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Gerneralhood -- and Prehnite was still *testing*. His abilities, his strength. Seeing if he liked the taste of how it was to wear a mantle and pull on that power like a child playing with the stove.

Sometimes it was easy? Full of light, it warmed him from his core and let him relish in the fun of it all. Something he'd had little of as Captain, as Lieutenant. Being a General? That was fun. Except for tonight -- tonight when it all weighed like golden wings, and all the pretty little glints of 'good' felt hollow and jagged as a sinkhole.

Tonight Prehnite looked disheveled rather than primped and poised. He was still deciding if the wanted to *feel things*. Didn't, knew damned well he didn't. Yet? There the feelings were, sitting in a corner round the cracked edges of a pot that held a pair of daggers shot through it at speed. The edges of shattered clay burned with something acidic -- the roots dripped a vile green -- there was ********, still very much not caring. If he or his office was a mess. He had a distraction to do -- an Honor to Bestow -- Ever so Gently, prehnite tugged on -- oh it was the strangest of things to do, to summon someone. Except this was not a summons, not truly, it felt more like pulling on a request to summon. Like walking up to someone's proverbially chaos connected door, knocking, and leaving an invitation on the step.

He thought 'Sylvite', whispered it, felt an ensuing spark of answer across a thin line of ichor that echoed, and then let it be. Dropped the call to a mental message machine.

Either she'd come....

Or he'd have plenty of time to carve out a new space amongst the bricks to plant vines in the walls. To feed chaos into them until they could listen - speak - come to life and grow freely. He wanted purple and black blooms...

He had a grand vision for his office, after all. The first, last, and only he'd ever bother to have. He was going to tear it apart, and reassemble it anew.

*Ganymede is in our dungeon and I want her dead or gone or —-*

Not a thing to say.

*Jet murderer my friend*

Also wrong…

“Hello, Sylvite” he scraped himself together. She looked less vibrant, less bubbly pink and pinging off the walls alike a glass of fizzy lemonade contained in one singular bouncy ball.

“I’m sorry for the mess. I’ve been working on things.” a half exhausted wave towards his office as a whole, there was less chartreuse green hiding in jars, more pebbles, beads, compost. He’d used what he’d had of the sticks Jet’d seen for — well the strangeness what grew deep in the rift’d all come in handy, that and the magic of some forgotten scrolls instructions. Rare components well worth the risk for a fastball of a reckoning.

“But you’re asking why I’ve asked you here…that’s….”he should’ve had a speech for it, instead he pulled forth a little black box from a side drawer. A lacquered thing. “I’ve a gift of sorts. A reward long overdue for you, yes? Though it’s elegance is no design of mine. We’ve our dear Queen to thank for it.” and the words were there, Ill grasped. Like straw falling through the cracks of a thresher.

Sylvite deserved the honor. A medal bestowed. Yet Prehnite was lost on his own thoughts, internally preoccupied by….and Sylvite had been on that hilltop, hadn’t she?!

Maybe she’d know.

A stilted little smile stole his face briefly, tugged his mind away from swirling thoughts that snagged on a sweater made of anguish. He could manage to have some self-control.

He was a General now, no longer a Captain or a Child - he was Grown.

And sylvite was asking good things - questions about his passion, and on any other day? He would’ve unloaded on her a mountain of words out of sheer joy.

Today though — he could only attempt a smile and sigh and scrape something of a proper answer together. “I’m making an attempt…I’ve had my hands in the Rift for, actual years now. There are things which can be grown in darkness, by the light of a crystal — or a moon.” they would’ve come out pale, bioluminescent, a variety of fungi. He’d get lamps - proper things for actual plants and power them at some point. It helped endlessly that he had Iolanthe at his beck and call to aid with these sorts of things, as was her natural ability to do so.

“Still though — this — is a Medal Of Worthy Tribute; a lovely little trinket to honor those of us who’ve aided in capturing our most dangerous enemies. I believe you should’ve earned it quite some time ago. Especially since Cybele’s corruption was your doing, correct?” It was indeed a lovely thing, all in Jet and Laurelites coloring.

A wonderful it hadn’t come about long ago.

“I wonder if it was inspired by Jet — or if it’s simply Laurelites favorite colors.” A thing to wonder softly and aloud - and thinking overmuch made hish head ache, added to the pained bruising around his eyes and pulled at the bandage that held together the split across his nose.

If only he were mor partial to starseeds than to salves and traditional medicines. Ah well, it’s heal with time.

It was a hard thing at first, to meet her eyes, to search them and sigh as he steepled his fingers together. Cinched them into staying propped atop the desk. He added for — a pen to snap, a bottle to hold, solid cool glad and earthy green vines. Anything to distract him from the topic at hand. There was no escaping the talking though, the need to speak. It was born in him.

“They found a way to stop us from teleporting, did you know? Much like that little trip-up during the hilltop battle.”

Prehnite wondered now, if it was the aliens technology which’d caused their problems from ‘go’ - it made sense. Everyone got something out of their arrival - took an advantage - the poor pastel beings got naught a damn thing outta the mix save — *chaos*.

“They laid up Aqua, which was their first mistake, their little ambush that nearly cost him..…” and maybe their last mistake, truly. “Though the way I heard it down the grape-vine? Was that their knights were working over people left and right, from oh - pick a team. Rather murderous…except for how they let people live.”

Why? Prehnite didn’t know, but they had survived. That was their mistake, every time, that was the mistake their own people were perpetuating now, even, with a princess living and breathing beneath their feet - levels down deep. Better kept than Jet, but still - *a l i v e*.

“A lesson, if ever I teach anyone anything from here? Don’t bother with — with the ‘manipulation’ of a starseed where the will of the person won’t bend, with torture or prolonged imprisonments. If you ever have enemies in need of killing, Sylvite? You should simply kill them.”

Preferably quickly…

“But that’s not what you asked, is it?” and he had to gauge how much to tell, to look her on and decide.

*Jet* - a reoccurring name, a friend, an absolute asshat. He deserved his reward, his King-hood, Prehnite was so ******** proud of him. Finally, someone in power who’d so long been one of their own.

And yet….

He was a mixed salad of livid and sickened and…because of Ganymede.

“This first.” Like he was bartering information that would’ve otherwise been freely given, that should have likely been. Sylvite was trusted after-all, one of them for so long, of thirteen, of a rare countenance and morality; it lent her character such a unique sort of strength.

“Now, I know it was months ago, but the eve of the ambush. When Ganymede was having her own little purification party on the sidelines. There was one in particular with auburn hair, red enough to have been copper…” what had he been doing there with them, why, and Ganys honey sweet magic had led him straight into her luring arms. She’d saved him. She’d signed his death warrant with a blessing. Foolish thing. “…one that was murdered, and I’m just….it’s one thing when we leave - commit an act of betrayal, if you will? Another entirely when we die. I shouldn’t be calling it a murder at all, really. No, a traitors execution, that’s more apt.”

Except it didn’t feel right, because Ochre was no traitor, couldn’t have been.

Maybe it would’ve been better to ask if she knew Ochre at all? If she’d seen him there? When the last time she’d seen him was — but no, he would’ve had to confirm she knew him first and that Ganymede wasn’t simply spinning a tale about Jet beheading of one of their long-standing members.

There was a mistake. Even if every bit of data pointed in the opposite direction, even if he vehemently refused to believe anything he hadn’t seen. No body, no death certificate, just hints of words from a trapped Princess that led to him digging a rabbit hole for himself.

Prehnite swallowed silence between her words like glass.

Not Ochre, *Shiekh* - The Princesses name for him lingered like a lash. The denial sat on his tongue, that No, not Ochre - not a Traitor - not Dead. Where shock and disbelief had been, denial bled through. Drove him. He clenched his teeth and had to look away from Sylvite long enough to drag on some sort of composure before meeting her soft pink gaze, how sitting under it felt so very accusatory.

He wilted under it. She had a right to hate, to be angry - at whom he was still unsure. On which person did he place a target of blame? Maybe himself, to start. Maybe he'd form a line of bodies after Ganymede, pin blame all the way down for letting one of their more prominent members fall to the wayside of their notice.

He was so ashamed.. How late he'd been on picking up and caring about any of this now, so much later on. He hadn't known, though. Had been so high on the aftermath of feeling like they'd finally won something -- maybe he hadn't cared?

"No, it's not." his words a were a soft little hisst for acknowledging that. Sidelining Ochres importance for only a moment more, because Sylvite deserved a proper answer.

"We captured Ganymede." This, he could be steady on, could hold and release a breath for to answer truly. What did it matter if Sylvite knew or not? If half the castle knew. It was a good thing. A joyous little moment amidst the sea of in-betweens.

Sylvite was one of them and she deserved to know.

"Thanks to Jet's sacrifice. We've finally got a chance to put her down. No more incidents where she takes prisoners she shouldn't....no more accidents...." like with Shiekh.

'We' was the only way to word it, to add a touch of Royal to the end. It had been a concentrated group effort, after all. The rescue of Jet who so very deserved to be General King. It felt like a relief, an end. There should've been finality to the whole of it.

They should've been celebrating. Except Ganymede remained alive in their holding, not dead. Gods beyond she should've been dead.

“A late coronation gift to the Queen. Though, maybe also the same for Jet?” And he was pleased for that, had to smile even if it held a grim edge to it. Her capture had meant so many things. Payback for Apatite (not that he’d liked her to begin with - but still), for the raid that had cost them numbers and names years ago. For Ochre. Except he’d expected Laurelite would’ve done — something - he’ll, *anything at all*, with her by now. Hooked her up ala power source - taken off her head.

“Jet is roaming around with one eye, and the veritable death-trap waiting to happen is sitting well fed and tended to just beneath our feet.” And now there was some spark to his words, a snippet of sarcasm laced with venom. He had to scrub his hands over his face, dragged fingers under rough shadows under his eyes - he thought Sylvites expression was perfectly apt for the situation. Her expressive little scrunch gave him hope, even. That he wasn’t the only one exasperated past confusion for the still living state of the princess.

“Not dead, not *turned*. Because as you’ve so plainly stated, ‘she’s a glowy one’, corruption isn’t an option and I wouldn’t stand to see it done.” a slight shudder there, it was the blood moon court fiasco brought to the forefront all over again.

No thank you.

He couldn’t fathom what they intended to see done with her. He didn’t believe it to be torture though, nor information gathering…

Maybe they just wanted her to stay prisoner eternal to ensure she couldn’t cause any more harm then she already had? Except humans had an expiry date and her reincarnation was inevitable - whether she died now or fifty years form now.

“I can’t begin to fathom what they’re doing, though I also don’t care enough to ask. Yet.”

Not yet.

There were more pertinent things to take his focus and ire. Like drinking, like *Ochre* - Shiekh. The princess could sit and rot till hell froze. Till Laurelite made a choice. Hopefully soon.

“Yes, it is in Laurelites hands now, almost entirely so.”

If Prehnite looked like he'd stepped face first into a solid brick wall - like he'd rather have been swallowing tacks then talking about the very subject that he'd brought up quite randomly. Like a bloody minded afterthought of a splinter that wouldn't leave him the hell alone.

He just couldn't dig it out. How deeply it'd wedged itself since speaking with Ganymede, and hunting down as much information he could on the trio she'd dragged across the aisle into death and 'new beginnings'. The dawning - gnawing horror of the consequences inherent in that singular 'good deed' of an act.

He flinched to meet her instead of staring beyond her at the beckoning door -- at - and the idea of simply stabbing himself with a pen so he could escape, at speed, had occurred.

"I did ask about him..Didn't I..." the thought continued to occur, but no, he was a little less cowardly than that. He told himself that much at least. He could face down an errant ghost for the sake of answers. "You were there..did you see........" a frustrated grab at words, his face turned sour, and then a soft sort of furrowed anger crossed his features. "Ganymede told me, about Shiekh, and that Jet -- ever-tactful type that he is, beheaded him? She told me about the three actually, but that one? Something about it stuck and burrowed and then..." he sighed around wanting to say he was sorry for her loss; except he knew that didn't mean a thing so far into the aftermath of it all. What was there to apologize for anyways? That he'd not been there, that he was jealous of her for having Ochres mentorship? That he wanted to pick her brain for every detail he didn't know about the man that'd saved his life - because he needed it - needed to feel like he'd known him better and wasn't an utter failure at the single barest piece of a - a - nicety.

Ochre was a sweet being. That ******** tracked. Gany's shitty honeysuckle scent and pull had broken what was already cracked...wormed into vulnerabilities left untended. Abandoned.

"I didn't believe it, almost. I barely believe you now." shiff of a whisper like the grating of sand caught in a breeze. "I don't want to."

He'd abandoned his friend that could've been out of self-preservation. How selfish. "I was looking for someone else to confirm the reality of it. That's all." waved the words off with his hand, before letting it fall into a fist in his lap. "I'm sorry if I bothered you over it."

"Yes, it most certainly did happen. Didn't it."

The rise and fall of his shoulders trembled with a sigh, the softest little twitch of his attention as she spoke - and all the words were a wash of soggy gray.

*Except Those.*

When she spoke of Ochres starseed -- There was a certain sort of sharpness for that - something in his eyes that lingered when she said Jet'd pulled Ochre's Starseed, on top of everything else? So the act of killing him had been for *show*. Why commit to both when one or the other would've been effective enough? Death was death was dead.

*That absolute a*****e.*

It was extravagance, a power grab? No, Jet didn't seem the type. Prehnite knew, deep down, that it was making a point, and Prehnite had to acknowledge about himself that if it'd been someone else, somewhere else? Maybe he wouldn't have cared at all. It wasn't anyone else, and it hadn't been just anywhere. It had become an execution, plain as day. Ochre had become Shiekh and then a statement piece about what happened to traitors when they committed blatant actions against them. Merciless cruelty. He was sure it'd been an effective sight, rallied their enemies against him specifically, even.
How big did a man need a target on his back to be? How much absurdity --- As if that point needed to be made! As if those who were truly loyal didn't know this sort of thing already?

They were supposed to have been better than that. Weren't they? They had branches to handle such things, to hunt down those who turned. Ochre hadn't deserved -- Slate hadn't -- he should've had a better death!

He shouldn't have died at all.

Whose fault was that though? His, Jets, the Negaverses as a whole for having such a long stop-gap of being so utterly awful and fear inducing that it drove longstanding members to flee, if so much as the briefest glimpse of 'other' was offered to them. No matter the cost? He felt that, rancidly angry little thing that roiled in his guts. That he deserved that blame as much as Jet for landing the blow. Should've shared it equal - in Sylvites eyes...

"You're welcome Sylvite. That'll be all...if I need you again?" dismissive, suddenly, and it wasn't as though he didn't know where to find her.