Dinner with the Viceroy was more like a feast. Especially for the Karnor Elites, who got a taste of home in the form of beef (although it didn't come from a cow, but apparently from sort of engineered, meat-growing melon). Tasha got to eat her fill for the first time since leaving for Arcadia, with no worries about rationing. Rationing would come later, when she prepared for her visit to the Source.

After dessert came the cigars and cognac, which reminded Tasha of the 'hunting lodge' lounge in Titania, only this time the monster heads on the walls were bigger and uglier. The Viceroy also presented a package to Gabriel: a green marble sealed into a clear resin cube, and a holographic universal data crystal. "This should help you get a hypership, and the crystal will help you get it back here. It's got a DNA encryption so that only an Elite Karnor can access the data," Vasterlion explains. "Can't have our address fall into the wrong hands after all!"

Which means Tasha can't use it, but she never had much expectation that anyone would hand her highly technical devices when the Karnor Elite were around. What she lacks in education, training and experience she makes up with in field work, dedication, and communion with the powers beyond the understanding of most mortals. It makes for a peculiar resume, and sometiems Tasha wonders if she's more mage than pilot, more priestess than professor.

This she considers as she nurses her cigar, standing beside Gabriel with her arms behind her back, looking around as her mate gets the focus. She's used to that too, especially here on Abaddon where men typically have a higher standing and Gabriel is far older than she is to boot (both actually and effectively, though a person might argue a time traveler like herself could be far older or even infinite in certain interpretations). That it's 'Mr. V.' -- Mr. Vanderlion -- makes it much more bearable, as she wouldn't expect the elite businessman and inventor to willfully belittle her. She has a high opinion of the man.

"I'm hoping a friend of ours can arrange a useful contact," Gabriel says, pocketing the items. "Has there been any word from the mages yet on the toporgic?"

"Nothing that I'm aware of, but it does take time for that sort of information to get to me," the Viceroy explains. "My group doesn't deal with the mages directly."

In some ways Tasha now finds she enjoys being underestimated -- or at least easier to miss around the Elite like Gabriel and other experts. She knows -- has seen! -- things that are beyond this world, beyond the works of mortal society both here and in the Galactic, and beyond the sanity of many. She's been entrusted with the mission of a being regarded as a god, whatever he might be, and now works along side him. To be underestimated is to be safer, yes, but also to be allowed the veil of normality when she might well lose it completely if all were known.

"Maybe Fu-- Mage Neesa and Remiel can be of help. They can arrange a faster and sublter information exchanges," Tasha remarks offhand, still looking around, now at the monsters on the wall. She knows about monsters, too. There are agreements.

"At least you won't have to worry about it," Katie tells Tasha. "When do you make travel arrangements with the Titanians."

"You mean figuratively? Because I know your actual plate was full!" Tasha grins at Remiel, then reaches over to pat him reassuringly. "I'd do it but I'm never around. I need to leave again soon."

"We need to travel light if we can," Gabriel notes. "We need to bring the shuttle and Melchior with us."

"Oh I meant to Sinai, I need to have a talk with my old friend in his old cave in the mountain," Tasha notes, uncertain she mentioned her plans between telling Katie and the dinner. Prior to that she'd been too busy prepping for landing and the relocation of the Themis-Skoll and she'd agreed to the trip with Horus, whom she had spoken of rarely as she worked out her relationship and emotions regarding the being, taking great care that Shojo not learn the truth just yet. "Mr. H. would like it done before we return to space. The Titanians will wnat to talk to me, too. But you know I don't have much, so light travel is easy for me!"

"When are you leaving for Sinai?" Katie asks, a bit resignedly. "You can't be gone for too long this time, either."

"Uhh," goes Tasha, who does the math of hours. "I could leave on the train and sleep in, um, a few hours. Then, fly as far as I can and sleep in the high wilderness. If I don't look for lodging I can make it there by late tomorrow or early morning, rest, annnd maybe stay overnightin the city before returning."

"So, three to four days, both ways," Katie says. "About two weeks then, realistically."

Tasha snorts at this. "I can go faster than that! See, if I don't get lodging and make a straight line it's a lot faster. Not many people can fly across continents!" And so the Cadet flaps her wings a few times, literally and figuratively puffing herself up. "It helps I learned a lot traveling on airships, about wind, weather, land and sky. Bad weather would delay me of course, I'm not lightning proof."

"You must always account for unexpected delays," Katie claims. "So whatever you think your fastest time will be.. double it. You might pull a muscle or something."

"A muscle? I'm invincib--" Tasha pauses when she realizes she's sounding like Nora. Again. She scrunches up her muzzle and lays her ears back. "Hokay, maybe a week."

Katie raises one eyebrow in a somewhat skeptical expression. "By your own timetable, one week isn't enough," she points out. "If you aren't back within two weeks though, I will be upset."

"Eeeeee," whines Tasha, who steps back and lays her ears flatter. "Fine, fine, a week Katie! Don't be mad at me, I had a hard time!"

"At least this time I know where you're going," Katie huffs, crossing her arms. The dinner gown lessens the scary aspect.. somewhat. "And I will send Shojo after you. Unless you take him with you? I'm sure he knows good time management.."

Tasha does need to tell Shojo the truth. She decides it's not a bad idea, both for company and protection. Just because she knows cosmic secrets doesn't mean she's immune to backwater world banditry and angry rahktors. "Fine, okay, Shojo can come too," the young woman caves. She's in her own dining gown, yet gown or no the hybrid has worked with her hands most of her life and a gown doesn't cover the scars nor the slight curves of Vartan condensed muscle. It makes for an interesting contrast beside Katherine Vesuvius: Silver hair to gold, tall to short (ish), intellectual to lay, civilized to rough and tumble. Also: When did Katie get authority over Shojo? "And I'm going to the mountain, just so you know!"

"Yes.. an ancient Vartan colony, isn't it?" Katie asks. "I'm sure Shojo will appreciate it. He seems like a very thoughtful boy."

"Well, he is." Isn't he as old as you are, Katie? But then everyone seems like an inferior when Katherine Vesuvius is around, except perhaps Gabriel and Mr. Vasterlion who are stars in their own right. And, of course, Gabriel is gigantic. "I'll take him. Hopefully he can keep up, there isn't a lot of inter-continental travel on Abaddon. That won't leave me much time to leave when I return. You need to make a choice by then too, Miss Vesuvius." It feels like a small victory.

"Of course, Tasha," Katie says. "And the sooner you return, the sooner you'll know what it is." She taps the tip of Tasha's nose, and makes a 'boop' sound. The Karnor men and the Viceroy wisely refrain from commenting.

Tasha puts her fingers to her nose, as she always does when Katherine touches her nose. Perhaps part of her still can't believe Katie actually pays attention to her; perhaps it's embarassment or an unwillingness to let the touch go. Maybe she's just been trained, somehow. She doesn't know, but then being around Katherine is like that -- and not just for her, she's noticed. "Hokay. Um." And so Tasha has forgotten what they were supposed to do next, and much of what they were doing.

"A good night's rest will help to settle this grand meal," Gabriel says. "Thank you again, Viceroy. Your hospitality is always a welcome respite."

Tasha perks up again, ears up. "Yes, thank you Mr. V. Sorry about the last time we met, I was under a lot of pressure." Not that she isn't now, but somehow seeing the Way has put it all in perspective or at least helped her feel that she, too, is of a level as the dangers she faces -- whatever the case may be.

"Ah, the opportunity to mingle with space-heroes is not to be underestimated," the Viceroy retorts. "And Tasha, you are almost always under pressure. I fear that when you are not, you will suddenly grow six inches taller and require an all new wardrobe."

"I'd probably just find some new pressure to stick my head under," the Cadet insists, giving her head a little pat indicatingly. "Anything to keep from having to listen to more lectures, I guess!"

"A good lecture is like a good cigar," Gabriel claims, and takes another puff. "Don't ask me how though. I'm not that good with metaphors."

"There's something you're not good at?" Tasha asks, agast, and not entirely because she's teasing. Part of her brain leaps at the revelation she might be able to beat the Elite at something. "Well, want go enjoy the night air? Haven't we been inside enough for a few months?"

"It will help clear some of the cognac fog," Remiel agrees. Eli is already asleep on one of the loungers.

The Overlook has several balconies of course. They aren't readily apparent until the transparent blister-glass rises up and folds back to expose them to the air. The smells of the Pit are subtle, and dominated at this point by the odors of the agricultural plots that fill the Confederate Quarter.

Tasha never thought much of that smell before. To be sure, Sinai had a lot of smells compared to Abaddon's standard dusty, vaguely bloody iron rich dusty smell and the wood-or-concrete of building construction. What Abaddon truly lacked was the smell of nature, be it agriculture, trees, water -- anything that spoke of life. There's the smell of people, industry and fabricated materials, but little nature. Thus The Pit is an outlier, a bridge between the smells of home and of this new world that has become her home. She she steps on the balcony she takes it all in.

"Ahh, that's much better. I do not prefer the sterile ships and dusty lands, however much else I like the new worlds I live in," she admits to no one in particular.

"We should pick up some environmental scent-packs for Dark Horse," Gabriel suggests.

"We should." Tasha doesn't know what they are, exactly, but she can guess and the guess is good. "I think I might change the upper deck and the decor some. Use some paintings. I need to make room for the newcomers, too. We're running out of room quickly."

"Well, we'll just have to double-up," Gabriel suggests. "Yue and Liza don't take up much space."

Tasha pictures trying to fit Katherine's apartment, multiple vehicles, her wardrobe, Miss Necessity, Mr. Invention, photo shoot equipment, support staff and all the rest on to the Dark Horse. Somehow. She groans aloud before she can stop herself. We're going to need a bigger ship. I hope you remember where you parked, Horus.

"I'd just stick to your military kit for this, Katherine," Gabriel suggests. "It'll be easier to pick up contemporary outfits once we're there. Showing up with zolk or some other exotic natural fabric might cause suspicion."

And so Tasha's shipwide reorganize terror gets cut in half. Hopefully. Maybe. The cadet herself occupies very little space in terms of possessions, though that's been steadily changing as she's been subject to a steady bout of modernization and -- as Gabriel put it -- domestication. Still, her quarters are a bath and a bedroom, the rest being work space or the common areas. She'll have to change it all. A lot. Perhaps it's not too late to be a pirate and get a bigger ship?

Despite her best estimates, it took five days to reach the Storm Keep. Part of that was due to some issues finding transport across the Sea of Sand - because no Vartan is crazy enough to try and cross something with no safe place to land. Going from Abu Dhabi to the Iron Hills and on up to the Storm Keep was wearying, and required stopping to fuel up when convenient.

With Shojo left up in the Keep proper to learn about its history, Tasha has made her way back down into the K'hu'an tunnels.

Tentacled Tunnels
The walls of these seemingly-natural tunnels have been carved into the likenesses of writhing, branching tentacles festooned with the occasional eye, bizarre mouth - or in some cases just toothed suckers. They burrow deep into the mountain, and lead through chambers that tend to be even more strange and disturbing.

The whispering voices, just at the edge of hearing, are still a bit distracting, despite having come this way many times before. Still, no robed figures appear, and she reaches the pit chamber easily enough.

Despite the lack of interception, Tasha knows the Ku-hu'an know she's here. She can feel it in her bones, yet more she she suspects either they or the Source are aware of her through some esoteric dark means. Perhaps they sense the mark of her pact, or the course of her soul over space and time. Much more banaly, they may just hear her approach -- it's not as if the intimidating and alien tunnels in to the abyssal depth of the mountain recieve many outside vistors.

Whatever the case all is as it was before, save for what she knows. The compact between them can now be fulfilled, she need but only deliver the information in to what she now suspects is a pocket universe outside the normal flow of time and space -- perhaps entirely outside of it as with the Way. It does explain the strange mismatch of time. A mismatch she'll just have to endure again, she knows as she kneels down. "Here we go. Finally, here we go." She eases down and begins lowering herself in to the gap -- which she suspects is no real gap but some perception of a gap translated by her mind, a gap in reality and not simply the floor. She lets go, falling in to the prison of the abyss.

Once again, Tasha meets a soft, shifting mass. The centipede-serpent creatures that make up the Source swarm over and bury Tasha quickly enough, and it feels like they're trying to remove her armor - but actually they're just passing through it to be up against her skin, as if the non-living material is simply being ignored by the Source's reality at the moment. Once Tasha feels completely encased by the alien flesh, the choir-like voice of the Source says: You taste of different spaces.. and exposure to strange radiations.

"As sharp as ever," Tasha replies, chuckling a little out of latent anxiety at being covered in insect-like creatures and with the thrill of success so close at hand. It's not as if she minds the Source's peculiar biology, but it always takes a little getting used to -- which she's found true of all the dark beings. She gives herself a moment, closing her eyes and pausing before elaborating. "I have been outside of time. I have met the Progenitors. I have the answer to the question and the fulfillment of our pact."

Tasha wonders if the request is for verbal or another type. She hopes for verbal; she goes with verbal. "Okay, well, here it is:" After taking in a deep bretah and marshalling her thoughts -- not to mention preparing for some other form of elaboration -- the young woman begins. "The Progenitors are the uplifters of many non-sentient beings who later became sentient throughout this galaxy, other galaxies, and other times and universes other than the one I come from. They are the Vril-ya, the Wayfarers, beings of exotic soul-energy from their own reality known as Vril. Their reality is as they are, entirely of their nature, a reality of energy and soul that can touch upon material, concept, soul, and other things and different from my soul -- or yours. The Vril create new beings by splitting their energy, which becomes a seperate being. The Vril-ya are those who ahve split from their home reality, therefore Wayfarers."

"The Vril-ya are the source of most or all the First Ones and many of the New Ones -- the species that exist now and create civilization. Atum is the greatest source of Vril I know of outside its universe and the so-called leader of the Vril-ya in our reality and perhaps others. It splits to create explorers and builders who inhabit stone-like suits like its own, only smaller. These smaller beings are known as Archons. They are what we call Progenitors, each in the shape and nature of the sentient species they uplift. Most have faded by now, being only embers. You held one. It knew of you."

The Marker of Vartans, the Source realizes. It contained Vril and I never sensed it.

"They're different from us. They're the fire of the soul, different from us. Maybe more different than I am from you, or maybe not. I don't know." The young woman folds her hands across her lap, turning her mind over the story of the Vril-ya, their works and their desires and realizes she hasn't touched upon the third. "They seem to desire to sew civilization and sentience. They are enemies of the Ogdoad -- your creators and enslavers -- for that reason, the eaters of souls. They are allied to the Waybuilders, who also oppose the Ogdoad for reasons I don't know. I now work for them, in a sense." The young woman bites her lip, wondering if her revelation might create a rift between them, or worse. She presses on. "Do you ... Do you have any questions?"

The pressure from the serpentine walls seems to increase slightly. There is more. I can taste it, the Source claims. How did you contact them?

"Before I answer that, I need to know something. Would you use this information to aid the Sifra or the Ogdoad? Would that answer change, if you were free?" Tasha decides to ask. She must know, pact or no pact. Paving the way for an Ogdoad or Sifran victory would been catastrophic, and while Horus and Atum may not consider the release of information a concern she also knows them to be imperfect beings. Perhaps the opinion of two groups of imperfect beings will be better than the judgement of one.

I desire the Vril, the Source claims, and Tasha sort of feels like she's being pulled in deeper. The energy to leave my prison, or become immaterial again, or to cease. To be burned by it. How may I acquire it? Do you have it with you?

Tasha instinctively reaches for the surface, and then for anything, but knows there's nothing to find. Here in the prison there is only the Source. She isn't even sure there are any walls, any limits she would understand, though there is an exit.

"Um, hey now, don't get ... " Bitey? Hungry? Tasha's sinking feeling has become literal as well. "Just calm down, okay? We talk about this, the Vril-ya and I. Horus and I. We talked about you, and we have a plan!"

There's a red glow coming up from below Tasha's feet, finally bringing light to the darkness.. which is a mixed thing. The 'serpents' are now more clearly covered in mouths and eyes, just like the depictions carved into the walls of the tunnels that lead here. Some move aside more, as the glow rises, until Tasha is looking into a single red orb of an eye, filled with swirling patterns of.. other shades of red. The patterns take on very disturbing, almost anthropomorphic shapes. What have you discussed? the Source asks.

Again Tasha tries to retreat by instinct alone, but there is no where to go. The change in the Source's attitude unnerves her. She had thought she'd seen it all, the entirety of the beings physical manifestation, and yet there is more. What being exposed to what seems to be the core of the Source means she doesn't truly know, yet it feels like she's been brought closer to its sense of being somehow, more in focus to it. That a giant eye is staring at her goes a long way to make her believe she's right. Were it not for the desperation she might find the shift much more interesting, yet her walking beside 'gods' remains pleasant only so long as their mood does not give them cause to step on her.

She stares in to the baleful red eye, though she can't find it entirely sinister. The red -- her favorite color and whatever conceit that might be -- is fascinating, as are the shapes. She might call the eye beautiful, but the beauty of a storm over that of the flower in bloom. And the shapes, she tries to make sense of the shapes as she answers. "Our task is to opposed the Ogdoad, Horus and mine, by Atum and by my choice. We have the weapons, but won't use them. We need another way -- we considered allies. I said we might look to you, work to free you perhaps. But, we don't know how. Not yet. We thought you might be our ally, we could free you from here and free you from the Ogodad if we could. And the others, too. Katha-hem. Sedu-hem. End your slavery. Maybe together we can win."

Win what? the Source asks. What is to be won in this? Only one thing can destroy the Ogdoad. The Ogdru-hem are vulnerable. To stop the Ogdoad, the Ogdru-hem must be destroyed, for it is only they that can release our creators from their own prison once the Seraphim have fallen.

"What if the Ogdru-hem didn't want to anymore?" Tasha asks. The idea of destroying ancient beings, slaves no less, is unplatiable. She had her hand in genocide once and it left a stain on her soul she might never wash away, and that was out of immediate need for safety and survival. That this time might be the same, yet slower, hardly helps the situation. As she told Horus, perhaps there are better ways. "What if you weren't slaves anymore, would you free them? Or would you leave them imprison -- or cast them out?"

The Ogdru-hem are created for specific functions, the Source claims. What will they have is irrelevant. If they exist, and the conditions are right, they will carry out their function. Not all are needed, only a few. Many have likely been destroyed already.

And so the explaination begs a question. "Aren't you one of the Ogdru-hem, Source?"

I am not, only a lesser summoning, the Source replies. A test subject. The Seraphim did not imprison the Ogdru-hem as they did the Ogdoad and myself, because we are of the Dark, and the Ogdru-hem are more of the Gray. Each is different as well.

"I saw that. If you won't help the Ogdoad, would you help us, if we freed you?" Tasha asks. She holds up her hands to the eye, thinking too late the gesture of stalling might be wasted here. "I'll still answer, I just want to know. If you're not helping them then I don't need to refuse to answer."

You cannot free me, and I have no power to aid you, the Source claims. The Vril-ya might be able to change my condition, but they are not with you. If the power of the Seraphim fades away, I do not know that it would change anything for me either. The Ogdru-hem have no reason to free me, even if they free the Ogdoad.

"Well, um, lucky for you even if you can't help us I still suggested to Horus we do it. Horus wanted me to fulfill my pact with you, and so I have. Erm, almost. You had anotehr question." Tasha stops to sort herself out, order her knowledge about the Way and her approach to it. As she does, the eerie light of the eye gives her something to look at for once -- and not just the eye. As a creature of a visual focus, she can't help but become more inquisitive of her surroundings. She had always wondered about the centiped-serpents, yet now that she can see them they are still hard to follow -- so she tries to grab one with her hands. "Well I don't have any Vril. Horus doesn't have much either. We might get more, but only Atum seems to have any now. Maybe the lost Progenitors have more. But you asked about the how. There is a gate machine, a thing not quite part of our universe. The lock is there. The door leads to the corridor with the Archon bodies -- and then in to the Way. The Way of the Waybuil

ders, a corridor through all of time and to other realities. To the Beginning and the End."

That is different than I expected, the Source notes, and the appendage that Tasha grabs opens is mouths to lick her. May I eat one of your souls?

Tasha wrinkles her nose. It looks like a gooshrum, she should have seen it coming. She does, after all, look a bit like a Zerda if the viewer were being very charitable -- or like a lot like a Nohbahkim if they weren't. She holds on to it anyway, though, determined to examine her prize licks or no licks. She worked with pteras, and she's taken her licks literally and figuratively that way too.

"My souls, huh? When did I start having souls plural?" She's known for a while, or at least suspected, but it's still a peculiar feeling. She wonders if the trend continues she might end up like Atum some day, or the Niss, a veritable walking civilization. "Why? Which one do you want? Don't we have to make a deal, isn't that how this works?"

The other Vartan one is incomplete, the Source claims. I would take that one. A new deal? What more would you ask?

"Don't make me sound greedy now, deals are how I thought these exchanges were supposed to work! "There are the Rules, and that is all there is," or some-such, that's what He-Who-Moves said. But I can't have a deal that binds us again, Horus might complain and he is my species uplifter and I really don't want to know how I'll react if he gets disappointed in me. Let me think ... " Tasha can't tap her cheek, so she taps the snake-things cheek instead as she considers it. "So we need an immediately complete-able deal. How about ... Can I have one of these? Can I eat one of your souls? Like a ... A soul exchange? I'm supposed to understand these things."

In a singular moment of self-awareness, Tasha momentarily stuns herself by what she just said -- and the logic behind it. She renews her belief her life has become hopelessly strange, even alien.

Those are my flesh, the Source claims. They cannot exist outside of my prison. It's probably best that Blackwings isn't 'awake' in this pocket reality, or she might be screaming at Tasha right now.

"I see." And what of Blackwings? Tasha considers she can't help her to live again, but is being eaten by the Source so bad? In truth, she doesn't know. "What happens to souls you eat, anyway?"

They are broken down to.. to.. the Source says, and the eye-currents become more turbulent. I do not know, it admits. It is a craving that seems fundamental to existence.

"I don't crave souls." That Tasha knows of, anyway. "You mean fundamental to dark creatures? Isn't a soul a sentient mind's existence over time and made from ... gravity and other things? If you ate her, would she just disappear from all of my reality because there'd be no record?"

Uncertain, the entity replies. I have never consumed one before. I do not know the impact it would have.

"I'd sort of like her opinion before I agree. All of the souls I, uh, possess have their own minds. I think she might be a bit angry with me, but maybe she won't be." Tasha lets the serpent go, reaching to tap her head. "I might need to step outside."

The Source seems reluctant to let Tasha go, now that she's so close. Do you wish to be devoured? it asks.

Tasha's ears flick at that, she cocks her head to the side and gives the eye a very suspicious look. "No? I know I almost got myself flattened by a space-time crushing wheel-sculture, but that was an accident. Besides wouldn't I be dead then?" Her head cocks the other way. "Do you really want to kill me? Or ... Are you ... " Could it be? She leans a little closer. "You don't want me to go, do you? Are you lonely? Afraid I'll leave and not come back?"

I did not think a soul would willingly be devoured, but you suggested that it might, the Source replies. It seemed obvious to ask you if you would wish to be devoured then.

"Oh. That makes sense." And so Tasha leans back. "Maybe some souls do crave and end, like you seem to. Blackwings was a nasty woman, anc cruel, but I think the world was cruel to her as well. Maybe she wanted an end, if I can't help her to live again. But, she'd probably not want to give up. I seem to uhhh, um, sort of end up with that type."

There are different types of souls? the Source asks, the glow of the eye brightening a bit. How did you acquire the Blackwings?

"That's an interesting question," Tasha notes, and indeed it interests her as well. "I killed the original Blackwings, but the people chasing her still needed to interrogate her, so they pulled her spirit from me somehow, because we had a, uhhh--" The young woamn hesitates. her relationship with Blackwings wasn't exactly a secret back in Darkside, but no one was so foolish as to make a big deal out of it, and few were so culturally unaware as to comment on it openly. Many people feared the pirate and messing with her entertainment was a good way to gain her attention and possibly her ire, bit that Blackwings was protective so much as of poor opinion of those who would deny or delay her pleasures in life. "Well. We, um, associated. Anyway, we were close. Sort of. The mages sued that to draw her out, and she lingered. You saw there are others, too. I seem to be two souls. Atum seemed to see it as well. Of souls, I know a few types: Vril souls, dark souls, souls of sentient beings, and the S

ifran copy-souls or bodies. Maybe Blackwings is another type. You told me the Sifra created copy souls."

So Blackwings is a partial copy attached to you, the Source states. I do not sense others.

"No? Atum saw them all. I saw them all when Atum did. The Vril can touch souls, so when Atum spoke to me it's like I was many beings at once. I could hear them all, even though I couldn't understand them and don't remember their thoughts. I was represented by two souls. I think." Tasha touches the left and right of her face, Vartan and Karnor respectively. "It must be what being like Atum is like? Or the Niss, or ... Maybe like you? Blackwings was one of them, but I don't know why you sense only her. She did say I ate her. Do you think she exists because I'm linked to you, and when she said ate she meant actually ate? Ate like you eat? But not completely, because I only had part of you?"

I cannot know the Blackwings thoughts on it, the Source claims. You are of many minds, but that does not mean you are of many souls. Few sapient beings are of one mind.

Tasha nods to this. She suspects, right this very moment, Katherine Vesuvius is deciding how angry to be about her trip. "That's so true," she agrees, tapping her heada again. "I know I'm usually confused. But here, lets make sure everything is done right. Did I answer your question, have I satisfied the pact between us?"

It is possible though that the element of myself within you made it possible to hold onto this partial copy-soul, the Source concedes. Yes, our pact is completed. I must release you or devour you now.

"If you eat me, I'm going to give you indigestion," Tasha warns. While she suspects she'll be let go, being held before the maw of a dark being that could unravel her very existence isn't to be taken lightly nor calmly. She quickly racks her brain for an out, or a counter, or something should it be needed. Can she escape? Can she eat the Source first, does the pact go both ways? It worked on Blackwings, not that she knows how.

The Source just holds her in place for a few long moments, and then the red lights fades and Tasha feels like she is moving 'upwards' again. There is a last message though from the Source: Beware the empty places and the Darkness that Shines Bright. And then she's back up in the pit, where the tentacles are of carved stone (but no less disturbing).

Tasha flops on to her side, rolling on to her back. Blackwings, you are so lucky I'm a nice person. Nice-ish. Nice now, she thinks. And what was that warning? Empty places? The Darkness that Shines Bright? The latter warning makes sense to her -- but what danger does the Null mean for her? They should be allies, in a sense, but the Null is the god of the Waybuilders, and teh Waybuilders are far beyond her. Alliances may mean little given the difference in scale. She wonders, though, if there may be more to it all.

"Nice, Puppybird?" a familiar voice whispers into Tasha's mind. "That must be new. Who you steal being nice from, anyway?"

"Gabriel, I think. No, Aaron. It was Aaron." Tasha rubs her nose, remembering being licked nearby. "I'm about to ruin that though: The dark ebing that lives her asked me if it could eat you soul."

"Ah.. so why didn't you let it?" Blackwings asks. "Because of being nice, or because you love me?"

"Maybe both. I still hate you though -- and you should thank whatever dark gods you believe in that my love is stronger than my hate. Thank Gabriel, Katie and everyone else too." Tasha rolls over again, pushing herself up and scootching over to lean against one of the walls. The serpents surround her, but she's touched the real thing. No stone copy can truly scare her, now. "Said you were a partial copy, too. Thinks the part of me that is -- was? -- it is why you remain. They eat souls, so maybe I just bite but can't swallow."

"Nah, it because of all the tar on your own soul," Blackwings insists, and it's almost like she's leaning over the hybrid. "Things get stuck to it, yeah?"

Tasha lays her ears back, arms folding over her chest. It's been a long time since Blackwings leaned over her like that; it brings back a lot of memories, good and bad. Mostly good, which in itself makes her feel dirtier -- not that it helps any. She knew Blackwings to be a sordid person even back then, if not how sordid, and it didn't change anything then either. "Doesn't matter," she insists. "Tarred up and rotten or clean and shiny, the past's the past. If you're lucky you can do better. If you try, if you're lucky."

"No need to get huffy," Blackwings says, a bit churlishly. "I no try to get you to play with your quiet Vartan boy. I'm not corrupting you anymore."

"Oh." This new, non-currpting Blackwings is a strange sort of beast. Tasha peers above her, but then slowly unfolds her arms and slides to the floor, hands behind her head. Very strange indeed. She isn't sure how to quite interact with 'the new Blackwings,' realizing they may well have to start anew, from scratch. "Well. Sorry. It's just a little weird, how you are now. So what's this about my soul then, why talk about me being tarred?"

"Because of my influence on you," Blackwings claims. "A lot of years with me.. compared to just a little time since you figured out empathy. How you think my wings get so black, hah!"

"//Very funny." Tasha admits, snorting aloud. The gesture might have made her self-concious were she not in the hoary halls of a shrine dedicated to a soul eating beyond time and space, where talking to yourself might well be expected. Certainly the Ku'hu'n aren't going to shake their head at her sanity -- or lack there of. If they have heads. "It still sometimes feels like a dream. I close my eyes and think it might disappear. I was injured, and the place I recovered in was the old tavern, not my new life. And look what I've done, and how far I've gone. And the people I've met -- and ended. Maybe that's why my wings are red?"

"I think they red because they are your momma's wings, and she is red," Blackwings notes. "Or else so you don't notice if they get drenched in blood!"

Hearing about momma is sobering, at the very least, and sober and sad isn't what she wants to be right now. To defy Blackwings apparent attempt to make her feel bad, or just her own, and mess with her -- or herself -- Tasha pulls her hands out and holds her outstretched arms to the air infront of her. "I met Horus, Blackwings. Oldest of the old. Our uplifter, our creator. The first Vartan," she thinks to confide, uncertain why she chose now to mention it.

"Oh? Did you kick 'im in the plums for all the crap we've had to shovel over the centuries?" Blackwings asks. "Ask him why we have to be criminals and pirates just to get anywhere in life?"

"I yelled at him a bit, but I think I started to see him like I saw gabriel and anyone else like him: Like a father who didn't care and abandoned me. Us. But that's the thing." Tasha waves her arms a little, unable to feel anything in the air. Can she really not hold Blackwings, or is the old bird refusing her? To mess with her mind? Out of spite? Or fear? "He's not a god, Blackwings. Maybe he was once a lot more, but he's not a perfect being at all. He's not even the greatest of his own kind. He's just a piece of a piece of an alien reality, explorers and builders and sewers of life that came from another place and time, who found the animals we were on some rock out there and made us more. And then he stepped back, worried only that we wouldn't surivive. The rest wasn't important. He doesn't know us, Blackwings, or understand us, not really. But he will. He will if I can do anything about it."

"Don't go easy on him!" Blackwings declares.. but she's really just an illusion in Tasha's mind, instead of a physical 'spirit' presence. "Don't think of him as your creator either. He didn't create you and me, or anyone we know. Maybe taught us some stuff, way back.. but that doesn't mean Vartans are better for it. But he messed with us, so I hold him responsible. I beat my father near to death when I caught up to him, for what he did to me, and I no regret it one bit."

And so Tasha's hands fall and in that gesture the young woman finds herself nearly breaking down in to tears. In the gesture of giving up on holding Blackwings again, the reminder she destroyed someone she loved -- however much she might have also hated her -- hits her with all force. Yet, more painful is the giving up. The realization she may well never see Blackwings again, save as a ghost in her mind reminding her of her choices. Choices made without knowing the full score; sees that now in Blackwing's words. She sucks in a deep breath and stumbles on, hoping momentum will save her. She doesn't want to cry again.

Something positive. There must be something positive in all this. What did she, or Horus, do that was positive? What could balance countless lifetimes of suffering? What ... Oh. "He ddin't want us to die," Tasha pushes. "He let us escape our duties. We were warriors, soldiers. Our duty was to cleanse the universe of all that would stand in the way of their galactic culture. The Titanians built and reverse engineered. the Cill explored, invented, lead and searched for answers. The Cill broke under their duty. We'd have been fed to the weapon to destroy the Ogdoad, our souls broken down for energy. All of us. Gone. Only the Titanians might have survived then. Maybe they still won't."

"And to do that he had to abandon us?" Blackwings asks. Then she growls. "Maybe best that way. Best you never knew your father.. that he never know you exist," the big older bird says, and then sits down next to Tasha. "Escape our duties. So he go so he not have to be reminded of it? You asked how I became who I was. Hokay, part of it was dad. When I still just a girl.. he pass me around to his friends. 'Make me proud, sweet-beak' he say. Need to cover a bet? Take my daughter! Pay a tab, make up for fight.. that what I was to him. Then he sell me, outright."

Tasha grits her teeth, a silent growl, impotent. She had her say, and she said wrong. Or right? The horror wrought upon Blackwings was wrought upon others in turn. Yet, the cause remains. The cause she didn't see, wasn't told, didn't ask for. No time. Was there no time? Could she have ever known? Could she have done anything, if she did know? And what of herself, passed around the same way? Yet her own abuse doesn't seem to matter anymore -- is that the answer? Can a world fo good, of fulfillment and meaning defeat the horrors of the past? Or simply mute them? And why, why wasn't she there for the first woman she ever loved? Couldn't she have offered more than a blade to the gut, however fair she thought it was to all involved?

And so Tasha realizes another facet of why a person might pity a god as much as any mortal. The endless choices, the endless consequences. If a would-be god feels at all, their bredth and eternal life would return their errors in as grand a spectrum as their great minds might permit. And were they not perfect, then their mistakes would endure as much as their good works. Even the Star, in its untouchable perfection, must endure the imperfection and failure of standing aside.

Tasha wonders if anywhere in this world or any other, if there might be a right and perfect answer. She decides to look, to try and find it should she ever have the chance. The Way, perhaps. And then she will take everyone there.

"I'm so sorry," she offers, knowing how limited it is. How little words are worth, now that it's all done. "I didn't know. I didn't. I suspected but I didn't know. But Horus ... He isn't that bad ... Is he?"

"I didn't know it was wrong, back then," Blackwings says. "Without Horus.. didn't we end up selling ourselves to the kitties? He could have made everyone happy, done his duty and just fizzled out after all the Vartans gone. He wouldn't have suffered then. But he didn't. He chose to suffer.. for Vartans to suffer.. instead of letting us go. We so stubborn about our kids, sometimes."

"We sold ourselves for some shiny trinkets and technology, that's what the Titanians told me. We fought and killed each other, and the ones seduced by the Khattans won. We've never been good at having ambition, or creating technology. We liked to be content, and never change. Or, so I've learned. Maybe we had always been created to be happy, happy to fight, happy to live, happy to die, happy to be thrown away." But Tasha isn't sold on that, isn't sure. "But the Titanians said something else. Said my Titan loved me like Horus loved his children. He's just like us. Maybe he made a mistake, or changed his mind. Maybe he was always unable to do it, and just didn't know until he had to. But, he doesn't understand us personally, and I think he lost hope a long time ago. Knew he had nowheer to go, and only one duty left and no way to do it. When I talked to him, he sounded defeated. Prideful and defiant, but I never felt it was because of hope. Resignation, maybe, but he wouldn't let anyone see it."

"Sounds like one of us," Blackwings says, putting an arm around Tasha's shoulders that has no physical presence. "So, gonna sit in this pit all day?"

" ... going to stay with me a while?" She knows she has to go, but there's no deadline. People wait for her, but they always do. She isn't sure she wants to return to the sad old world, to the world wheer her mistakes might ruin a life again -- and so many now. So very many.

"I'm always with you, tar-buddy," Blackwings says. "You just can't always see me like this, but I'm there."

"Good." And so Tasha begins to rise, slowly pulling herself up fromt the floor and turning to walk down the hallway. "Because ... Because I miss you." She said it, but she had always known on some level it was true. She only wishes she had known this kinder, more open Blackwings when it would have made a difference. A difference. Maybe she can still make a difference. "Do you think if I had the power of a god, I could change it all? Fix the mistakes?"

"Are you kidding?" Blackwings laughs. "When has a god ever fixed anything properly?"

"So something more than a god." Tasha isn't sure if she's being serious or not, even with herself. She kept on going and fighting this fight because she believed she might find a better way, accomplish something more. Oh, there was the discoveries, the new people, the friends, but Raehab had her pegged fro an idealist and she decides he was right -- and still is even if the perfection has become tarnished. She keeps looking higher and higher and the endless cycle of mistakes and problems persist everywhere, making her wonder if there might be any true answer, any ultimate solution. Yet, the universe is a big place. "Want me to kill your father?"

"He's already dead," Blackwings notes. "Not by me.. but he used me to pay off his gambling debts, and when I wasn't there anymore he couldn't get out of them. The broken legs and wings I gave him might have contributed though."

"I'd have done it, if you asked." And Tasha knows she would. Whatever she may think about what she's done, the stain hasn't left her, nor the ability and fire that created it in the first place. If the cause seems right, she'll do it, and yet she wonders if all Vartans were created to hold such a fire in their heart. In reflection it feels like a very Vartan thing to feel. As she ascends the temple she thinks to ask, "Want me to say anything to Horus for you? Want me to see if you can live again, through our cloning system?"

"Vengeance from the beyond the grave would set a bad example, wouldn't it?" Blackwings asks. "You tell Horus that his ghost has to be at least as useful as that of an old pirate! Not sure what cloning is.. there are bigger things to deal with, yeah? No point being reborn into a world that's coming to an end!"

"Did you know the being who created me used to be a mortal woman? She became the goddess of vengeance -- of avenging murder. So maybe she'd have to avenge his murder with mine, or maybe she'd be okay with it. Nora's hard to understand sometimes, but I don't always listen to her and I like teasing her, so I don't know." And she doesn't. Tasha squints at the light, wondering how Shojo got on in the nearly emptied mountain city before she continues towards the light. "Or are you trying to be a good example?" She decides to make neitehr joke nor jab, not wanting to question Blackwing's effort. "The world is coming to an end, did I tell you that or did you learn it from your ghost insight in to the Sifra?"

"I'm trying to be a good mentor," Blackwings says. "You're trying to be nice. The gods have given up.. and I don't feel angry at everything anymore. Surely, these are signs of the end of days."

"I think the word Nora would use is 'amen'. Amen to that." Tasha squints all the more once the exit comes in to view, half expecting the young Vartans to be lounging about again and ready to be bored anew by her explorations, but it doesn't come to pass. "If it helps any I like this new you and I'm grateful you're trying to help me. Maybe we can show the gods up, wouldn't that be something? Well, Horus is waiting and so is Shojo. Time to get out of the dark."