A wooden desk, complete with chair, stationary, lamp and paper. Quite normal. It sits alone, central in a dim grotto of ancient trees. Warped branches intertwine to form a low, domed ceiling. Not so normal.
The silence is oppressing. Unnatural. Charged. Blue and orange balls of light drift lazily, illuminating the circular space in a soft glow of contrasting colours. Not quite fireflies.
Soft footsteps, slow and calculated. Cautious. A tall figure approaches the desk. The coloured orbs of tiny light retreat, shying away from the sudden invasion of flaming gold. The figure carries a shadow of leather and blackened steel. A suit. Most notably a helmet sits atop the neatly folded pile, the black visor immaculately smooth except for its shattered left cheek. Points, like claws, hold the visor to the mask, cut from fine black leather and flowing over the head and down the neck in wide strips, appearing to mimic the flow of muscle. The rest of the uniform is equally carefully crafted, although it shows layers of use and damage, hastily repaired and quickly modified in places.
“Make use of this, Xenair.” The words are muttered as tired, golden eyes flash over the reflective surface of the cracked visor. The figure turns on their heel and strides away, slipping through a barely detectable opening between wizened tree trunks.
Time passes. How much is indistinguishable in the quiet isolation of the grotto.
Silence. Stillness.
And then, as if attracted to a magnet, floating flecks of warm and cool light begin to converge at the back wall of trees. They swarm around each other, their light becoming stark white as they compress and form a makeshift lock. A moment passes before a key is thrust through from the other side and turned. The lock splits and stretches into a fissure, its edges turning bright white, still sparking with blue and orange as the orbs dance around each other, fighting for a place to rip the trees apart further.
A brown gloved hand pushes out of the tear and pulls it open, smoky shadows lick at the glowing edges of the fissure as it widens. And a giant steps out.
Polished brown brogues flash from under long, heavy robes, a blue deep enough to appear black in the dimming light. A tawny brown fur is draped over broad shoulders, deep red scorpion tail long enough to trail behind as the figure strides forward. Laying across the fur is a banner, royal blue and smoky black, patterned with glimmering copper thread depicting keys and chains running through offset squares, bordered with clean lines and delicate embroidery of honeysuckle flowers. The giant approaches its desk and looks down to the donated suit. Its head is a skull reminiscent of a rabbits, its bone blackened and jaw solid and lined with carnivorous teeth, canine like, the biggest of which capped with polished copper. Ram horns extend from the cranium, ashy black and tipped with a gently fading white, banded with more copper, some polished, some oxidised, stained with dull green. From one of the thinner bands hangs a steel house key, strangely modern looking in comparison to the ancient appearance of the giants other features.
The creature sits and removes one leather glove to reveal a black skeletal hand, the bones of the fingertips also tipped with fading white. It tilts the helmet upwards by the jaw to inspect its appearance.
“Make use of this, Xenair.” The memory of that last request echoes back to him as Xenair traces the jagged edges of the masks shattered cheek.
The grotto is heavy with silence as he contemplates the gift. He stands, bringing the suit with him and laying it flat on the mossy floor, smoothing out creases and seemingly marvelling at intricate little channels holding wires, sensors and other miniature technology, all finely stitched in and around the seams of the uniform.
Little orbs of light congregate around the skull headed giant as he hunches over his new project, investigating the curious signs of experience: cracked leather, frayed canvas, scratched metal, pulled wires. Copper thread, a patch of old hide, a deep blue sash draped over a shoulder secured with a brown leather belt adorned with pouches full of unassigned keys, small balled up nets and rolls of black paper. Xenair works, repairing, decorating, blending original with new and new with ancient. Occasionally on completing an addition he plucks one of the dancing lights from the air around him, holding it onto the repair as it melts into the material, causing the mismatched parts to combine and blend into a singular piece. The repairs begin to become invisible, more lights are captured and consumed and an energy begins to gather around the two forms stationed in the moss.
Xenair glances the suit up and down, content with his work. Taking two more lights from the space and pressing bone hands to the cold sides of the helmet he lifts and analyses the visor. Two shadowy voids, organic and synthetic, stare at each other. Something deep within the empty eye sockets of the black skull begins to glow a gentle orange. The trapped lights respond with their own blue shine and melt into the visor, repairing its last scratches and filling the empty piece. It looks new again. As if a person is laying in it.
Xenair rises and returns to his desk, pulling a large grimoire out of a drawer and flicking on the small desk lamp. He gathers a stack of writing paper and opens the black pages of the book to begin working, paying no more attention to the suit. Once again, an unknowable amount of time passes as the giant continues to work.
Something stands in the moss nearby.
Quiet steps approach the desk.
A hollow visor, newly animated, an old patch on its neck with white numbers embroidered vertically: 7 1 3. The shoulder holds a new mark, a silvery imprint on the curved leather pauldron.
Argenti awaits orders.
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