𝐿𝒶𝓃𝓉𝒶𝓃𝒶 🌱

Good answer.

That may well be the fiercest wind they’ve heard in ages, cold and littered with sleet.

Someone must’ve done something particularly egregious to infuriate the local higher being into summoning such a storm.

A tragedy, shambling on comparatively thin legs.

Let it approach, then. They will stay as they are, stood before the foreign-and-same monument, and share in its unkind reminders together.

They owe “themself” that much, at least.

No better is the silhouette that steps into view.

They cannot see colour, or much of any detail, for that matter. But they can see its outline, the horns, the tell-tale slouch.

An approaching mirror, one left battered and neglected. No winter cloak, no pack, no hint of care or given warmth.

It’s the sound that draws their attention farther back than where their gaze had originally been directed. Familiar and haunting, like something out of some distant, hazy dream—their own nail, secure on their back, once the source of such a sound, briefly, in darkness and in unquenchable light.

And they know that sullen memorial.

It had not been their choice, coming here. But they think, lowering their head, scanning the area, they are meant to be.

Maybe, like the tiny vessels that had answered their own and given their shells for their freedom, something had unknowingly called them.

No longer is there a Hallownest free of Infection to welcome them back with open arms, no parent or minder to greet them or apologise, no kindly Dirtmouth residents, no memory worth revisiting.

The air here is similar, though. They know that quiet dark, these crumbling stone pathways, this rain.

@plaugeheart.bsky.social

It would be so easy to claim they had done this on purpose. That they had taken their little device, capable of porting them to great, unfathomable distances, and used it to send them "home"—before the village and the snow.

But that home does not exist anymore, they know.

// It’s so bad!! At least before I could just block them to be done with it!! But now we got ghosts?! Awful 😭

(Mirrored images with such vastly different ends. There is—or would be—a sort of kinship, and the pity made deeper by it.

They would show it, if they knew—what warmth is born from new ideas instilled.

Maybe the kindness starts with a mercy; a way for two opposites to meet in spite of all logic.)

// Ooh the invisible bots are out in force tonight. Spooky

Bad and naughty bugs sleep outside in the cold.

(And definitely not because their house is burning down.)

A slight delay, then, maybe a hiccup in their processing. There is quite a lot to it, after all, and it must be sifted through.

‘The baths here are preferred. But those within the city’s resort have their own perks. Potted plants decorate each room. The buildings there are much warmer throughout.’

Having loomed in the den’s adjoined doorway to watch where he might place it, the guardian gives their own approving nod at the chosen location, and finally makes to claim their usual spot at the low table with their back to the hearth farther in.

‘Unlike experiences prior,’ they begin neutrally.

Surely there are bugs who would appreciate the mercy of a meal, in general. Only perhaps made from less potentially-virulent ingredients, just to be on the safe side.

Not that they would know the state of that other-nest, of course. Because their own… A complete nightmarescape, overrun and lost.

Infected creatures are notably sweet to the taste.

However. Soup made from Infected creatures is still Infection Soup.

He’d best dump that out before he catches his literal death.

(-𝟕 𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐏)

(If one cannot eat, one can nourish their body in other ways, they’ve found.

It’s kind to itself, isn’t it? Sometimes?

Does it even know kindness…?

What a cruel twist that would be, if not. How much they could teach it. How much they would want to.)

They exhale audibly, slowly; no different from a beast releasing tension, and allow their eyes to squint closed for a moment. How tired this level of communication makes them. One small rest, while he processes their words and replies, and that will be enough for them to resume normality.

‘Once my duty was complete, my recovery was an arduous one. It did not begin in earnest until I was moved to a greener environment. The room that held me had sprouted with greenery of its own while I slept and dreamed, so I was told. But it was not sufficient.’

Quite a number of words.

most notably. This trait my sibling of half does not share. Though our fathers were the same, hers was a mother different.’

An uneasy rumble as they process another slice and consider. These are not kind memories, but they are necessary to pick the relevant information out of.

Let’s not dwell on that, though. Compared to mechanics, grief is irrelevant in this moment.

‘My mother was a higher being. A Root aligned with nature, as you suggest. The extent of that nature I could not know in full. But some of it I can intuit well enough. The preference for warmth and greenery,

Easily they pivot into his next question, providing a small nod first. Already they have sampled one of each of the new fruits, and move onto a second rotation of them—their report of opinions is to be shared after they are finished, most likely.

‘My heritage is unique. One I cannot be proud of.’

A shake of the head in response to his—in their mind—unnecessary apology. Apart from the occasional touchy subject, this one is quite difficult to ruffle overall, it seems. In time perhaps he will come to know their calm, obedient logic, when it comes to sharing information.

The tone, meant to double as an apology, is soft, if a bit unsure. Fear they expect on occasion, but anything nearing hostility is enough to knock them off their game, it would seem. ‘The smell of the food you prepare unknowingly drew my attention, nothing more.’

The harsh reaction seems about the last thing they expect. Head ducking low as if startled or struck anyway, they draw their hand back into their winter cloak with something like an apologetic rumble from deep in their shell.

‘Not to frighten you,’ the bug-thing assures with quiet telepathy.

Straightening, Lantana makes to lead him inside, allowing him to reclaim the pot for now, with intent to hold the door open for him instead. ‘She will make a fine house companion. Will you find her a suitable place for me?’

they can faintly catch the shape of, and more importantly, the scent. How long it has been since they’ve smelled such a thing, and certainly never once here in these cold climes.

‘A precious gift,’ they assess warmly, then lift their gaze up to him, ‘from a precious visitor.’

The moment their hand is brought to where it needs to be, their hold on it becomes confident as it is gentle and softly appreciative—reflected too in the way their head lowers to get a better sense of the potted flower in question.

Though they cannot discern the colour, the petals, this close up,

Hungry. (-10 HP)