kzecka, hox
some span of achtus 2719
"Ez'ia has told me a great many things about the many things Anaxi have opinions about." Lreya chuckled, but her voice was suddenly cold in its disapproval: despite her centuries of existence, she found herself stymied by not always having any helpful counsel for her only child and their social struggles abroad. Despite her decades as a mother, the frustration that realization brought to her had not dulled one bit, either,
"As if oppression isn't difficult enough to work through, I suppose." Her words weren't spoken with the deferential air of some aloof galdor, not really. Perhaps the strung together syllables while she placed the bones in a metal canister to be ground and repurposed as compost could be interpreted as dismissive of the suffering of the lower races, especially considering her choice in living so isolated in a community of almost entirely galdori, but the long stretch of her existence had tempered her opinions on others unlike herself in a way that was difficult to articulate.
"I started writing rather early—I thought myself utterly alone. Someone needed to see the life I continued to live, even if it was just myself staring at my own ink on a page, I—" Lreya had wanted to remember, also. She'd always felt so keenly the merciless hunger of entropy, gnawing away at her mind once it was no longer technically bound to one form of shaped flesh. Some of her writings had, of course, been destroyed or lost along the way from where she began this unlife to where she stood now, "—well, that doesn't mean I've entirely saved every detail, but there is much from before my life here."
Turning once again in earnest to the dumplings and their steaming, she bit her lip and paused for only a brief moment, sifting through the silty haze of memories that clouded her ancient undying day-to-day.
It was almost like the small Vessel startled at Tom's question, for her dark eyes grew large and she blinked slowly at the slightly taller Anaxi. Just as slowly, Lreya smiled,
"I do not think that strange at all. I have a feeling Ezre would be rather proud to see you come to some place of comfort in the new chaos of your current existence, Cook-cxîl—"
A little softer, obviously with a welcoming gentleness, she added, perhaps just for the other raen's benefit of hearing it all in fluent, harsh Deftung,
"—Tom'xî."
"As if oppression isn't difficult enough to work through, I suppose." Her words weren't spoken with the deferential air of some aloof galdor, not really. Perhaps the strung together syllables while she placed the bones in a metal canister to be ground and repurposed as compost could be interpreted as dismissive of the suffering of the lower races, especially considering her choice in living so isolated in a community of almost entirely galdori, but the long stretch of her existence had tempered her opinions on others unlike herself in a way that was difficult to articulate.
"I started writing rather early—I thought myself utterly alone. Someone needed to see the life I continued to live, even if it was just myself staring at my own ink on a page, I—" Lreya had wanted to remember, also. She'd always felt so keenly the merciless hunger of entropy, gnawing away at her mind once it was no longer technically bound to one form of shaped flesh. Some of her writings had, of course, been destroyed or lost along the way from where she began this unlife to where she stood now, "—well, that doesn't mean I've entirely saved every detail, but there is much from before my life here."
Turning once again in earnest to the dumplings and their steaming, she bit her lip and paused for only a brief moment, sifting through the silty haze of memories that clouded her ancient undying day-to-day.
It was almost like the small Vessel startled at Tom's question, for her dark eyes grew large and she blinked slowly at the slightly taller Anaxi. Just as slowly, Lreya smiled,
"I do not think that strange at all. I have a feeling Ezre would be rather proud to see you come to some place of comfort in the new chaos of your current existence, Cook-cxîl—"
A little softer, obviously with a welcoming gentleness, she added, perhaps just for the other raen's benefit of hearing it all in fluent, harsh Deftung,
"—Tom'xî."
