Rome, though I am no expert; that was more Tyra’s thing. See, they were polytheistic, and came up with personified representations of natural phenomena in order to explain the sometimes capricious and unpredictable behavior of the world around them. Jupiter was the god of the sky, and thunderstorms. Neptune was the god of the sea. Saturn was the god of…time? And agriculture? Wealth? A lot of things, the man was busy.”

The Wizard turns to the Warlock. “Sad that your ancestors had to fabricate gods for themselves, whereas we the Hive are blessed with the knowledge that ours walk among us. It must have been a lonely time in Earth’s history, so removed were you from any and all divinity.”

The Exo scoffs. “You presuppose it would be better had our gods walked among us, implanting ontopathogenic parasites along the way?”

“I didn’t say our way was ‘better’, I said that yours was ‘sad’ and ‘lonely’. Two different things can be undesirable for different reasons.” The Wizard turns and resumes drifting down the hallway of broken glass. “So your planets are named for gods which were allegorical constructs representing concepts. But the meaning is still missing. Why is the planet Jupiter given the name of your thundergod, why is the planet Neptune given that of your god of—” She searches for the word. ”Waves?”

Heulog shrugs. “Your guess is as good as mine. Jupiter is the biggest, Neptune is the bluest? I get the impression it was less about 1:1 semantic matchup, and more about a feeling. An emotion.”

“Do you name yourselves through the same heuristic?”

“Sometimes, sure.”

The Wizard thinks on this a moment. After stopping themselves short three times, they finally ask, “What is the emotion of ‘Heulog’?”

The Exo stops and looks directly at the Wizard. “How do you know my name?”

Curving away in recoil, the Wizard falters. “I—Your Ghost, I overheard it from your Ghost. It talks very loudly.”

Checking the pocket inside her robes where Alder likes to stay when physically manifested, Heulog is greeted by the sleepy, but very silent, glowblue grin of her best friend. Heulog smiles, mouths the word “hey,” and tucks her robes back into place, turning to face the Wizard. “We both know that’s not true.” Her narrowed eyes widen with sudden excitement. “Wait. Do I have an entry in the World’s Grave?!”

The Wizard, unsure, barely above a whisper, admits, “Yes. It is where I first heard about you. It was…intriguing to me. You were not at all like I expected.”

Heulog squints, amused, at the quavering Wizard. “We are going to have to have a sit-down at some point so you can tell me all about what sort of wild, exaggerated fan-fiction the Hive have scrawled about me. But to answer your question: it means “sunny” in Cymraeg, also known as ‘Welsh’ in English, because the provenance of English is one of giving names to things that already have names. The intent behind my name? I don’t know, maybe it was because of my winning smile and warm disposition. Unfortunately I cannot ask the last person who used this body.”

“I understand,” the Wizard lies, affecting a posture of thoughtfulness and introspection.

“Why this interest in the meaning of names? Is this an important subject in Hive cul—” She stops herself, smirks and shakes her head in self-admonishment. She walks over to the Wizard, reaches up, and gently tugs on her claw. Such is the size difference that she can only manage to grab a single digit. “Hey. What’s your name?”

The Wizard’s three eyes flash. “I am called Kysurax. Its meaning is that of sea-foam: sea-foam of the God-wave, the lingering impression of green logic left behind in the wake of final destruction. It means ‘beautiful,’ and it means ‘me’.”

“I understand,” Heulog lies. Her posture of thoughtfulness and introspection, however, is genuine. “Hell of a thing to be named after though, right? In the wake of, y’know, recent developments and all that? Finding out the wave was a lie?” She had been absent-mindedly pushing around shards of glass with the toe of her boot; they had now gathered together into a small pile. “So much fuss over fake gods, huh?”

Kysurax looks at the Exo, considering her rhetorical questions. “Like Neptune?”

Heulog looks back at the Wizard with a guileless grin. “Like Neptune.”

[rivaldi22]

"Consider the gelato, sen-Luzaku—its melting, ephemeral nature reminds us: be not cowed by vacillation lest beauty and opportunity elude us."

"My skull hurts."

"That is an added, auxiliary lesson: the value of temperance in the face of Humanity's frozen treats. Press your voicing nodule against the roof of your mouth."

My submission for Solar Embrace, Vol. 5, by @d2artevents

A direct follow-up to this earlier drawing:

[rivaldi22]

something like a kysurax human-sona