Work Text:
Beauty.
As a fae, Kyryll is a person who quite naturally is drawn to beauty. He finds art in every little thing, appreciating their aesthetics, maybe once in a while seizing a particularly shiny rock as his own, or perhaps nurse an injured animal back to full health, if not to see the process of them growing to trust him, to rely on him, if only to hold them dear to his wicked heart before setting them free.
He’s learned to paint, over the past few centuries as well, taking interest in watching things form beneath his hands. The total control it brings is intoxicating, and more often than not, he gets frustrated when his hands don’t cooperate and bring a single wrong note to his symphony of perfection.
Greed is within his nature, something he cannot curb despite his most valiant attempts, and in the past he’s ruined quite a few lives because of this feeling. He’s never considered himself outright harmful, doing his best to curb his appetite, and yet even as the Azure Flame, leading people to safety and ignoring any summons he receives to do whatever he feels, the amount of people he’s accidentally crumbled to dust from just a slight flex of his fingers has led him to do more harm than good.
Perhaps this greed and lust for beauty is what had drawn him initially to Illuga. The brilliant light blinding him in the snow, the homing beacon for those who have lost their way, the sun who rises early dawn to chase away the shadows. Illuga is, undoubtedly, a creature of beauty, one that holds so much altruism and love within his heart that Kyryll can’t help but be dazzled by him.
How desperately does Kyryll wish to shed his physical form, to have Illuga’s lips part if only to welcome Kyryll into his bones, his organs and flesh, if only so he can pick apart the man’s bloodcells to see what exactly he’s made of. What allows him to consume kuuhvakhi so freely, what allows him to continue onwards even when he himself cannot rely on the people around him, when all is lost, what inspires Illuga to keep fighting?
The day that Illuga finds worth, within himself, whether or not he finds something he clings onto with a tenacity with self indulgence first and foremost, he may go from dazzling to blinding, and Kyryll will be the fool to look directly into the sun.
These days, though, Kyryll will admit that he doesn’t do much at all.
After the young master’s abrupt departure from his life, one he quietly mourns, he’s settled into somewhat of a mundane, perhaps even domestic, routine. Keep the Wild Hunt at bay, spar with the Phantom, indulge Varka in a drink of cider or two, attend to the lightposts stationed along the road, ignore the ache that’s been paralyzing him…
Well, that last one certainly cannot be avoided for much longer.
He’s been slowed, during battle. Kyryll knows he is old, having been around for the Belyi Tsar’s court, and yet not once has he ever felt this persistent throb in his chest before becoming a ratnik. It’s quite horrible, in a fit of honesty, knowing that he’s sustained more injuries to his physical form than he should have, even while knowing it wouldn’t personally affect him.
There’s a persistent fixation that the Phantom has had on his lantern, it seems. The fragments he has collected has meld together into a rather pleasant heft, although it leaves a pungent feeling to his fingers and leaves him shivering as if coated in a thin layer of slime. Kyryll feels disgusting afterwards, and while a thing of beauty from an aesthetic view alone, it does seem as if the feeling has grown more prominent.
Enough for Kyryll to recognize this as the scent of the Abyss.
The Abyss, hah! To think it chose to get to him in the form of trinkets, how incorrigible. It’s done damage to his own core, the fae will-o-wisp that sits in his lantern, along with corroding a bit of the silver insides that shield it. Kyryll can’t just throw away the fragment of darkness away now, lest the Phantom gets his hands on it, but Kyryll does feel a tad bit of annoyance.
If Illuga were here…
The young captain’s presence had sealed the abyssal energy away, Kyryll sulks to himself. Perhaps the amount of kuuhvakhi he ingests had kept the amounts and negative side effects manageable, but no, no, no longer, he supposes. Regrettably, Kyryll has to visit the Lightkeeper’s logistics company in Nasha Town in order to bring his lantern to the equivalent of a check-up and repairs. That is why he finds himself in Nasha Town, standing in the Flagship’s back hallway, chatting up a small primordial creature and a star.
If Kyryll was initially attracted to Illuga for the squad leader’s blinding radiance, by all technicality, all should be the same for this woman.
And yet, he can’t help but grimace, taking an unconscious step back as her eyes assess him.
He greets them, introduces himself, has a pleasant conversation and enjoys his time scaring the wits out of the smaller one, and yet Kyryll feels a shiver down his spine as the Traveler observes him with the intensity one would a foe.
There’s a buzz of energy around the Traveler, undoubtedly natural and nothing like the light Illuga produces. It’s not kuuhvakhi, and yet it’s not quite elemental energy either. Rather, Kyryll can’t recognize this foreign substance, and it’s making his stomach turn. The fragment in his lantern is shaking, calling to it, fighting against it, wanting it, needing to run, needing to become–
It’s all a little much. He takes a page out of the Illuga’s book and excuses himself, performing a tactical retreat out of the Flagship and taking crisp steps across Nasha Town.
His lantern needs repairs, that’s what he thinks. He’s praying that his recent lacking in his powers has to do with the shell that he uses as his host, and the Abyss hasn’t taken a greater toll on himself than he initially realized. Kyryll will extinguish the small flame within the framing and place it back into his own body, using his physical vessel as a temporary shell as abhorrent as it is, and then once his lantern’s back in acute condition he will resume his duties as promised to his young master. He takes his time as he weaves through the people in town, letting the idle gossip fill his ears.
“Did you hear? The Lightkeepers…”
“How useless they are! Why do they even…”
“I’ve heard that the Frostmoon Enclave…”
“With the Kuuhvakhi Experimental Bureau on Paha Isle?”
Speculation and rumors can be deadly. Kyryll doesn’t consider himself above rumors, but the public’s cognition and perception of reality can warp even a lawless land like Nod-Krai. Relying on unsteady truths, it’s no wonder that the League had been assembled recently in order to hold peace discussions in a neutral third party area. He’s seen before how the perception of crime and order has influenced justice and punishment in Snezhnograd, and has seen how the smallest slight could lead to torture unfathomable and a loss of autonomy amongst humans, leaving them to be preyed upon.
He had never been quite interested in that sort of thing, ‘preying’. He is by all means a predator, and by all means he is not above his instincts, but surely, his want to help and defy his instincts means something does it not?
Kyryll has been locked in a sort of mental battle, alongside the physical one he’s encountered with his body. Ever since he’s made the realization that this ugly want has settled into his body, an unsightly and unseemly thing fully ingrained and hardwired into his body, he’s found himself becoming more and more ‘man’ than ‘fae’ these days.
The way he feels, he’s unsure if it’s ever been encaptured by a singular word. It could be described as ‘love’, but that feels too simplistic for what is consuming him whole. He could say it’s an obsession of sorts, but that feels disrespectful towards Illuga. Kyryll is to ruin Illuga’s ambitions, to bring him to the height of happiness before dropping him, watching the nightingale’s wings burn under the sheer intensity of the sun.
Kyryll is pre-set to ruin Illuga, but he wants to keep every little moment with the man locked away in a little wooden box, only for him to view. To keep Illuga for himself, so he may never find ambition, so that he can keep him next to Kyryll’s side.
But nature belongs to nature, doesn’t it?
Kyryll frowns, shaking his head as he moves to open the door of the lightkeeper’s headquarters in Nasha Town, pausing at the sight of the metal handle, before simply shedding his physical form and entering via window. The poor worker at the front jumps at his sudden appearance, unnerved and ready to fight or flee, and Kyryll offers a smile.
“Good afternoon, good miss.” He greets gently. “My lantern has been damaged in recent fights, and I’m sure you understand that our lanterns are like maps to adventurers. Is it possible for you to guide me towards materials for repairs?”
“Ah… Sir Flins.” The receptionist recovers, sweating slightly. “Yes, the Starshyna has mentioned you and your predicament, before. I’ll fetch you the appropriate kit for you to handle yourself.”
“I wasn’t aware the Starshyna spoke of me,” Kyryll replies, mildly amused.
She groans, head in her hands. “He does.”
Whatever that means, surely it’s nothing too bad.
Kyryll places himself by the door, keeping himself as sparse as possible in hopes not to scare off any wayward viewer. He hums, letting the receptionist busy herself, intending on doing absolutely nothing productive while waiting, when a somewhat familiar face approaches.
“Sergeant Major Sousi,” Kyryll greets with respect, lowering his head slightly. “It is my honor to serve you.”
“Sir Flins,” The man says in return, smiling. Kyryll has encountered him briefly, once or twice before, as the senior lightkeeper handles the majority of the patrols around Lempo Isle with his team. Originally, they were more spread thin, before Kyryll was assigned to Paha Isle’s outpost and proceeded to decimate the Wild Hunt. “How have you been? Has the ratnik life been treating you well?”
“I must confess, good sir, that I have been facing some troubles. As of such, I’m here today, hoping to repair my lantern.” Kyryll replies, keeping a neutral smile on his face.
Sousi frowns. “Ah, really? That’s no good. Should I dispatch a team to help with patrols, then? You shouldn’t push yourself too hard.”
“Ahahaha…” The fae shakes his head, placing a hand over his non-existent heart as if pleading earnestly. “That won’t be necessary.”
Kyryll’s senior ratnik frowns, contemplating for a few quick seconds, before offering a hand up to him. “Say, there’s actually been a couple of people in my squad wanting to patrol Paha Isle. I’ve been meaning to assign you to patrol the upper areas of Lempo Isle.”
“The Barrowmoss Barrens?” Kyryll inquires, tilting his head to the side.
“Nay, I mean Blue Amber Lake and Nothing Passage. Starsand Shoal, if you sense anything amiss.”
Well, it’s a much smaller area to cover in comparison to a whole isle, but Kyryll still takes a moment to pause and think this over. The Phantom seems purely fixated on the fragment of whatever-this-is in his lantern, so he doubts that the Abyss will attack his colleagues as fiercely. Still, though…
“Are you sure your team can handle taking over Paha Isle for a day? I would hate to put anyone in unneeded danger.”
At that, Sousi laughs, his smile crinkling his eyes and his warmth shining through his exterior. “If my lightkeepers couldn’t handle a singular patrol, I’d be worried in my own skills teaching them!”
The fae’s eyes widen.
“I did not mean to insult you, good sir, I apologize—”
Sousi waves him off goodnaturedly, and Kyryll quiets down. The older man is treating him with… whats the term, endearment? No, it’s more of a fondness reserved for younger colleagues. The azure flame doesn’t know what else to do as Sousi gestures in a way that is perhaps meant to be perceived as reassuring. “Sir Flins, we were spread sparse before. Our efficiency was lacking and as a result, we were struggling as a cohesive unit. Casualties were everywhere and the fight felt nearly hopeless.”
“...I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Sousi grins. “You were able to take a large burden off of us, don’t you understand? Your actions have helped plenty and while not the best, the optimism of the younger recruits is rising once more. They’ve been raring to go, and I do think you deserve as close to a ‘break’ as I can get you.”
The receptionist returns, stuffing a box of materials into Kyryll’s arms, and the fae lowers himself into a slight bow. “It would be my honor, then, Sergeant. Tell me, when do you need me to patrol?”
“A few days time, maybe tomorrow? The day after? Ideally, of course, as soon as possible, but with your repairs, I wouldn’t want a rush job done and potentially endangering you.”
Kyryll will live longer than any of these mortals, but he just nods in agreement for now.
“You’re a good man, Sir Flins.”
“If you say so, how could I possibly refute?”
“And humble, too!” Sousi pats him on the shoulder, a glimmer in his eyes. “They say that the genius engineer of the Clink-Clank Krumkake Craftshop, Aino? Is constructing a cannon made of Kuuhvakhi in the town square.”
“I saw it,” Kyryll tries not to deadpan. The damned thing is giant, and difficult to miss.
Sousi laughs, his eyes wandering to out the window, at the ginormous cannon.
“Maybe this war will end yet, and I can finally move myself and my family out of here,” the sergeant major says wistfully.
Kyryll says nothing.
No, instead, since he has his materials, he takes his leave. He bows his head respectfully once more, has no choice but to hope his gloves are thick enough to avoid the potential hazard of the doorknob, and retreats back into the outside world.
He doesn’t have much plan, to be completely fair. He was going to return to his lighthouse, but considering the new patrol he was assigned, perhaps he should extend his stay at the Flagship? He resolves to do so, sighing as he reroutes his original plan and changes destinations. The tavern itself is fairly shifty, and if he dared, reminded him a bit of the Belyi Tsar’s court. Of course, there were clear differences, but the main part that Kyryll believes resembles the court most is the exchange of intel.
The court was a way to gain power amongst nobility. Whether this power was gained through gifts, favors, or intelligence, the most proper way to conduct yourself if you didn’t wish to be ripped to faery shreds was to simply behave with caution.
Times have changed, though.
Extending his stay is easy enough, simply telling the bartender he needs a few more days due to an unexpected change in plans, retreating into his room in order to figure out the repairs for his poor lantern.
The young master had shown him before his ‘impressive’ ways of maintenance, all of which percussive, and all of which not applying to his current situation. As of such, Kyryll appears to be on his own.
His lamp has been with him an awful long time, even before joining the ratnik, even if he does suit the role rather well. It’s made of a sturdy metal alloy, that he knows, and when he joined the lightkeepers it went under a quick maintenance to be able to be tracked with a kuuhvakhi based device, and yet–
Kyryll blinks. The frame is fine.
“Ah…” Kyryll inspects the casing, the metal, the glass, and frowns. “This does not bode well.”
If it’s not the framing, then undoubtedly, the corruption comes from the stone he’s picked up beforehand. Frowning, Kyryll takes it within his grasp once more, weighing it with one palm and holding his lantern in the other like a scale. It feels heavier than he had anticipated, perhaps more corrupt than usual, and Kyryll can’t help but sigh.
“What trouble you are,” he muses to himself, bringing it closer to his face to inspect. “I thought you were just a simple trinket I could collect for myself, but no. What exactly have you done to me?”
The rock between his fingers does not respond.
Perhaps, instead, he needs rest. It could be he’s been pushing himself out of his limits and that his power is dwindling and needs recovering, so he resolves to simply hibernate within his room for the next two days and recover his power before patrolling. Surely, then…
He closes his eyes as his body becomes flames, retreating into the depths of his mind.
“Sir Flins.”
In his dreams, there stands his dear young master. Expression bright yet somber, per always, wearing the countenance and composure belonging to a man that should be much older than Illuga.
The two are sitting outside the lighthouse at the Final Night Cemetery, their rods propped up as they fish for a meal or two while chatting. While a simple fish steak is easy for Kyryll to accomplish, he finds it more amusing when Illuga insists on cooking, doing something to the recipe that makes him want to cough from the amount of herbs he places onto the dish. A memory, then, and Kyryll decides to settle comfortably in his role.
“What is it you request of me, young master?” Kyryll would tease, and Illuga would bat at him in feigned annoyance.
The captain would then laugh, his smile bright as his eyes crinkle, before turning to face the multitude of graves. “We have a little graveyard up at Cliffwatch Camp. You’re aware of that, right?”
Kyryll had spent a great amount of time tending to the dead while stationed with the Orioles, so he nods. “What a serious topic.”
“My captain… Captain Olsson, he’s buried over there.” Illuga’s gaze drifts off to the vast expanse of the sea once more, and he frowns. “Most of the original investigation team is buried there. Along with many of my own. And perhaps our fight as ratnik will never be over.”
And then Kyryll’s Illuga focuses back on him, eyes shining bright as ever. “Once I die, Sir Flins, it will either be to you or to the monsters that stole away my first home. I won’t let it take away my second one.”
The fae chooses not to mention the fact that while Illuga regards Piramida as his home, he’s much too cautious about it being snatched away to properly set down roots. “You won’t die so easily, I imagine?”
“Of course not. My battle won’t end with me lying down.”
The two men fall back into silence, one that Kyryll remembers as comfortable, and yet the air feels grave.
“Sir Flins,” Illuga starts again. “When I die… could you make me a grave here, at the Final Night Cemetery?”
“Most certainly. Although, isn’t it traditional for the Lightkeeper’s to hold a banquet in honor of their fallen?”
At that, Illuga is silent once more. He’s quiet, as if contemplating where to step next without setting off a landmine, and Kyryll waits patiently for his young master’s response like he did before. It takes a while, but Illuga eventually speaks up once more, voice strained.
“When I die, it won’t be an honorable death.” Illuga says, quiet. Nothing worth celebrating.
When Illuga dies, it will undoubtedly be Kyryll as the perpetrator and witness. He will be greedy, savoring the fact that Illuga’s last breath was stolen away by Kyryll, and he will mourn, knowing Illuga will breathe no longer. He will do Illuga the greatest honor of remembering his face, of holding him dear to his heart.
When Kyryll opens his mouth to express this, terrible blots of purple and magenta find their way into his dreamscape. Illuga is still looking at him, eyes terribly earnest, as he is stolen away by the Abyss.
“Illu–”
“You must remember,” comes a hiss from the shadow beyond him. “You are not the only predator who wishes to consume the light.”
Kyryll bursts into flame.
When he wakes up again, he feels, in lack of more graceful wording, like absolute shit.
The persistent ache in his chest is worse, like a gaping cavity being chipped away at, and he grimaces as his human form feels as if he’s decided to replace any ‘bones’ with lead. His joints are filled with a cement mix, and as he stands, it requires a greater effort than usual. Not even to mention that because of that ominous dream he had while drifting, the entire bed is covered with flames.
Just what is going on?
Kyryll retrieves his flames before he reaches between his bones, prying his metaphorical ribcage open, moving organs out of the way and gingerly placing them to the side, pausing when he finds the source. The stupid rock was trying to get him while he’s sleeping.
Never before had he thought he’d see the day where his affinity for collecting trinkets would actively attempt to assasinate him in his sleep. Breathing, while not essential, is painful, so he resolves to refrain from his favorite activity of talking people in circles today.
The back of the Flagship at the very least tends to be a quiet affair, leaving Kyryll to suffer this incorrigible headache by himself.
“Today’s the day, right?” Comes a bright shriek from directly outside his door. “Come on! Let’s not keep Lauma and Jahoda waiting!”
Kyryll turns to flop rather ungracefully on the mattress and cover his ears with a pillow, attempting to block out the grating noise while expelling the abyssal matter from his core.
To his luck, patrol has been rather light. There seems to be a disturbance up ahead, nearing Starsand Shoal, so Kyryll makes his way over steadily while surveying his surroundings. Nothing seems too large scale, even as he makes his way from the crack in the land between Barrowmoss Barrens and Blue Amber Lake, regretting the fact that he didn’t just beeline towards Starsand Shoal and start there immediately. Along the way, though, it’s easy to clear out stragglers to make the overall fight once he actually gets there to not be too bad.
“Rrrghhhh…”
The gargling is unnatural. Like it used to be human, but it’s been sent through a blender and is attempting to appear whole as if it wasn’t minced into pieces. Kyryll lifts his lantern, taking note of the red flashing light emitting from it, and frowns. No Phantom today?
No, instead what’s in front of him are wilderness exiles and the forms of a few spectrals.
Their hearts have been severed, Kyryll observes, watching his foe from afar. And their heads are gone. In place of it is a flickering smoke, from gray, to the familiar magenta of the abyss, to gray once more. Their bodies are swaying in the wind, like they’ll collapse at any second, and huh. The Wild Hunt he faces are usually swarms of the big Hunters, summoned by the Phantom to weaken him as gravely as possible before their fights.
The Abyss always seeks to corrupt and destroy. Kyryll hadn’t quite considered why the Lightkeepers were warring with the Wild Hunt, only understanding that it’s an unnatural plague upon the land that has taken from many. The Abyss would eat itself up in due time, Kyryll had reasoned to himself back when he had first joined. Pure abyssal power without a host would be too volatile to do much else.
He does not feel any wiser seeing this parasitic relationship with the corpses of his ‘colleagues’, realizing why it’s such a problem. The Abyss seeks to destroy, and surely the morale of many of the keepers are low, recognizing their loved ones turned into such amalgamations beyond their comprehension.
How did he not realize sooner, the low spirits of his fellow comrades? Did he just liken them to be outliers, in comparison to Illuga?
Kyryll has long been aware of the bright light Illuga tries to share with people. Cooking hearty meals, listening to concerns, offering a helping hand, fussing and worrying about his colleagues. Kyryll has seen Illuga’s devastation first hand before, hasn’t he? Why has he not—
Or is it that Illuga is the outlier amongst his peers?
A scream reverbates in his ears, and the familiar seizing of his chest comes as the abyssal fragment in his lantern hisses at him to die, and he lifts his flame upwards to incinerate all who stand before him.
Perhaps he shouldn’t complain about the respite from the Phantom. It’s been bothering him less, lately, and while still fixated on destroying his lantern, it’s not much of an issue otherwise. Driving his spear through the artificial heart one of the phantoms holds, slashing another in half and watching it fall to the ground in pieces.
It doesn’t take long until there’s nothing left but the faint stench of putrid abyss in the air, and even then, that’s cleared easily. Kyryll breathes once more, before a faint shimmer catches his eye. He turns, and oh, how did he not see that before?
There’s a lantern left discarded on the ground.
It’s near the battlesight he’s standing at, and Kyryll frowns as he inspects the engraving. Inspecting his surroundings, the fae doesn’t immediately spot any lightkeepers around to claim it, and the space he’s in is rather innocuous, just south of Blue Amber Lake.
It’s a standard oathkeeper lantern, but there are scratches marring the base, ones that he can quickly identify as old but undoubtedly from the abyss. And oh, he quickly grimaces, it must have belonged to one of the fallen he had just dispersed of. He picks it up, inspecting the rim, and finds a part of the Lightkeeper’s oath engraved unto it- "Our cheeks are pale, our hair does flutter, our eyes burn bright as flame."
Each oath lantern is engraved with such writing, Kyryll believes, and he inspects his own in comparison, looking at the clean metal and frowns. Would it truly do him good to sully his lantern for his life as a ratnik? He compares the two in his hands once more, before he blinks.
Oh.
Kyryll realizes with a start on why Illuga believes he’s been taking none of this seriously. While he has been doing a proper job as a ratnik, and a better job at interacting with the people around him, there’s one significant thing he lacks that he cannot offer.
Devotion to the fallen.
His dear young master has an all-consuming love that overflows, and Kyryll laps at the droplets that fall from the overpour, desperate to get what he can for himself, but these people are people that Illuga would mourn.
He’d mourn not knowing their name, and he’d mourn the fact they’ve fallen, and he would grieve them. As much as Kyryll views the Wild Hunt as a nuisance, because that’s what they are to him, that doesn’t change the fact that Illuga has lost everything he holds dear to the Wild Hunt.
And yet as a soldier, Illuga still manages to smile for the people he’s close too, who he doesn’t know, who he’s only had a first impression of. If Illuga is the outlier amongst their colleagues, then he is Kyryll’s outlier, and–
The fae don’t know reverence. The closest he’s gotten is how enamored he’s been with Illuga, and even so, Kyryll has done something to temporarily drive the young man away. It’s nothing of concern, not really, he can find Illuga whenever, but he’s…
May his monstrous hands hold and cradle Illuga dearly, gingerly holding the young man’s face without harm, no matter the blood on his hands. Carefully, Kyryll lowers himself to one knee, and breathes out as he places a hand over his chest. He has lain people to rest, before.
In fact, Kyryll has lost plenty in his long life. There were losses even now during this experience, but for long-lived fae, that’s nothing. You proceed with the proper burial rights, and honor their noble causes and lives before moving on.
It’s different for mortals, isn’t it? How do the Lightkeepers mourn their many fallen? ‘ “The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round…” ‘
His voice is strained, hesitance unsure in his voice, but he blinks and thinks that perhaps he did something right when the clear visage of a young man in ratnik uniform walks up to him, face blank as he closes his eyes and follows his actions, lowering his head in a silent ‘thank you’ before dispersing.
Kyryll feels vaguely sick. He couldn’t have been older than two decades worth. And yet he stands, taking a moment to attempt to breathe, before he continues on his trek.
The overall walk is cut and dry. If he ran, he’d get there faster, but he doesn’t think that he’s going to fight in a succinct way if he sprinted. It doesn’t take too long, though, minus a minor scuffle with a few more Wild Hunt exiles and the disgruntled wildlife, before he reaches the scene. The Kuuhvakhi Experimental Bureau is lurking in the background, giant as if acting as an imposing reminder, but he blinks as he looks over at the battlefield.
Huh. Everything’s been handled.
“Hmm? I thought I sensed the Wild Hunt nearby…” Kyryll’s gaze flick to the combatants, and he makes a face when he sees Paimon. “Don’t tell me… you’ve already taken care of it?”
“Hey, it’s Flins!”
Paimon’s cheer attracts the attention of the rest of the group, and Kyryll is relieved that no, it was not Paimon who took on and fought the Wild Hunt solo. From a quick glance, he can make out the Traveler, the Moonchanter, and a worker from the Curatorium of Secrets. That makes more sense. He’s heard the Starshyna prattle about how the Lightkeepers have been allies with the Frostmoon Scions for centuries, so he turns to her respectfully and offers his regards. “Unless I am mistaken… You are the Moonchanter for the Frostmoon Scions, are you not? May I ask… what is that in your hand?”
Lady Lauma’s frown, although imperceptible others, twitches and deepens slightly at his question, taking more care to hide whatever it is she’s choosing to hide.
Whatever it is she’s holding seems to be akin to the power of a gnosis.
Kyryll has only come into contact with such divine power once, years ago, when the Belyi Tsar’s court wasn’t yet dismantled. It was right at the cusp of him choosing to retreat from the Palace of Zapolyarny and rescind his title as a noble out of respect for the new Tsaritsa, and at the time, he had been one of few to witness the power of the Heavenly Principle’s gnosis. And yet, there’s a key difference between the two, one that Kyryll takes note of.
It’s powered entirely by kuuhvakhi. The concentration of it is heavy, and while lightkeepers believed the power of the abyss and the moon’s energy repelled eachother…
Hm.
It’s only when Lady Lauma makes a slight noise does Kyryll remember where he is. He raises his hands in mock surrender at the wariness, smiling in what he hopes is a disarming way. “Please, don’t get me wrong. I’ve been tracking the Wild Hunt lately, and I’ve come to suspect that its actions aren’t as aimless as they seem.”
His gaze drifts back to the relic, narrowing his eyes. “When I saw what you were holding, I could not help but start… connecting the dots.”
The Lady Moonchanter does not respond further, choosing to take a step back, when Paimon chooses to speak up. “You better be extra careful, Flins… It seems like the Wild Hunt is capable of impersonating people now.”
Huh? Oh, yeah, right, the Phantom. So that’s where he’s been? After this relic?
“Is that so?” Kyryll probably should have told Sousi during their conversation earlier, but let bygones be bygones. “Funny that– I just showed up completely out of the blue, yet you seem to have no problems trusting me.”
Everyone visibly tenses at that, and Kyryll realizes he may have made a misstep, so he quickly waves it off as a joke, laughing. “I apologize. I shouldn’t be making jokes like that right now. Anyway, I understand– Thank you for the tip-off.”
He really should have told people about this earlier… Shouldn’t Illuga have said something, as well? Perhaps they both forgot in the moment. He continues dancing around the truth of ‘I totally knew and forgot to tell you, oopsies!’, stating something along the lines of ‘I’ll have to report this to HQ’, knowing damn well that he’s so dead for not sharing this much earlier and already rehearsing how to bend the truth to Sousi to ensure he isn’t gutted like a fae-on-a-stick.
And as he turns to leave, the Traveler’s golden eyes are boring into him, as if trying to pry him apart and observe him flayed, trying to distinguish and solve him like a puzzle.