milliways_bar | (no subject)

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He has not been into the Bar these past nights, not since his arrival. Hektor has spent the nights awake, leaning on his spear and tending his fire; as he has not spoken to any who tend the stables, he has had to keep watch over his horse. There are things howling in the woods that have voices no wolf of his knowledge could ever hope to match. As for his days, he has been looking for a way back on the paths by which he came here, or working Boukephalos until the edge is off the stallion and he no longer seems likely to seek out other horses for a fight. But tonight, at least, it seems quiet; and so the horse is safely tethered outside, well away from the stables, and Hektor has come indoors for the moment. One can only make so many meals of an ill-prepared belt pouch's contents and the stuff found growing in woods so strange as these.

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"Hallo, Hektor." Spoon says as he passes within scenting distance of the young man, "How're you doing?"

Spoon's arms are full of very, very oddly shaped armor.

"Well enough, I think," says Hektor, rubbing his eyes with one hand. "I've been here some nights now, and had little sleep to show for it. Is that the style of armor in your country?"

"...You were outside over the full moon?" Yeah, the werewolf is rather freaked about that, "Fuckin' hell, man, you could have gotten yourself infected!"

That's worse than being killed, in Spoon's mind. "Uh, no. It's the style of armor that Christine's people wear, modified to fit both of my bodies."

"Beyond the lake," says Hektor, "and away from the woods- well away. My horse came with me this time, you see, and he's a dangerous one. I would not take him to the stables without permission first; besides, he's killed men before this, several of them. I would not let him do anyone harm, so I stayed by the fire with my spear and what armor I had with me and kept watch against the things howling in the woods."

Then he nods, and looks more closely at the armor. "I have never seen the like. Of what is it made?"

"Next time," Spoon says, firmly, "stay indoors and let the horse fend for itself. You do not want to end up like me."

He then passes over the mask, "The exoskeleton of a kainde amedha. Really fuckin' durable shite."

"If I am here next moon, I should have a place in the stables for Boukephalos by then," Hektor returns. He takes the proffered mask in both hands, peering closely at the substance of it; after some moments, he raps it with a knuckle, experimentally.

It makes a klonk sound not too unlike that of hitting any other giant slab of bone. "Good. Fuckin' hell. You are a lucky, lucky man." young, yes, but Hektor isn't a kid as Spoon's time has them and Spoon doesn't feel like insulting.

"If it had come to it, Boukephalos can outrun anything on four legs save one of those spotted cats the Persian kings use to hunt," says Hektor. "I would have ridden him away, if things had come to that pass."

He turns the mask over and runs a hand over the interior.

"Ye-ah," Spoon says, "about that...uh. We're faster than you'd think. Dunno if we're quite that fast, but we're fast and all it takes is a scratch for you to be joining us during the moons."

The interior has only a very minimum of padding, and a lot of places where additional systems will be added in as Spoon earns and gathers them.

"Well enough, then," says Hektor. "I will see to it that next moon, we are not here."

He does not move to put the mask on, as that would be rude; but he does lift it a little, and turn it thus and so, hoping to catch a glimpse through its eyes.

"I have a picture of the thing that came from." Spoon says, tilting his chin at the mask, "The eye-slits are made so that I can see through it as a human and in werewolf body."

"Might I see, then?" asks Hektor, handing the mask back. "It's no sort of creature I recognize. One might expect to find such things in the underworld, if anywhere."

"Outer space." Spoon says, "Not the underworld." Then he pulls out his wallet and flips past family to the picture of the kainde amedha skull. "That's it's head."

Outer space is no word that Hektor recognizes, but he turns to see the portrait anyway. Then he stares for some time, and tries to make sense of the pictured nightmare.

"Yeah." Spoon says cheerfully, "I killed it with me teeth, but I had to regrow a large chunk of me skeleton. Acid blood."

Hektor looks from the picture to the man, and then to the picture again. "One hears tales of such things happening in the wild lands beyond the Euxine," he says, "but I had never given them credence before this. . ."

"Milliways is different." Spoon says, "And I'm not human. Neither is Christine, although she's rather less human than I am. It was there, we fought, and I killed it. Earned me status amongst her people."

"Earned you status among anyone, I should think," says Hektor. "I was proud enough of the boar I killed with my spear that I had his tusks made into part of my helmet, but this. . ." He shakes his head. "That is a far greater kill than any I've heard of in our lands, to be sure."

"In order to be considered a person by Christine's people you have to kill one of those." Spoon informs him, cheerfully, "It was an accident that I ran into one, but that's life. Opened up a whole fuckin' new set of possibilities for me."

"Her people must not have many enemies, then," says Hektor. "Not among the living, anyway."

"Not that I know of!" Spoon says, "They're...we're...hunters. Status is gained, in part, by testing yourself against dangerous things and taking trophies. It's considered an honorable death to have your head taken as a trophy."

Hektor nods. "Not so different from the wilder tribes around us, then," he says. "Though I think they are more dangerous, your people and hers. I hear the Thracians do much the same with the heads of enemies they consider truly valiant."

"We probably are." Spoon agrees, "Christine's people hunts humans. I don't, but the rest of them do. You're considered a prime prey because you're so damn unpredictable."

He might, perhaps, be excused for growing indignant at that; but still, there is something in being thought of as difficult opponents. So he only nods, and resolves to himself that when he returns to Troy- or before, perhaps- he will be doubly certain to practice with spear and sword alike, every day, for as long as his arms will bear it.

Spoon, sniffing the indignant reaction, says, "Yautja only hunt predators. Predators are prey, and anything that isn't considered a danger isn't worth the effort put into it."

"I suppose that's something," Hektor allows. "Still- it sits ill with me, that is all; so might one of the Athenians feel who was taken for the bull-dance, when they still held that in Crete."

"Nobody likes to think of themselves as the hunted." Spoon agrees, "Sometimes it just happens like that."

For better or worse, a memory-wiped teenager is also in the Bar. "Bruck" is sitting at the Bar when Hektor comes in.

It's truly a shame that he doesn't recall meeting him; with that said, he does offer a friendly nod to Hektor.

Hektor glances sidelong at the motion, as it seldom pays to ignore half-seen things. It takes a moment or two before it comes to him: this is the supposed warrior who speaks with the mouth of a clerk. Well enough, then. He would not be rude without need, but he has been on guard for far too long to think of fine manners. His only response is a silent nod of his own, and a return to his own meal.

There's no realization that he knows Hektor...only a vague familiarity at best. "Hey." His accent is slightly off from where it was before; what's more, he appears a bit more relaxed than he used to.

He doesn't have a year of atrocities on his head anymore, after all.

Hektor's shoulders tense a moment.

"I would like to eat in peace," he says at last. "Take your assumptions and your questions elsewhere. If I come across those you say will speak for you, then perhaps I will ask them to do so; but I am in no mood for talk with one who is all cry and little wool. Go."

Strange kid. And with that, Bruck does leave him.

There is a broken chair he'd have to step over in the way. The air above the table moves, shimmering like a heat wave, as he gets close to it. Two patches shaped like eyes momentarily flash bright yellow and fade.

"This seat is occupied."

Hektor jumps backwards, one hand coming up in the sign against evil, and says something very startled indeed in Phrygian.

"No. I am not a fallen god yet."

She's trying to be matter-of-fact and helpful here, really.

"Well, that is something," says Hektor- though he eyes the air above the table warily. "What manner of being am I addressing, then? I would not speak amiss."

Decloaking isn't very impressive if you're used to electricity. Blue flickers, some flashing, hello yautja. So. . . well, the second time this happens, it'll be old news, right?

She's silent. She could tell there was wariness, after all, and she might as well give him a chance to do the initial summing-up in peace.

One might say the boy's eyes were the size of saucers at this, but he would not know what saucers were; so one can only say he stares, and bows with knuckles to brow in the salutation of great respect. "I see," he says. "I am sorry; I had not known you were there, and I would not have intruded, had I known."

"I am Cre'hktdi, Christine to humans, and I do not expect to remain silent when I am not in the rafters. I usually make more sound. It is not surprising to have to speak when one is invisible and uncloaked."

Tables are better than chairs, though. She's going to be spending a lot more time on tables.

"You are Christine?" says Hektor, starting a moment. "Spoon spoke of you, but I don't believe he described you fully. You are the one from the people of hunters?"

He gets a low, cheerful rattle of mandibles. "Yes." There's not much more to say to that. "Spoon knows our natures."

"He spoke highly of your people," says Hektor, "but I don't think he was able to convey the half of it. Are all your people like to you in size and strength?"

"Why wouldn't he? He's one." As close to one as makes no difference, although there would be some different expectations on him; society that competes for mating rights, after all, but there's no purpose if there's not going to be offspring. "Males are always shorter. Perhaps not so small as he."

"I see," says Hektor. And then he flushes and says, "But I have forgotten my manners. My name is Hektor, son of Priam; I come of the city of Troy."

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