While Irriari had heard about magic from various slaves and storytellers on ships she had travelled on, it seemed like a crutch. Most human weapons and inventions were. When a race didn’t have wings to elevate themselves above the earth, they were chained to it, and they busied themselves with stupid pursuits. Still, the Symenestra were different. They were not zith. However, the fact that they captured humans was more than enough for Irriari to accept them. ‘We are alone in the world. There will never be anyone like my brethren.’ The thought was sobering, but Irriari was hardly one to sugarcoat the truth of her situation. How many times had she been lectured on the cruelness of the world?
“I would like to see it… but I still don’t know why anyone would need it. It seems silly. What can magic give you that claws cannot? What can it bring that slaves cannot get for you?”
The ziths tone was hardly confrontational, but instead, it was riddled with confusion as she racked her brain for a reason that magic would need to exist.
Lephora’s talk of community brought Irriari back to thoughts of her own colony, and the reason why she was exiled from it.
“Community.”
The zith spat the word out angrily.
“It seems like a joke. Shedding blood, and protecting those you care for… I can understand that, but the concept of community is just… silly.”
Irriari’s attention shifted to Leophora’s daughter as she carefully balanced the steaming bowl of bruka. The mixture was a dark red, with bits of something providing texture to the dish. The zith blinked at the silverware. While she had seen humans use it, no one in her colony had bothered. Meals were served on plates and everyone grabbed food at they wished, tearing it off the bone with their claws. Many greedy young zith had burned their fingertips, but the pain was simply another way to condition them to the diversions of battle.
The zith picked up the spoon, and tried to steady it in between her clawed fingers. It took a chime for her to do so, and she began slowly portioning a bit of the bruka onto her plate. It took even longer to chase the bruka around the plate with her spoon. Breathing in deeply, the zith cursed in her native tongue and scraped the spoon against the plate, forcing it under the bruka. She smiled, happy to have bested her foe. She quickly placed it in her mouth, aware that Lephora had already eaten many spoonfuls. The bruka was far spicier than the bland smoked meats that the colony slaves had prepared. Her own meals in the Sea of Grass were even worse, and the dish was a welcome respite from the rations and stringy game that she had eaten. She smiled briefly.
“I like it. It’s different but not bad.”
“I would like to see it… but I still don’t know why anyone would need it. It seems silly. What can magic give you that claws cannot? What can it bring that slaves cannot get for you?”
The ziths tone was hardly confrontational, but instead, it was riddled with confusion as she racked her brain for a reason that magic would need to exist.
Lephora’s talk of community brought Irriari back to thoughts of her own colony, and the reason why she was exiled from it.
“Community.”
The zith spat the word out angrily.
“It seems like a joke. Shedding blood, and protecting those you care for… I can understand that, but the concept of community is just… silly.”
Irriari’s attention shifted to Leophora’s daughter as she carefully balanced the steaming bowl of bruka. The mixture was a dark red, with bits of something providing texture to the dish. The zith blinked at the silverware. While she had seen humans use it, no one in her colony had bothered. Meals were served on plates and everyone grabbed food at they wished, tearing it off the bone with their claws. Many greedy young zith had burned their fingertips, but the pain was simply another way to condition them to the diversions of battle.
The zith picked up the spoon, and tried to steady it in between her clawed fingers. It took a chime for her to do so, and she began slowly portioning a bit of the bruka onto her plate. It took even longer to chase the bruka around the plate with her spoon. Breathing in deeply, the zith cursed in her native tongue and scraped the spoon against the plate, forcing it under the bruka. She smiled, happy to have bested her foe. She quickly placed it in her mouth, aware that Lephora had already eaten many spoonfuls. The bruka was far spicier than the bland smoked meats that the colony slaves had prepared. Her own meals in the Sea of Grass were even worse, and the dish was a welcome respite from the rations and stringy game that she had eaten. She smiled briefly.
“I like it. It’s different but not bad.”
