The Great Game 🎲 Fallar Discordia
The Seventh Veil
Good Old Mom
Knifestream remembered fondly the first words his mother whispered above his swinging crib: You’re born with mother, but you’ll die alone. For Fallarians, these were comforting words. They didn’t hold out some grand hope that a decade or two of experience would destroy. Often his mother would add, Make the most out of life that you can. Be your own man, not some snivelling runt who can’t stand on his own two feet.
These tender words came back to Knifestream in moments of anguish and mortal danger. Wherever he was, and however dire the situation, there would always be one person who never lied to him, never told him that he could be anything he wanted to be. Never told him that it would all work out somehow. This one person had been there since the beginning, whispering in his ear her words of truth and integrity. Even if he suffered some terrible accident or premature disease and she was there on his deathbed, she would never betray him with false visions of Hope. His mother. There was no one a Fallarian loved more than his mother.
Knifestream saw something of his mother in Dactalla. His mother would cut the throat of anyone who tried to brutalize or devour her child. She would do her son an ever greater service: she would toss her knife across to him and let him defend himself. She didn’t care about knives. She would rip the assailants to shreds with her bare teeth. The important thing was to make sure that her son could handle the blade and take care of himself.
Certainly, Dactalla also had such a mother. Although from what Knifestream heard, Derelectan mothers went a step further: they threw their knife to their child and then, if the child was a girl, attack her to make double sure that she could handle even the most vicious assailant (which of course was a Derelectan mother). She would menace the child, imprinting deeply in its psyche that there was no one, not even your mother, who you could trust. She would taunt her with these words: Stand on your own two feet! Don’t fly away from a fight, even though your wings are as swift as those of a hummingbird. Stand and face your mother in the field of battle. Only when your knife is up against my throat will you be free!
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Her Own Level
Knifestream looked up from his monitors and saw Dactalla’s face glowing with triumph. And yet she was still on high alert, not making the causal error that one victory necessarily leads to the next. She kept her distance, and made sure not to insult Knifestream by trying to intimidate him, by hovering above him menacingly. Such posturing would only give him the excuse to flip some switch and send a lightning bolt through her head, or open up an abyss at her feet. No, she stopped two feet from the curtain behind her and waited for his first move.
He said gently, “Come, sit down and relax.” He pointed to an armchair at the side of his desk. Next to it was a low table with a diamond-studded carafe and an ornate crystal glass. He further entreated her, “Please, rest a spell. Pour yourself an elixitar.”
Knifestream didn’t notice the way Dactalla relaxed her inner core and her shoulders eased down, millimetre by millimetre. He did, however, see how magnificently her alert eyes took on a charming air, as her mouth curved into a slight smile. This part of the process wasn’t about skill in battle or attitude. He already knew she was as fierce as anyone he’d ever seen. What he wanted now was proof of subtlety and diplomacy, proof of her skills in beguiling beauty and the espionage arts.
Finally, she had arrived at her own level.
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