A wild, massive hoofbeast lies dead on the ground, and you mourn the loss of such a magnificent specimen. He must have been starved, to come this close to the Last City.
Nepeta's claws are dripping with blue blood - your shade, but not your blood - as she stands, recovering from the nasty attack. "It nearly snuck up on me!" she says, a bit affronted. "I'm the one who's supposed to do the sneaking!"
"It was fortunate," you say. "But not fortunate enough, for which we should both be grateful. Skin him, Nepeta, and I will stand guard."
She made a little irritated sound in her throat - it still sounds a bit like a growl, even after all this time. "I was going to do that anyway, bossypants," she says, and smiles tiredly at you.
You do your best to smile back. "I know."
This is commonplace, for you; monstrous creatures roam the streets of the city, and you and your moirail have fought many of them, even those who a few sweeps before might have chosen you to protect. You skin them, butcher them when you can, preserve what flesh you can in salt... you wish that you could somehow preserve their blood to drink, but you have no real way to do so, most of the time.
What else can you do? The Last City is broken, and the people in it huddle in their apartments and hide from the horrible truth of the world outside. Only you and your moirail are brave enough to go out, where the monsters gather in the shadows, to explore, to try to find whatever small caches are left of food and water and fuel. You are sure that some of them ask why, and you will not answer. It may be your duty to dominate over the lower classes, but it is also your duty to protect them, and if this slow death has made them forget, well, it does not change the fact that you remember.
It does not take long for her to finish, as these things go. Not all of the hide can be preserved, but she gets enough. You look at the meat, take what you can use; this thing is too big to butcher properly, and you must not spend too much time here. The scavengers will come soon, the homeless, the Rainbow Drinkers desperate for food... the ones who you would kill if they attacked the people under your protection. But as long as they do not, you will be merciful.
You are, after all, the highest left. And as much as you do not wish to be their master and keeper, you will do so, because someone must. At least you have Nepeta by your side; for all of her occasional silliness, she is good at knowing when an order must be given, and what must be said. You would not be able to do this if not for her.
The two of you walk without comment, back to the Last City, through miles of abandoned urban jungle. It is always a relief when the lights begin to shine again, however dimly, and the cracks in the pavement become less pronounced; it means that there are still people there who care for the place, that have the means to do so.
Soon you'll be home, in the center where the lights shine brightest. You will give the meat that you carry to the ones who prepare, who distribute, and the leather will be prepared and stretched and made into clothing for those who must have it.
You must survive. Your people must live, until the ships return home and you can leave this place. You just hope that day will come within your lifetime, and within your moirail's, because you cannot bear the thought of leaving her body behind.
She notices the sagging in your shoulders when the thought crosses your mind; she always does. She says nothing, just puts a hand on your back and leads you on, and somehow the voyage is easier, then.
FILL: TEAM ERIDAN<>ROSE
Nepeta's claws are dripping with blue blood - your shade, but not your blood - as she stands, recovering from the nasty attack. "It nearly snuck up on me!" she says, a bit affronted. "I'm the one who's supposed to do the sneaking!"
"It was fortunate," you say. "But not fortunate enough, for which we should both be grateful. Skin him, Nepeta, and I will stand guard."
She made a little irritated sound in her throat - it still sounds a bit like a growl, even after all this time. "I was going to do that anyway, bossypants," she says, and smiles tiredly at you.
You do your best to smile back. "I know."
This is commonplace, for you; monstrous creatures roam the streets of the city, and you and your moirail have fought many of them, even those who a few sweeps before might have chosen you to protect. You skin them, butcher them when you can, preserve what flesh you can in salt... you wish that you could somehow preserve their blood to drink, but you have no real way to do so, most of the time.
What else can you do? The Last City is broken, and the people in it huddle in their apartments and hide from the horrible truth of the world outside. Only you and your moirail are brave enough to go out, where the monsters gather in the shadows, to explore, to try to find whatever small caches are left of food and water and fuel. You are sure that some of them ask why, and you will not answer. It may be your duty to dominate over the lower classes, but it is also your duty to protect them, and if this slow death has made them forget, well, it does not change the fact that you remember.
It does not take long for her to finish, as these things go. Not all of the hide can be preserved, but she gets enough. You look at the meat, take what you can use; this thing is too big to butcher properly, and you must not spend too much time here. The scavengers will come soon, the homeless, the Rainbow Drinkers desperate for food... the ones who you would kill if they attacked the people under your protection. But as long as they do not, you will be merciful.
You are, after all, the highest left. And as much as you do not wish to be their master and keeper, you will do so, because someone must. At least you have Nepeta by your side; for all of her occasional silliness, she is good at knowing when an order must be given, and what must be said. You would not be able to do this if not for her.
The two of you walk without comment, back to the Last City, through miles of abandoned urban jungle. It is always a relief when the lights begin to shine again, however dimly, and the cracks in the pavement become less pronounced; it means that there are still people there who care for the place, that have the means to do so.
Soon you'll be home, in the center where the lights shine brightest. You will give the meat that you carry to the ones who prepare, who distribute, and the leather will be prepared and stretched and made into clothing for those who must have it.
You must survive. Your people must live, until the ships return home and you can leave this place. You just hope that day will come within your lifetime, and within your moirail's, because you cannot bear the thought of leaving her body behind.
She notices the sagging in your shoulders when the thought crosses your mind; she always does. She says nothing, just puts a hand on your back and leads you on, and somehow the voyage is easier, then.