In which the Singer and her Problem are set before the Gentle Reader. |
In which Mayg-Keha'a-Ne-ya is reminded of her Duties. |
In which the Onyx Lady dreams. |
In which the Celestial ignores (her) Duties and Place with Malice Aforethought. |
In which we Meet an Antagonist who will become Significant at a Later Date. |
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Though hidden by her mask and her enamelled carapace, the iyIxchthyynah[1] Nagaahniyka was nevertheless careful not to let her concern show itself. It was a high honor to be included in the ritual, said one part of her mind; another part kept its own council. In one smooth motion, she poured out the ivory basin containing a ritual mixture of milk-blood-nectar. The smell of it made her proboscis twitch and her antennae tremble like ferns in the wind, and she forced herself to steady. Into the center of the pool she poured a small bottle of clear liquid. The surface trembled. Heady fumes boiled silently upward, sliding smoky fingers under her mask. |
|
Though hidden by her mask and her enamelled carapace, the iyIxchthyynah[1] Nagaahniyka was nevertheless careful not to let her concern show itself. It was a high honor to be included in the ritual, said one part of her mind; another part kept its own council. In one smooth motion, she poured out the ivory basin containing a ritual mixture of milk-blood-nectar. The smell of it made her proboscis twitch and her antennae tremble like ferns in the wind, and she forced herself to steady. Into the center of the pool she poured a small bottle of clear liquid. The surface trembled. Heady fumes boiled silently upward, sliding smoky fingers under her mask. |
In which Unexpected Guests Arrive. |
In which we Pause for a moment to Contemplate the Ancient and Honored History of the Great House Neke. |
In which more Guests Arrive and Strange Rumors are Spread. |
In which an Ominous Figure finds a Grassy Knoll. |
In which Mayg-Keha'a-Ne-ya is Struck by Deja-Vu. |
In which a Young Girl is Molested by Bugs. |
In which the New Ladies are Placed on Display. |
In which Curious Augurs are heeded Pre-emptively. |
In which Cryptanalysts ply their Trade under the Waiting Eyes of their Queen-Desired. |
In which the Hive steps Back-wards, and the Queen does Not. |
In which the Rude Celestial pitches a Fit most Unmannerly and Direct. |
In which a Young Girl is Still Molested by Bugs. |
In which the New Queen speaks her First Pheremonal Command. |
In which your Humble Scribe is at a Loss And Must Be Provided A Succinct, Yet Mocking Title. =Thus: In Which An Honest Lesson In Ancient History Is Given = |
In which Shared Pain is Pain for the Quiet Mocking. |
In which Vile People do Vile Things in a Vile Place. |
A Post-Script, in which the Players discuss the Play. |
Long before the usual morning bell, the entire Neke-Ovon is in a hushed commotion: servants and servitors rushing about on last-minute errands, sleepless Ladies of the court fretting about their presentation... for today, three dozen new Ladies will hatch from their pupae, and a new High Queen will be crowned.
The Hatching Chorus is almost deafening now. It started as a quiet trilling sound from far corners of the palace, but in the past two days has built into a steady, throbbing presence, heralding the births and coronation to come. Those with sensitive ears have retreated to private rooms. The Singer long ago tuned her Serpent to phase-reverse and cancel out the sound-waves, but no system is perfect: a subtle warble rings in her ears every second of the day. She is on the verge of violence.
In her private room (a reward for apparent good behaviour and attention to her studies), she bathes, and sips a little stolen nectar to soothe her restless brain-symbiote. Her hosts implanted the symbiote in her head to keep tabs on her and report any misbehaviour, but with careful application of intoxicating nectar and self-discipline, "Little Brain" has been won over to her side. Now, the Singer talks and sings to herself almost constantly, both to drown out the incessant noise outside and to keep her Little Brain sympathetic.
"Good girl... I've got a brain that loves me, and I love my little one too... you want some more already? Silly, it's not even third bell yet. Third bell, yes, any time, it can ring any time now, I'll kill them, darling, I will, I'll pull off their spiky nasty arms and use them to ring the damn bells myself. I'll do horrible things to them with their own nasty arms and legs. Well, I think it's funny. Ahhh... is it time to get dressed already? Oh yes, you want to see, don't you? You want to see your darling Singer in her beautiful dress, don't you, darling?"
She weaves her way back to her bed to prepare for the day.
Characters/Kehari?, by contrast, hadn't spoken with her symbiote at all, but there were other ways of communicating than simple speech. She carried Maygia for an entirely different reason than the Singer. Lady Atcinna had told her that Maygia was a "scout", someone to simply observe from inside the vixen, slowly learning of the world until she was ready to emerge and take her place amongst the other Neke. Atcinna had assured her that Maygia would cause her no harm, something the vixen was inclined to believe considering the circumstances of their last meeting, but that left a lot of leeway and she knew it. The Neke larva that was merged with her nervous system hadn't done anything overt, but Kehari was still suspicious of "hidden features" given some of the things she'd begun noticing in the months since implantation, subtle hints and fleeting notions, sweet nothings that seemed to guide her behavior in a particular direction, gently suggesting she be a "good girl." The idea that Maygia might be purposefully and surreptitiously tweaking and training her towards some final goal left her intrigued, worried and excited all at once. She wasn't too concerned though; she was sure she could handle it if things got out of hand.
Pretty sure, anyway.
It's this very thought (and its attendant ghostly tickle inside the back of her neck) that occupies her as she steps from the Bathhouse and nearly knocks over the Neke drone that is waiting just outside the door. "Oh, excuse me!" she says and takes a step back before recognizing the drone for what it is, giving it a moment to resettle its four-legged stance. Her eyes are drawn to the envelope in its hands, white linen paper with gold filigree delicately clutched in black chitin claws, as the drone reassumes the correct posture and begins to speak.
"At'cin'k'xr t'chr Kehar'vx'Mayg," the drone proclaims, handing the envelope to her. Kehari turns the envelope over in her hands. It looks hand-crafted, vaguely rough edges doing nothing to mar the exquisite craftsmanship of the envelope, the red wax seal over the flap bearing the mark of House Neke, or the card inside inscribed with excruciatingly precise handwriting. 'A message from Atcinna? Dictated, no doubt,' she thinks to herself as she reads...
Hatching Day? That sounds ominously obvious. She hadn't returned to the Ovon in months and didn't know anything that might have transpired since her departure. Still, she wonders if she should go, if only to let Maygia observe... Mmmmmmh... Yes. Yes, she should definitely go. And it was...
"Holy cats, that's today! I need something to wear!" She dismisses the drone with a wave and practically jumps down the hatch to the first floor, that tingling sensation rising into the base of her skull again...
Okyno sighed, watching the final preparations for the grand day from the Wing–case Throne. Drones, novitiates, sisters and servants rushed about in disciplined madness. The pupae arrayed in a curving spiral. The masks laying beside each.
“at last,” she sighed, “i shall assume my proper position in the court.”
The first rays of the sun shone through the veined window. Okyno rose. “time is,” she said, her chittering voice echoing throughout the hall, riding atop the stridulation of the Ladies-to-be.
“time is.”
The Celestial's head darts up from between the funhouse mirrors of (her) lover's thighs. "I thought we had more time!" (She) grabs the leash draped next to the panting Singer and clips it on.
Windows burst open for their headlong, gravity-twisting flight. The Singer struggles to pull her dress down over her thighs as they arc through the air of the Ovon, heading for the grand hall. The Celestial pauses outside, (her) body flickering through myriad materials as (she) recites a few of the ritual responses (she) has stolen. (She) does not plan to sing the role the Queens-Current have written for (her).
The former Queen of the Neo-Ovon strides proudly into the ceremony on graceful, hobbled feet, two respectful paces behind her former First Pet. Who holds the leash.
Twin and Amanita have arrived.
Though hidden by her mask and her enamelled carapace, the iyIxchthyynah[1] Nagaahniyka was nevertheless careful not to let her concern show itself. It was a high honor to be included in the ritual, said one part of her mind; another part kept its own council. In one smooth motion, she poured out the ivory basin containing a ritual mixture of milk-blood-nectar. The smell of it made her proboscis twitch and her antennae tremble like ferns in the wind, and she forced herself to steady. Into the center of the pool she poured a small bottle of clear liquid. The surface trembled. Heady fumes boiled silently upward, sliding smoky fingers under her mask.
She stepped out into the center of the puddle and began the dance, her long slender insect limbs drawing the elixir into long whorls and carefully-arranged droplets: a complex mandala of welcome. Her voice rose in a high chirr to join the song, now rising, now falling. The long streamers on her mask floated out around her.
listen listen listen, you of the yet-nameless brood, you my sisters, my mindless brothers, my lessers and superiors, my kin-on-the-path. listen listen listen and the fumes blew and mingled with the blue-cloud mist of the censer and the slight sweet scent of the readied nectars.
listen listen listen
[1]: iyIxchhyynah: a title indicating a lesser Lady, neither royalty (having not been raised on the royal nectars) nor full servant. It goes without saying that therefore, in Neke culture, the title also has connotations a political machinator, someone both to be genteely disdained and watched carefully. In High Neke theater, an iyIxchhyynah is often an antagonist of young Nectar-fed queen protatonists. True queens often call them kkhuyxa (lit. 'the whetting stone') because they are a practice arena for an immature queen to sharpen her skills on before entering discourse with more powerful rivals. The title is literally translated 'death of a thousand birds;' origin unclear.
By first bell, the sky was clear. All was, if not actually quiet nor orderly, suitably predictable.
By second bell, an ominous silken cloud wafted over the Neke grounds. Only a few servants, old Queens fallen low on their dominance cycles, had the good sense to put their unease on display. Maids burst feedbulbs in their trembling pincers; gardeners kissed their beloved trees farewell. The hopes, pleas, and bribes of the previous Hatching had been ignored, or forgotten: The Coven had accepted the Neke's customary invitation.
By third bell, each public room and garden of the Ovon seemed to have its own prattling, impudent caterpillar underfoot. To be fair, each restless black larvagirl did cut a devastating profile (at least to compound eyes). Resplendent in scent-hacked silken capes, meshtube corsets, and the livid yellow bumps of pubescence, their presence was not so much unwelcome as it was ill-timed. (Many a busy Neke tried to explain this to their guests, to little effect.)
The gypsy caterpillars brought uncomfortable -- yet strictly punctilious -- questions about the hatching ceremonies. They inquired about the symbolism of every tiny matter. They inquired about the absolutely vital, sacred timing of each singer's chord. They inquired about the utterly irrelevant length of the talons on the end of each sentry's flogger.
The gypsies brought more conventional gifts, as well. If taxonomy was the chain that bound the Neke and Szjna, trade was the lock that held it shut. The polished glass and elegantly tarnished metals of inorganic craftsmanship were a novelty among the Neke. A discreetly mounted Szjna scent-pod was always in good taste, and by the end of that day there were many such baubles to be seen.
The gypsies also brought their appetites. As if the unthinkable -- winter -- had come to thet Ovon, trees were stripped to their barest branches while cinched black bellies were sated. Neke disciplinarians hastily consulted their records and lamented to the high nobles that the gypsies' ravages were not only acceptable, they were traditional. Indeed, it would be infamous of the Neke to deny their guests.
Worst of all, the larvae brought their good will. The Sjzna children had been instructed to preserve a tradition as old as the Coven itself. Their people's respect for their cousin's Hatching was unparalleled, and they were to treat it as they any sacred mystery: they would prove its wisdom and practicality by attempting to break it.
Xam-vi! (Lights!)
"Connection to the Coven is established. Do you read us, revered mothers? We hope your most recent deaths were comfortable and brief."
Dr-kyth! (Camera!)
"Suitably placed Neke courtiers have been stolen away and rigorously fucked. Intelligence encrypted and dispatched. Scent monitors and scent purveyors have been attached to all available court garments. A szj-syth-tha ("sleeper agent") has been activated. We have penetrated all relevant geocache features. Divinatory schemes have been analyzed and disinformation has been sown."
Ky-rha! (Action!)
there are those deep within the Ovon who sleep in silent dormancy, row upon row, until their queens need them, silent silken sleep wound in the hormone-perfumed tendrils of their cocoons. latent. there is no time for them, no experience, no thought. they perceive nothing. they are... potential. they wait, and yet are not aware of the waiting. for them there is no now.
and yet through the deep levels of inert sleep that shrouds them they hearfeel the throbbing whining music, and one by one within enshrouding silk their heads turn, antennae quiver. for them there is no experience, and yet even that cannot keep out the Song.
Along the inner walk, under the willows, a slightly bewildered crowd has assembled, consisting of dignitaries from all parts of Topwarp: the officers of the City, the Rumrunner top brass, a dozen or so Victorians of various sorts. No sign can yet be seen of the King of Elysium, a fact which has prompted a good deal of murmuring and glancing-over-shoulders.
Closer in, the Chitin clans gather. The dapper, jolly girls of the Salkadtis are here, in their modish suits and headdresses; and the inscrutable Chmee; and the brawny, horned Aiagae; even a solemn party from the luckless Ccirhoibakoa hive, their chimeric ribbons an understated decorous glimmer. And lining the way just outside the Grand Hall, the Neke themselves.
Heads turn as the Celestial and her pet pass by. Under her breath, the leashed Singer hums a soft tune to amuse herself and her symbiote, and behind the false compound eyes she wears, she looks from face to face, enjoying the anxious tics that suddenly afflict the hushed crowd.
Two of the gypsy larvae look on, giggling openly.
For many days, the ladies of the Ovon have secretly consulted their various oracles, seeking some hint of the shape of the new court, some guess as to who shall take the throne. And no matter the method - examining the wing-patterns of the dragonflies in the Imniavn Garden, nectar-fuelled trance-writing, casting dried birch catkins - an unsettling pattern has emerged.
No one reading has specifically mentioned the Singer. But they have mentioned the future High Queen's beautiful voice, her spots, her lack of wings. Silver, according to more than one reading, and foreign... Worried, the ladies have traded whispered rumours in the halls of the Palace, and shuddered at the very idea of an outsider being chosen - and a mammal, however well-mannered she might be, and however well she might have learned the ancient arts of calligraphy, dance, and flower arrangement.
The gypsy caterpillars trade knowing glances and go back to casually stuffing their faces with leaves plucked from the garden.
A motor-noise sputters, its two-stroke buzz breaking into separate wingbeats as it approaches. The saw-wheel back of a wheel bug is seen as its owner impacts a tree by the wall and clamps on, apparently intoxicated to mild impairment and moving with less than usual deliberation. Wings fold against back. Xi clambers among the leafless limbs, for now utterly ignoring the nearby grubs. Once a reasonable vantage has been reached, the figure stills and attends, very softly humming a laborer's song of "dancing days" in a false-princess accent.
Kehari found herself wandering amongst the Clans, just along the outer edge of the Neke contingent, having been led there by a drone that took her invitation card and led her on a circuitous route through the crowd before leaving her to her own devices. She suspected the path had some sort of significance; Chitin clans lived and breathed ritual, there was meaning everywhere. She'd returned the polite nods she received as she made her way to her place in the crowd. She couldn't quite make out the other Chitin dialects, the chitter-scritch-squeak-purrs she overheard as she walked by, but they all carried a sense of "look there". All of this was filed away for later analysis.
Right now she had her hands full just trying to judge the mood of the crowd and which way this ceremony was going. Sociovectors splattered across her field of view as she turned her algorithms to the matter at hand. A murmur sweeps through the crowd and the vectors float and wave like a field of grain in the wind, and when she sees the wind's source she has to hold her hands to her mouth to keep the surprised squeak muffled. That's Twin, and that can only be Amanita. Sweet Gods, what're they doing? They're doing almost exactly what she'd thought to do, an old plan from a lifetime ago playing itself out right in front of her, the tingling in her neck only adding to her amusement. Vectors begin to realign as the predictors run their course and she grins even wider. She appreciates irony.
Amanita glances up, her antennae alert. Her eyes are hidden by faux-compound lenses, but she grins, offering Kehari a subtle wave of her fingers.
Sabina is carried in through an adjoining door, her gleaming little body held in a rigid inverted position by a massive gleaming drone. Legs folded back ankle to thigh and spread wide, tail caught in the same pincers that hold her left leg so tightly in place. The drone begins to quietly circulate to the guests, offering the helpless slave's nipples to any who wish to sip the sweet cloying nectar of the Neke. A thick tendril is wrapped tightly around her head, pulling it back sharply, and helping to thrust her breasts forward. Any signs of protest are surely swallowed by the thick rubber flesh wrapped around her face so tightly.
The drone drags a thick feathery antennae over her spread sex, keeping the nectar bubbling with a slow simmer of torment and arousal inside the slave. Various guests partake, some more roughly then others. The tiny form stiffening against the pincers and tendrils sharply now and again as the guests drink. The glittering black drone approaches nearer to Kehari and offers her a taste.
Drones step delicately along the corridors, each bearing a pale cocoon. Only five of them are recombinations: there is no older generation living who could have assembled new offspring, and the Balsam Virtue Brood only lasted eight summers... instead, the rest of the brood are essentially clones of their ancestors. This is common enough, and many Queens have chosen to perpetuate themselves through dozens of broods. But this new brood will be curiously... old.
As the acting saíxã-vmnaic (Keeper of Domestic Protocol), Emerald Lady leads the drones, a reed scepter held in her upper hands, an egg carved from some blue stone held below. The procession enters and circles the Grand Hall, with Lady Okyno bringing up the rear. Each cocoon is laid gently upon a mossy cushion. Nurselings rustle to and fro around them, restive and impatient.
The Lady places the egg and scepter in their rightful spot before the throne and bows deeply to it. All in the room do likewise, crouching on the floor with antennae lowered. Rising, they turn and bow to the eggs on the left side of the Hall, then the right.
The song of the Chorus changes to a rhythmic pulse of sound, ringing out from the Grand Hall through the entire Palace. The doors are flung open, and the first of the Neke begin to file into the hall, taking up their places along the left side. The allied Queens are next, followed by the other guests, slowly filling the ranks of cushioned seats.
Just as the processions begin, gypsy moth larvae all over the Ovon politely announce previous engagements and break off their dalliances, simultaneous within the interval of a wingbeat. They assemble in the Neke courtyards, slinking gracefully around the frenzy of servants and artisans who still prepare the grounds for celebrations. The more mischievous of them spare a few extra steps to throw drones and guests off their ritually prescribed paths, chuckling at the private jests of mismatched, pun-laden symbolism.
Gypsy scent-poets and feeler-dancers assemble in a formation and begin the Coven's traditional rituals of aloof deference to the new Queen. Every step and every waft is perfect, but it's all wrong, for a reason that seems glaringly obvious to all but the larvae. The Sjzna weavers unfurl their congratulatory silk marquees -- precisely one biorhythm before the Neke heralds were scheduled to arrive -- and the eldritch, writhing runes spell:
"ALL HAIL AMANITA, QUEEN OF THE NEKE."
Moments after the stunned silence clears, a flutter of tawny wings brings a lone Szjna elder from the sky. The willful larvae are suddenly subdued and tame. They are rounded up, shackled one-by-one into unpleasant-looking clockwork restraints, and sternly lectured for their inane mistake. Not only have they gotten the timing all wrong, they have fallen prey to a vulgar, foolish rumor! "Have you not even studied your cousins' history?", demands the graceful leatherwitch. "Do you not know how rude you have been? To have made cruel sport of the Neke's valued property -- and more, to have done so by accident?!" The larvae hang their cephali in unison. Their harnesses squirt silk balloons up into the sky, ferrying them back towards Downtop for what will surely be a terrible punishment. Their Elder remains behind, assiduously offering amends for any damage this unfortunate breach has caused.
Meanwhile, a silverfish paddles in a shallow pool of water, brushing its feelers against those of one of its pondmates. Its rudimentary nerves fail to discern that this is not one of its kin; its carapace is made of brass plates, for one thing, with a tinted glass cupola on its back. Suddenly, the impostor splashes forward, bubbles jetting from under its tail. It totally envelops the pond's true inhabitant as its hinged mandibles snap open and shut. A gloved hand reaches into the pond and picks up the clockwork bug, squeezing the cupola until it fills with green and orange ichor squeezed from the silverfish's viscera.
The hand traces along the contour of the device. Feathery antennae waft indicative scents towards another shadowed figure in the grotto: {this compound} {this rubber seal} {this duct} {this blade} The second figure nods and emits a soft double-hiss, "ox'n-xyth."
The first figure holds the bejeweled bug to its mouth, seals its lips around a nozzle, and sucks filtered orange fluid through its tubular tongue.
It wipes its face daintily with a silk handkerchief. It then holds its balled fist out towards the serene mantis girl portrayed in glittering stone over their heads. It flashes groups of fingers towards her. 2-4-1-4-2-3-4-1-4-1. 543,517 blocks remaining. Just a dozen more dumb, scuttling nephews to be trapped and tasted. Plenty of time to attend the day's festivities, perhaps with a guest in tow.
When witchworms laugh, it sounds like bubbles bursting.
Okay, here's that big chunk. I wrote it out in past tense in my late night flurry of narrative; I'll fix this later. I've interspersed a little the discussion Amanita and I had via pages about where other threads might fit in after I e-mailed her scans of my scrawlings. --Twin
The song rose and spiraled out of any mammal's hearing range. Sonic shivers down the spine. And the cocoons began to crack.
From each an old Queen unfolded, each one majestic in her reborn finery. Tilíttkyn with her vein-swirled wings opening like a flower. Skt-tt-ýr-xicun with her twenty shining eyes to greet the sun. Sulganaa of the web, poise perfect and symmetrical. Ii-çiyûn with her antennae all around. Ýiu-åkkíath on her long legs, every motion dancing, willow-swaying. Ŧa-yrkuzn-žhun shining black, shards of oily midnight light off her carapace, and the soft subtle bondage creak of her chitin. [more names and evocations go here?]
Each Lady took the next's claw in hers, and they began to sing.
In the lowest tier of seats, Amanita fingered the little vial of pheromones in her pocket, awaiting her cue. As the reborn Queens filed slowly past them, Twin tensed beside her, not moving a muscle. Lady after Lady slid by, but Amanita did nothing. Twin reached out a taloned foot and nudged her. She merely giggled.
Amanita's lips moved, joining in the song - almost silently, at first. Soon her voice grew in strength, answering their call.
The voice was not hers. It was lower, with a sweet lilt to every phrase, a slight awkwardness: the Chitin equivalent of a lisp. Her symbiote, seizing the reins.
"'Nita," hissed Twin, head-flanges flaring in alarm, and jabbed out with (her) talons.
A cry caught in Amanita's throat, and her eyes watered. "Little B..."
Atcinna stepped forward to face Amanita, eyes gleaming, face blank and ever-smiling. The Singer stood, shivering.
"No... no, I won't, I --"
Then Amanita fell to the ground, twitching and drooling. Fragments of High Neke spilled from her lips. Almost accepting, choking the words back, again and again. Fighting her delighted rider.
Twin picked her up with tender care and held (her) shivering Mistress close.
"You can't have her. She was mine, before she was ever yours," Twin said as (she) stared into Atcinna's eyes.
"She is our Queen now," the Emerald Lady buzzed back. "Did you not hear?"
"Burrhhhh ch'ch-zz, aaaah, fuck," Amanita babbled. "Little Brain." She wiped her mouth on the back of her gloved hand. "Little Brain's your Queen, and I'm her wxt-ch'tulaxx [burden-beast]."
Kehari? Could be a Song cue, right there. :D
Okyno chittered delicate amusement. “i fear i did not train you for your proper role, singer. i must apol-”
"Shut up," the singuarity hissed.
The ranks of seats in the Grand Hall seemed to steepen. Guests clutched in panic at the rails and at each other, looking almost straight down at Twin - at the bottom of it all. Awareness of what this meant dawned across the assembled clans and visitors when Twin's collar began to ping: angry gravity well, losing control.
"I let you polite bugs have her because she wanted it. Wanted to be a pretty toy in ways I could never bring myself to take her." Twin's body shivered, (her) substance changing rapidly. "I have been patient. But I will not let her lose herself entirely to be your Queen's xi-tll-qix [whore/host]."
The circle of old Queens reborn closed around Twin and Amanita as (she) kissed the mirror-fleshed girl, bodies held close.
"a bond too tight"
"permanent union"
"our queen"
"our Queen"
"our Queen"
Amanita's mouth moved, but it was not her voice that joined the song. "Queen."
"Forgive me," Twin gasped, as (her) body unravelled.
The drone holding sabina chittered in alarm as the world seemed to suddenly slope towards Twin and Amanita. Neke Pri'yath's claws digging into the little nectar bearer's breasts painfully as Her own shock and surprise at the situation quickly changed to fear. The immense power of the singularity flaring in the chamber as the mess itself struggled not to be torn apart. sabina whimpered loudly, this was a feeling she new all too well, having felt Twin lose control before. The tiny latex form squirmed in the drone's implacable grip, mews of pain and concern welling around the thick tendril, ears perked forward, hoping that Twin would regain herself in time.
...the distortion receded, and there was Amanita, woozy but upright, with a glossy brown ribbon of chitin and grub-flesh chittering and writhing around her fingers. Fluid shone on her dress as she laughed.
"Hallo, Little Brain! It is so nice to see you at last! My, you were a naughty girl, weren't you?" She stroked it and tightened her fingers around its lashing, sticky body. "Oh, I could just squish you, couldn't I, you wicked thing? You could have got me in such a predicament.
"But I won't." She planted a kiss in the middle of the thing's frantically searching feelers, and plopped it into Atcinna's outstretched claws.
The assembled clans paused, shocked. A few Szjna twittered quiet laughter.
Atcinna stared at the thing in her hands.
"Queen Juldzita," she murmured.
The Queen rippled her vestigial legs. Feelers groped along sleek green arms.
Atcinna could barely move for her restrained fury. This complete violation of tradition and protocol was simply impossible. And terribly, terribly unmannered. Had not the Neke taken the pretenders into their fold? Had not they taught them the right and proper behaviors? The Neke would be the laughingstock of every clan. Farces would be written about this day and that would be all that would ever be remembered.
And the new Queen was leaking waste fluid down Atcinna's front, positively ruining the ceremonial robes.
"She needs a host," Atcinna buzzed. Her voice-swarm flitted here and there, nervous at their Mistress's anger.
"Of course." Amanita smiled, and drew the glass vial from her pocket. "If I might offer a recommendation, madam..."
The vial gleamed as it tumbled through the air and shattered upon okyno's carapace, splashing her with clear fluid. Startled, she stepped back, all four arms raised, as all around the room, antennae twitched, catching the scent.
Skt-tt-ýr-xicun stepped forward from the circle of newly hatched Ladies, and bowed deeply toward okyno. A dozen others followed.
okyno bowed her head. her soft voice was loud in the silence. “this one would be honored and delighted to be the servile xi-tll-qix of ne-juldzita-k'ke, her new queen.”
her carapace spread as she sank to her abdomen in respect, antennae low. “this one desires submission and service for this brood.”
Amanita laughed delightedly as Twin wove (her) body again and lifted 'Nita into the air. "Good-bye, Little Brain! We shall come back soon to share a glass of nectar!"
Xir sober pleasure is clear. "Companion/test-subject, I have twice now seen their desired Queen-carrier denied them. Perhaps True Heaven is coming to me soon. It will have been too long." The words are in old Szjna-root, something to be remembered by elders and read by juniors.
The mothling beside the wheel bug says nothing, focused as she is on staying aware through the pain of dissolving innards. A brief laugh as this bright archivist nods, having understood.
"I have said enough. I release you."
Darkness fills those aching eyes as a hole is punched in her head and a second dose of enzymes delivered. The Uncaring Queen of Wheels would smile, had she the mouth parts for it.
Again come words, this time in low Neke: "The witchworm will give me a report on this day's progress, or I shall be disappointed."
Xi sips delicately at xir Hatching Day feast.
Aihiobakis of the Ccirhoibakoa was not so crass, never so crass, as to show her satisfaction in anything as gross as baring of her chelicerae, as many outsiders did, or even in the subtler shifting of her hairs, but the long semireal ribbons streaming from her pedipalps shimmered with the subtlety of her pleasure. Her eight star-garnet eyes slid toward her sister, whose was respectfully silent except for the slight tremor in her arched tail. So we are not now the only of the Queens to suffer an indignity in the queenbrooding. Very interesting. It was not that she wished the Neke ill, precisely, but there had been intimations of disdain, subtle pityings, that the spinnerhive had suffered an indignity at the hands of an outsider... and it was good not to be the only one so suffering.
The Teatr Subantegk. Atonal music reaches a climax and the stage is suddenly awash in blood and bile. The audience howls in delight.
Inhatti looks up from her meal.
"Liaam my sweet? Let us visit our old, old friend Sessitucitt. She has been returned."
Meliaam just grins and rattles her tail. "Hush, little fiendling. Finish your dinner first." And she groaned horribly as the salamander's head dove back into her abdomen.
sabina ooc - So that's it? It's over just like that?
sabina ooc - So do we fill in between posts then in the appropriate places? Or append to the end like before?
It's only been going on for almost a year, now. okyno first appeared to the public near the end of March 2004, and here we are in the very beginning of February 2005. This is a pile of first-draft stuff that fell out of my head late at night concerning my own hooks into the story. I shall be editing stuff, expanding, contracting, and teasing it. How long will it be in the end? How fractal? I don't know. Fill in gaps and sidebars. Add to the end. Add a prologue. Slip in some foreshadowing. Time is not linear in this medium, as it is on the muck. -- Twin
i didn't mean the storyline, storylines never really end as long as any of those involved are still around. i thought you had wound up the rp and it was closed, was a simple misunderstanding. -- sabina