Warhammer 40: Shattered Steel Soul

Chapter 5 Locus

"I brought back some fish," said Perturabo.

Morse managed to lift his heavy head from the top of the wicker chair back, and he would wager that no living man who drank the old ale buried behind his house would do better than him.

"Okay, very good." Morse waved his right hand lazily, expressing his own indifference with soft fingers. "You grill it yourself, or do whatever you want with the fish...what does that have to do with me? Farewell, Perturabo."

Perturabo stared at him for a while, then left the house and closed the door for him.

Morse put his palms in front of his eyes and quietly blocked the sun for a while, until the persistent sun smeared his eyes with a hazy light red.

Of course he knows that the sun in Olympia is not called the sun, or that the scientific name should not use the unique name of ancient Terra; but people here still call the pale and blazing solid circle in the sky the sun with reverence and awe. Maybe this is what humans are.

He slowly and recklessly rubbed his thumb, middle finger, and index finger in turn, and snapped two consecutive fingers, one strong and one weak, to help him regain his sanity.

Then Morse jumped off the wicker chair, pushed open the wooden door, leaned against the door frame, and crossed his arms across his chest.

The weather is still dry and crisp today, and any clouds full of water vapor seem to be deliberately staying away from the Lokos boundary.Some birdsong, some chewing sounds of Lokos deer, and the sound of Lokos people walking and moving in the distance... Morse captured these trivial movements within the range of his psychic ability.

Morse withdrew his psychic powers and focused on the present.

Perturabo was cleaning his fish in his yard, the smell of blood wafting everywhere.

"If you insist on polluting the clean, dry forest air that enters my nostrils, I'll trade you for it," Morse said.

"Can I pay on credit?"

"No."

Silently, Perturabo slammed the fish's back nerves with the stone knife, shrugged his shoulders vigorously, peeling off the scales layer by layer from the stone knife.

Morse had only taught him once how to handle fish in the river, and Petula learned quickly.

Then the boy said; "What do you want?"

"Share me a fish."

"it is good."

"Two?"

"dream."

There was not even a second of time difference between Perturabo's answer and Morse's request.

Morse wobbled to Perturabo's side, bent over exaggeratedly, so that the upper body and legs formed a vertical posture like the corner of a table and chair.Perturabo said nothing, just chopping his fish as usual.

There was a strange gleam in the fish's eyes.

Morse grinned and was about to leave, going to the corner to get his semi-finished stone sculpture.

Since he smashed the head and hands of the stone statue of Perseus last time, he had the idea of ​​rebuilding the whole stone statue.

He has yet to decide on the material for this sculpture.

Maybe it's a beast, maybe it's vegetation, maybe it's an imitation of another precious but missing souvenir in the long history of mankind, or maybe it's a brand new portrayal of his own life experience, for example, he and Perturabo A group photo of eating barbecue side by side.

Morse didn't know.

These days he just swings the chisel at the marble casually, waiting for the sculpture to grow out of the stone.

He picked up the heavy damaged stone statue with his own hands, letting the tools float behind him, and prepared to walk to his comfortable long-term hand-woven straw mat.

When he passed by Perturabo for the second time, the boy suddenly stopped him.

"Morse?" he said quietly.

"Um...what's the matter?"

"what do you want?"

Morse patted the stonework, the smooth surface of marble always reassuring.These heavy, fixed, immutable, cohesive, immortal, only time-weary, caring, never rebellious, straight-talking dear stones deserve a love more than any living creature hug.

"I don't know," he said. "Do you mean the long-term, the short-term, or today's, now? If it's the last one, then I want you to deal with the fish quickly."

Perturabo stopped moving, and several fish were already lying clean on the clean stone under his scarred palm, with the internal organs and scales thrown aside.

He raised his head.

"Long-term." Unusual smoothness and self-control imbued his language with a melodious quality like the sound of delicate mechanical work. "The most long-term, otherwise I will never know what I should give you, and I will never know how you can be satisfied."

Morse's eyes rested on the stone in his arms. "Do you think I know how to satisfy you? No, Perturabo, you must also tell me about your dream."

"It's only fair," said the boy. "We trade with each other what we need."

"You do learn quickly."

Perturabo's eyes lingered around Morse for a while, from his messy half-long black hair, to the black clothes and pants that covered his body, and the cold white stones in his arms.

He wiped his hands, stained with the fish's cold blood and slime, on the straw mattress he had woven.

These days, he sleeps on the straw mat in this courtyard, sheltered by the cold black sky, enjoying the caress of the afterglow of the sun reflected by the satellites above Olympia - similarly, Morse only taught him how to weave once.

"I'll talk first." The boy gripped his cushion tightly, his Adam's apple rolled, and his throat tightened and relaxed.He cleared his throat and pulled out two broken grass stems from the straw mat in his hands.

"I don't know where I come from," he said. "I want to know."

"Is this your greatest wish?"

Morse put down the stone sculpture, with one leg erect and the other flat, leaning on his elbows, and sat on the straw mat.

He thought for a while and shook his head: "I apologize to you. I owe you once because I have no wish."

"I can only tell you that I am a failed craftsman. I hate puzzles and code words. I am naturally mutually exclusive with Great Expectations and the magnificent galaxy. I am just a little chess piece without a master in this vast sea of ​​stars. I have no hegemony and no hope. .”

The earth sent some warning-like vibrations to his elbows. Morse remained calm, sat upright, and smiled: "The only thing that can give me a little bit of despicable comfort now is that I guess building this instrument of yours The craftsmen are also not very successful."

"This is an assumption." Perturabo said dissatisfiedly, "It is a groundless slander!"

"I always get the feeling that when I belittle your creator, you get more excited than I do."

"More nonsense." Perturabo bit his lip, looking unwilling.

Morse let a short sigh roll off his tongue. "Well, anyway, I owe you once, so you can remember it. Now, we have more things to deal with."

With Morse's reminder, the sound of gold and iron clashing became clearer.

The authority of these artificial weapons is constantly creating the characteristics of existence through the sound from afar.The brand new iron boots stepped on the dry forest land, and the heavy handle of the knife cracked the branches and vines blocking the road. The colorful helmet decoration was incompatible with the harmonious green and light orange of the forest.It's almost a testament to a certain kind of human nature - a natural conqueror, both of nature and of others.

"Lokos..." Morse whispered. "They come for you, Perturabo. I presume you have not assassinated their tyrant?"

"I guess I'm just too obviously good," Perturabo said.

Morse looked back and smiled.

(End of this chapter)