((Logged 1/13/2001))

Aquavy Islands: Uncharted Territories
A beach. Sand. Pretty sand, with lovely waves lapping up to the beach. A decent 
house built back behind the waveline, just far enough that the tides don't 
bother it, but near enough to hold the scent of the sea. Welcome to the island 
paradises within Aquavy.
Contents:
Primera
Stein

What a difference months make, away from the squallings of the miserable -Lambs-
. Bleat eternally for a handout, and never but once stop to be grateful--well, 
even the noblest heart must have its time away, lest it find itself exhausted 
past all recovery. And this has been the Bishop's retreat. And it has done him 
well. Stone, having set his title aside for this time--and not needing it back 
again, no, for this time with The Child has not needed such distances provided 
by office--rests in a chair upon the beach. So simply innocent, and yet so 
fitting. Beside him, breakfast waits on the wicker table. A chair beside that 
again, holding itself empty until its owner arrives. And there is only one owner 
for it. The few Etones who serve mainly as servents know better than to 
interrupt these times, when the dawn, freshly crackled, rolls over the sea and 
onto the beach. At ease as he has not been for years, Stein takes a drink of his 
orange juice.

And when one is of her mindset, framed now as it may be.. How could she think 
anything less than wonders of these last few months?  It is not the orphanage, 
full of wondering children, all so lost and all so lonely.  It is not the 
orphanage, ever and always alone, wondering, worrying where everyone of your 
family has been off to.  This is, for once in all her blurred recollection.. 
Pleasant.  And so Primera, somewhat yet shaking off a rather quiet, but quaint 
trace of sleepiness for the dawn, walks up to this area upon small, but cheerful 
steps.  And how darling, somehow, and how wrong in another way, it is for her to 
be dressed up as might Etones, yet in those hues of pale blue that she seems so 
to favor.  And a smile, and a wave does she give before hopping into that chair, 
and speaking something of a word so small and lost that it is dismissable as the 
wind- quiet of a voice unaccostumed to speach and finding still no true, good 
use for it, "..Morning."

And such a small achievement, a single word is. To any other, perchance, but to 
the once-Bishop... it is the world. He has not yet reached the point where the 
voice has permuted into but a function to carry information, and it is yet still 
music. He waves back--such a simple action! One might think that that was all 
the day had had to carry!--and pours a glass for The Child's breaking of her 
fast. "It is a good morning, Primera?" For Stein continues to seek that girl's 
approval as another might petition a god. "Have you slept well?" 

What's a little word?  To anyone else, it is no grand achievement.  But, 
perhaps, to a child who gave up speech long ago, of fear, of grieving, of too 
much she never understood...  It is truly something to smile of, then.  And how 
often, in the orphanage, was she this cheerful?  Strange, how the shy can so 
easily be not, as well.  Answers, answers.. She nods to the first wonder.. For 
why bother words when gestures are always just as good?  But at least to the 
latter question, she gives, even if faint, the quiet note of a child's, "Uh-
huh.."  Almost timid, almost distant that voice.. Intact by years but lowered 
flutter weak.  But does that matter?  Still, she smiles, and takes the small 
glass of orange juice.

And even the noncommittal reply--one unformed, and quite unladylike, and which 
might earn The Child a certain cup of disapproval from her teachers upon her 
manners, though not when the man who serves as her kindly uncle is around--even 
that is a sound to cherish. And the smile! How that had been so long worked for, 
and so deservedly -won-. A reversal, it has been; let the formerly stern--and he 
has need to have been, what with disobedients littering the ground underfoot 
'till it was nigh-impossible to step without treading on some squealing thing or 
the other--Stone become the tolerant parent. This is an island well away from 
the worries of rank and office, and it has remained so. "Some breakfast, I 
believe." His words grow short themselves around The Child, but the two -do- 
understand one another by now, yes. "Pancakes and syrup imported from Nisan. And 
it would do well to eat them all... for there will be more range tests today, I 
am afraid. Are you looking forward to them, Prim?" The luxury of using 
nicknames. Those who do not know it will never know. Yes, this is a privilidge 
most -justly- earned, and won.

Ah, but is it not hard for one to learn how to speak like a lady when that one 
has not been in the habit of speaking at all for years?  Sound is sound, and.. 
Word is remarkable enough for her.  She seems to find it amazing enough that she 
still has the ablity to make a sound, to shape it to a word, to speak without 
gesture, expression, or note.  But.. Words took such trouble to form, yet.  
Enough that it is much more efficient to merely smile responces.  And she sips 
her orange juice, holding the cup in both of her hands in some lighlty awkward 
gesture.  She perks up to the mention of pancakes- those too-dark eyes alight in 
surprise that quickly, clearly fall into joy.  Oh, how she likes pancakes!  And 
why waste a phrase of breath saying that?  That brighter grin, glint to  her eye 
are enough.  Although, she does answer with a sharp little nod and a mild 
little, "Very much.."  Oh, everything is fun.  Everything is worth looking 
forward to.  Range tests?  No harm in that.  For it is ever fun to succeed at 
something, and aquire such lovely praise for it all.  How did she not realize 
before that she was so neglected?

Naturally. Why waste breath, when the once-Bishop already hangs on her every 
motion of approval or not? "Then we shall finish breaking our fast," Stein 
replies briskly, the smile yet softening the lines of his face, "and go to the 
ranges. If you do well enough with your trainer, would you like to practice with 
mine?" As he speaks, he already begins to pour syrup upon the pancakes and cut 
them. He is quite precise with the knife and the fork. And why should it be any 
source of wonder why the Bishop is one capable of a nurturing moment as easily 
as one that severed? So often did a soul limit their own mind with assumptions. 
A shame. But no longer his to worry about for the moment, as all of Stein's 
attention can be devoted to where it -should-. Primera. Prim. A perfect syllable 
of sound. "You have scored so well. Everyone is delighted by how well you learn, 
Primera." He says that now, in full, only to savor the feeling of those extra 
vowels dropping off the tongue. These months have been brimmed with such 
luxuries. How could Primera have realized how often she had been overlooked 
before, how poorly held, when she had not had this comparitive bliss to measure 
her life against?

Nothing to compare it to.  How true.  Otherwise.. How would she have survived, 
day after day, wondering where father was or if big brother would come back home 
alive...  Always alone and always worrying and always finding some reason to 
stay and quiet away from the children, and instead watch the sky for a familiar 
Gear.  And to shy from the Bishop, then..  Goodness.  Why -did- she listen to 
everyone's silly worries about him when he was obviously such a nice person?  
And so she waits for her breakfast but quietly, setting down the half-full glass 
of orange juice carefully before she nods but cheerfully in response to his 
wonder about practicing with his gun, but.. Well, aren't they all the same?  The 
child is not a wealth of knowledge, after all, on the subject.  But she does so 
grin at the mention of her scoring.  Oh, she -likes- praise.  What little girl 
does not?  And it is truly something she has ever been at a lack of, somehow, 
with all of her family always so far away...

Nice, true. Intense, yes. But better intensity than the dull acceptance of the 
flock. Better intensity that can be turned to a person's wish for achievement, 
bent to obedience of -will-. This is the reality of the Bishop... and how 
foolish it had been to have seen only an easily stereotyped result and never the 
origin. For is not a family more easily measured in the heart? This support has 
never been given by Jesiah, nor by Billy. For this, for -this- noble duty, Stone 
has ressurrected the ghost of his beloved in his heart--curse him not, Raquel, 
for disturbing your slumber--to better be the nurturer whom Primera has so 
dearly missed. The Bishop has already taken his meal. It is time for The Child 
to finish hers, and then down the beach to practice at the targets already set 
up by dawn's light. While he waits, Stein snaps his wrist--a gesture easy even 
now, even here where he needs not practice--and allows his one remaining 
personal firearm to fall into his hand. Examining the stamp of the Ethos but 
once, the former Bishop unchambers the pistol and then loads it once more. Yes. 
He can trust Primera with a loaded gun at his back. Why should he not? He, 
unlike Jesiah, unlike Billy... he has never lied to her. His truth may be cold 
at times, and cruel, but it has no false promise behind it. And how can he be 
called the true sinner here for -that-?

Cheerful, cheerful.  One could never say any similar intensity could find its 
way into Primera.  For she is cheerful, she is hopeful, she is innocent.. And 
somewhere, far beneath that, there is sorrow.  There is loss.  There are those 
raking scars which found themselves upon her in her younger years, which grew, 
by years of worry and fret, but deeper, but darker, and never steps closer to 
heal.  A loss which finds its way but in the quiet niche behind her eyes, in the 
occational glance, the occational breath.  But at least, for now, there is no 
quiet fretting in her expression, no quiet upset of loneliness or distant wonder 
of her mother.. And rather, Primera gladly turns to her breakfast.  At least, 
for all she was never taught a grace of word, she was taught how to be mannerly 
in eating.  And so she approaches her breakfast with a sort of awkward grace- 
small bites carefully, as it is.  But at least there will be no worry of if it 
will be finished.  She is apparently quite healthily hungry this morning.

For all that he waits, the former Bishop does indulge in his glass of juice. He 
can afford to. There are no crowds of Lambs waiting here to be spoon-fed their 
beliefs in figureheads, no worries of a service to lead or the other. It is a 
curious freedom that exists on this island. Perhaps Primera feels it as well. In 
this guidance where naught is contradicted, only supported... yes, the Bishop 
needs not resort to trickery for the Truth to be known. For does not Truth burn 
out past the webs of deceit layering it down into obscurity? So it has here. And 
his Truth has been ever-solid, as has his treatment of Primera. Now that he may 
care for her at last. And how -well- does he deserve this. Reholstering his 
pistol cleanly, Stein waits for Primera's cue. Until The Child finishes... the 
waves are quite fascinating to the eye, no? The way that the sun drips across 
them, in methods of beauty that the Lambs take so easily for granted, the 
surface bearing gifts they know not themselves unworthy for. "Afterwards, did 
you wish to look for shells once more? I understand that the last storm may have 
washed a number of new ones up on the beach."

Truly, a strange sort of freedom, if not in a completely different wonder for 
the girl.  What is there to worry of here?  There is no one leaving her alone to 
wait and watch, no one going away without warning, without so much a word or a 
wonder.  There is certainty here.  And even tests are fun.  Everything is, in 
its own way, when free of worry and left with praise.  Everything is worth a 
smile.  For the Bishop has not gone away at all so far, has he?  So unlike 
father.  How odd.  "All done."  She notes, but quiet little words, as if even 
that were a practice, even that were a game.  Look, little words!  Tiny and 
irrelevant.  And she can form them.  Isn't that clever?  So she sets down her 
plate, rather neat for a child's attempt at it.  Isn't she a good girl?  And she 
nods enthusiastically to the later wonder.  Amazing how a child who lived her 
life upon islands, by endless beaches, can still find seashells things of 
fascination.

True. Stein is far different than Jesiah. Jesiah has ever had the world toss its 
bounty into his grasp, only to discard it without a second look or gratitude. 
And Stein... the once-Bishop savors every last drop of grace bestowed upon him 
by the world, every bit that he has fought for. Each step taken by Primera is 
one upon a path he can see with almost painful certainty, the describing light 
burning against his eyelids even when he closes them at night to rest. But all 
is at rest here, and for once... for a blessed once, that relentless -need- that 
hounds at him to achieve, achieve, and never once rest, no, that may be quiet 
here. This is a time away from times. And so it is normal that Primera may 
respond to questions, and that Stein uses his old name and clothes as 
interchangably as those of his present. "You did well, Primera." Clapping his 
hands twice to summon one of the Etones to help clear the table, Stein stands 
and stacks the dishes. Never one too high to not serve himself. That is another 
important lesson. But he has not the time to wash the plates today, for Primera 
has a range to attend to. In a way, it has been nothing -but- lessons and 
practices... but ones backed by a certaintly which had been absent at the 
Orphanage. Where it had been far too easy for little Primera to count herself, 
too, as one abandoned. She has a family now. -Yes-. She has a family -now-.

Lessons and practices, lessons and practices.. But should that be a thing 
unpleasant?  Not at all, it seems.  For Primera only seems excited about the 
concept of being taken off to lessons and only cheerful at the concept of any 
sort of lessons, practices.. For they could all be games, for all that childish 
little wonder.  Is this what it would be like to have a family?  Honestly and 
truly one?  With all that constant, fretting worry replaced with a sort of 
cheerful joy.  And she merely beams at the praise, as if every little 
insignificant, possitive word was something lovely in itself.  Is it wrong, 
after all, to be cheered by praise when one is far more used to having nothing 
at all?  For once, she is.. not alone.  And not dreading some ill for someone.  
And those are all so distant now- fretting and worry for those who never come 
home.  Instead, she merely half hops out of her chair, as ever enthusiastic 
young children do.  Worry?  Never.  It is more that cheerful wonder of.. What 
shall we do now?  

"Veritas." Stein smiles down to Primera, murmering one of the rare benedictions 
that concurs with -assurance- that all might truly be well with the world. For 
that is a statement upon the world itself, as rejecting and cruel as it is. 
Truth. That -this- is truth, and what matter is it if this island is the extent 
of the entire world? That is well enough. Now the two may walk down the beach to 
where the targets have been arrayed, Stein raising his hand in acknowledgement 
to one of the Brothers waiting there, and watching the Etone approach to offer 
Primera her training pistol. "You always make me proud, Primera," he allows 
himself to say, for Stein must keep his praises brief, lest he never stop 
speaking. The former Bishop accepts the set of mufflers for his ears, and 
arranges those of Primera's to fit snugly. "Whenever you are ready."

For all of the joy that echos on Primera's expressions, one would think she was 
on holiday.  Perhaps she is?  For months away from everyone she knew, and she's 
as cheerful as if there was absolutely nothing wrong with the concept at all.  
And why does the thought never come to mind that perhaps her family is worried 
for her?  Perhaps.. That is only proper.  Deus knows she spent long enough 
worrying for them.  And, yet remarkably quiet all the while, how she grins to 
all that praise, with a skip in her step and ever, ever smiling.  And is there 
anything wrong with this?  Apparently never and not.  Before the ranges now- 
well, this has become simple habit, hasn't it?  She slides on those small wrist 
guards of hers, for all that the safety of it has become habit, before taking 
her training pistol.  And ought children be wary of firearms?  Perhaps in any 
other part of the world.  But for Primera, it has been a part of all her 
memories.  She saw much of her brother's training, after all.. And, well, Aquavy  
is full of Etones.  Aquavy is full of gunmen.  So how can one say that any of 
this is wrong?  Its life.  And ever one of those facets to the background of her 
memory.  And so, without word of mention, she merely prepares and, with some 
mimickry of what she has been taught and what she has ever viewed as correct, 
she aims at a target.  She fires.

Aquavy is ever full of gunmen. Robes and smiles in the sunlight, and pistols 
hidden for the added force to one's words. A perfect statement. For the steel 
backing the velvet of one's doctrine must be regrettably used at times--and 
Primera, too, is learning that now. It is a message passed down nearly within 
the blood that matches a soul to the rifle, much as if the spirit could truly be 
held inside a casing of a pistol's metal. He nods but a fraction to the first 
round. Off-center, but was she not a little genius? Almost like Billy. Almost... 
and Stein turns the pierce of his gaze down to the crowning cap of silver hair. 
But Primera is far greater than her brother. She carries the burden for them 
all. At such a young age... how noble her spirit. How glorious. And Stein 
watches the next rounds go off, the results tallied nearly before his thoughts 
run their course. Glorious. As expected.

Carrying the burden for them all?  Just for smiling at the right people, 
carrying grudges against the right others?  And yet, if this child is destined 
to be anything more than precious.. Its lost.  She even holds a little smile as 
she finishes those rounds- for how is she a savior to any family, when all she 
does is smile and grin?  And fire.  For even with her practice gun, she is yet a 
shade awkward with it.. But still, didn't she do good?  For even while she 
thinks she is doing it all quite nicely and well... Its a sort of paranoia, is 
it not?  To make sure that that slight off-centered angle was not worthy of a 
frown.  A hopeful glance up out of the edge of a glance she gives then, dropping 
her poise if just to rather idly rub at a wrist.  And still she finds no 
practical use for words.. Can't she just as easily beg a response with a smile, 
with a glance?

While one becomes more verbose, the other finds contentment in quiet. Yes, a 
smile or nod is all that is needed. Stein catches that fretful rub. "Are your 
wrists bothering you, Primera?" Certainly it is more a motion mimed--the 
earmuffs keep sound from transmitting, after all. Protections may hinder, but 
they are valid. Glancing up to the obedient Etone waiting, he claps his hands 
for the target to be replaced. Primera. How perfect. Even with her flaws--for 
all souls have flaws, do they not? Even the once-Bishop himself, and he was 
aware of them so keenly indeed. It takes only a flick of his wrist to call out 
his pistol once more. Would Primera like to try the larger piece?

Primera blinks, glancing down at the wrist she was rubbing as if in some wonder 
of a confusion, as if even she did not realize she was doing such a thing.  So 
she shifts that hand and gives an encouraging, small smile.. See?  Nothing 
wrong.  Just a pause, just something to fill a moment.  And how she perks up at 
that prospect!  Try to use a gun more formal, more tricky than her practice one?  
To anyone else, anywhere else, this would all be a rather obscene sort of scene, 
teaching someone so young to point guns at targets.. But this?  This is a 
healthy challenge.  And so Primera is ever quick to try to do the tricker 
attempt and see if she can succeed, too, at that.  And so she hands over her gun 
to one of the Etones for the moment before, with a sort of excited touch, quiet, 
but held in such calm to the back of her expressions, she takes the offered gun 
in an overly cautious, utterly careful grasp.  Perfect?  Perhaps.. But perhaps 
not.  Such is an odd thing to think of a child partially mute, is it not?  And 
born in situations marred?  But, well, she is but a child.  And what of 
philosophy does she know and comprehend besides what she has been told, is being 
told?  That matters not.  What matters, instead, is to succeed.  To please.  And 
so, a shade more awkwardly with this gun, she tests her luck in firing this one, 
more care put into the tiny details of poise, of aiming.

And how easily has Primera come to adjust to this? A healthy challenge, but more 
besides. The Etone taking her pistol from her hands as the girl already sights 
down the range, preparing herself for the next target. The perfect formalities 
which exist here, all in -clockwork-... well trained indeed. How easy it is to 
find the marker for one's place here. In Aquavy, modeled after strictures that 
parallel militaries, guns are but tools. As are people. All know their place--
even Stein. The man's eyes pluck off details about Primera's stance with 
professional clarity. While all else may turn to indulgence, the pistol never 
will. Life here is balanced between the tolerant and the structured, and how 
well, how -well- Primera has taken to it. In comparison, perhaps it was to be 
expected. Here there are only constants. There... only variables. Here, there 
will be no empty and darkened home to wait in, hungry, while hoping that an 
errant brother or father will return--or a stranger of an Etone, or a stranger 
unaffiliated with the Ethos at all. These things are as simply distilled as 
metal is into the bullet. There is a rule here. It is the gun.

Is that what is so different here?  A stability, a certainty.  An absoluteism of 
things that seems so distanced from her uneasy uncertainty of before.  
Stability?  Is that what allows Primera to be so cheerful, to treat these months 
as if they were, in themselves something to delight in, to cherish?  Strange, 
how things work out.  For it is certain that she does not understand these fine 
rules, these subtle rules and frameworks of this art.  Instead, it is merely 
feeling her way through it.  Adjustments for the weight of this gun, as best she 
can.. It is not a matter of reasoning through numbers, through facts and through 
rules.  It is... feeling.  Passed down, perhaps, as sense of what is proper for 
such an art?  No, no.. That thought in itself is unnerving.  For that thought, 
and that skill, would come from... Well, -him-.  So instead blame it on gift, 
blame it on unrelated grace.  And so, rather tenatively does Primera attempt to 
figure all of these little worries in, and aim.. And, for all her best attempt, 
fire at the target.

A father or a father? A father by blood, or by actions... how doubly painful 
that Stein and Jesiah have rivaled even their own instincts with one another. 
And how utterly, how utterly -humiliating- when even one's own natal gift is 
outmastered. For now, believe it--because it is better for the mind, and does 
not drive fists to clench for blessed pain to distract--to rise from a 
bequeathal of the spirit. Primera's talent is one, at the least, which rises 
from the murk of its origins to purify itself anew. There. Let that stand. And 
let rage pass once more, turned into dedication, as surely as the mud will 
reveal gold once sifted and pared down. Primera's shot rings true. Normal 
bullets find their way so rarely into the Bishop's pistol. But they sing out 
with a muffled crack that is like the playing of the finest note of music. It is 
a heavenly instrument. Wielded by an -angel-.

Ah.  So it is merely that Primera takes another's gift given to her, and uses it 
for a good that could never come of his own use?  Or even her brother's, led 
astray and aside to wander.  And is that not something to be proud of, too?  
Knowing that a gift is given to you not out of spite for whom it came of, but so 
it can be used for a greater good.  And while..  Not all of that collects in 
Primera's mind, how trails and wonders of it hint at her.  For she is special, 
is she not?  And worthy of such praise.  While no one else in her family did so- 
and no one else of her family would be worthy of such, would they?  Odd thoughts 
which clutter her mind... And yet they do not seem to be distracting, 
unsettling.. They come, they go, as any other harmless wonder of a dream.  And 
how her shots ring true- not perfectly struck, honestly, but close enough to 
make her, the little easily amused beginner beam in something of a little 
expression of cheer.  That was good, right?  That was good..? And I can try 
closer to perfection, too, if that would be better for a grin.

A nod. Slow, with satisfaction, as eyes sharp as an animal who hunts by their -
mind- trace the bullet's trajectory. And that is not a fair description? For all 
that has been patiently set down as clearest -fact- through these months, none 
has been forced. The Truth needs no messenger in the end save itself. 
Although... occasionally, the flock did require a bit of a prodding hand. Let 
salvation come on time for them all, instead of having to wait for a few 
stragglers. And hence the guns. Not only to give Primera the confidence of 
strength--not only for interest and the rudiments of self-discipline, but also 
that she never go undefended. And that, too, is another failing point in the 
Black clan. Stein will see it that Primera is never defenseless again. Judging 
from the next few rounds fired into the target, each shot coming surer and 
surer... it is a goal that The Child herself may hold to burn in her mind as 
well. Another nod of approval. All things will better themselves with time, as 
the newly carved grip of a revolver smooths itself to the palm.

And how there -is- a wish to make that shot as close to perfect as her small 
hands will allow her to try.  But how she tries, with that inexperience to a 
side and only a determination born of both curiosity and a need to please being 
the only things there to fend such off.  For guns are only a natural part of 
what she has seen in her life, are they not?  And thus it is only a little skip 
of a step to go from watching it all to attempting to see if she, too, has any 
sort of a gift or a grace to what is so very natural to her frame of mind, to 
the life she has witnessed.  And why spend a worry on those who never taught her 
to do this?  She learns now.  And thus all is better, if just that her thanks 
and her smiles go towards another.  And then she is done, and lowers the gun 
rather slowly.  And pauses to wonder at that lightest shaking of her hands.  
Amazing, isn't it?  How a little weight difference can be such an annoyance to 
have to adapt to.  But even that is not much of a concern as she glances back 
up, and dares a little smile.

One raised by the sword... what -was- that warning again? Ah. Yes. But falling 
prone to one's own chosen path is natural. And it is logical and even -fitting-, 
in that same purity of vision with which Stein has shaped a religion. And even 
this child was born to the way of the rifle--would it be anything less than 
fitting than to let her follow it? To do otherwise would be the true sin. 
Another nod, as Primera looks up to him. His approval may be dealt out in ways 
that are stern on the range--and kind off its grounds--but it is always 
consistent. See how easy it is, the discovery of a talent that they had tried to 
suppress? See how beautifully your own nature unfolds, Primera? Stein takes the 
headset off his ears, the roar of the surf beyond like an animal's growl in the 
sudden ability to hear. Then for Primera's. "How was that, Prim? Examine the 
balance... does it fit your hand well?"

Is it a sin to deny one the chance to learn the gun when they have been born to 
watch it ever, to hold, perhaps, even some gift in its use?  And is it sin to 
abandon, to lie to, to forget the little one who waits, deprived of anything 
else, at an orphanage, with nothing more to do than watch the sky?  How..  How 
did she -never- realize this before?  And instead but innocently accept that as 
the way that families were to be, and instead but waited.  Instead but watched.  
And kept her distance from this man that now she grants smiles to.  How.. odd 
that she did so many things then that were, in so many ways of their own, self-
deterring.  Keeping her from brighter things, from better things.  And why does 
she only realize this now?  Well.  Primera does not seem to linger on this, 
either, some silly conjure of a question, as instead, she carefully wonders on 
his words.  And how.. careful she is with that gun, shifting the weight in her 
hands with some sort of a judging consideration... As if she could actually 
answer that question with any sort of well informed intelligence.  And yet after 
that moment she nods lightly.  A pity there is no pantomime or few short words 
that can express that its all nice and well, but a bit heavier than she's used 
to.   And how careful she is in offering his gun back.

Is it a sin? Not by this doctrine, no, nor by that of the Ethos. To hold back 
and allow others to have their sufferances is noblity--but who will take care of 
the martyr? It is an incidental question at best. Stone takes his gun back with 
as much reverence as he has given it to her; respect of weapons is something 
that may have run in common with Him, but simply because a trace of virtue may 
be held by a sinner does not mean that it must be dirtied. Stone examines the 
grip himself, turning the polished wood of the handle about in his hands, 
reflecting the rising sun off the rich tones of the material. "If you would wish 
to inherit it, Primera... I cannot think of anything that I would like more." 
No, not the Gebler returning to take him back up to the city in the sky for 
command of the Elements, nor even the loyalty of a young, silver-haired boy 
again. Primera is the being who will bear all his hopes. As she will bear his 
weapon. Let her cleanse away the sins which had gone so long unaddressed. Even 
those of the Bishop himself, if needed, for he knows that he is a man with his 
own share of flaws. Let Primera be the savior for Aquavy. On her rides hope.

A child so young whose eyes are now so blurred, the savior of Aquavy?  And just 
what shall this savior do, with a gun at hand and a mindset skewered.. Just a 
shade off?  Be as pure as her family never was, seems to be the answer, and to 
even raise guns against those who she knew as family...  But could it come to 
that?  Why bother, one supposes.. For still Primera smiles.  This is the time 
for cheer and perhaps a little healthy pride, after all.  And not the time to 
think of those who abandoned you.  Is this not a more pleasant scene?  And yet, 
such a shine takes to her eyes at that mention of his.. While ever, she -tries- 
to be a bit dignified in repressing her reaction all to a grin.  And still, she 
responds, with a tiny flare of a barely noticeable word of, "Honestly...?"  Just 
a tiny expression of amusement.  For everything here is worth such awe.  
Everything is worth that enthusiastic smile.

Just a shade off? Such is required by the world. For the -world- is flawed, and 
it takes one with dedication to their vision to see. This is the harsh law that 
the Bishop rules himself by, and if this is what was taught... then what sin is 
there possibly in -that-? For this land will crush that which cannot stand up to 
it. As it almost crushed Primera. But now she is more capable of standing on her 
own, protecting herself as she never was protected. "Honestly." Ignore all the 
pettinesses of the -ungrateful- souls outside of this island, and focus on only 
that for now. He kneels so that he does not have to continue talking down to 
her--he kneels! This Bishop who could have led the Gebler in their full--and 
turns the pistol in his open palm. "My guns have served me well over the years. 
You could indeed say that they have become symbols of all I believe in, and all 
I support." And the proof is in how well polished the grips are by the years of 
trust in their power to protect. They are companions to the last. They are 
himself. "The other is with Erine at the Ethos. She holds it now to keep her 
safe against those who may seek to undermine her. This one may be yours. If you 
wish it. I have had none other who I wished to grant them to now." Once, it may 
have been to the ungrateful boy spawned by Jesiah. But he has proven himself to 
only be corrupted in the end. "But you know, Prim," he cautions--though it is 
not necessary that he does, and that is -delightful-, for Primera to have been 
so quick and apt at learning, "that the acceptance of this is a great 
responsibility. I know you are capable of making me proud. But you must be ready 
before you choose." As quickly placed the choice as it is nullified. "Whenever 
you feel that you are prepared. And when you feel comfortable with it."

Almost crushed, and yet survived.  How -did- Primera live on before, but shy and 
forgotten in the back of an orphanage?  So surrounded by those uncherished and 
tossed aside children that it seemed only normal to know the loss of a family.  
And yet hers lived?  Somehow, someway.  Always away and always aside, and 
never.. Caring, did they?  While the most lovely person of them all laid dead.  
Unfair.  But such the world is.  And somehow, she has survived it.  And is it 
strange that the Bishop kneels?  No stranger than the rest of the world.  And 
she nods, but in understanding to the relevance of the guns... They are 
important.  Of course they are.  A constant in a world unruled, something 
reliable when all else failed.  And she is so used to those around her being so 
careful of their guns.. Is this supposed to be peculiar too?  No, only fact.  
Reiterated out of kindness.  And she mouths Erine's name in mild curiosity.. Not 
a name too familiar to her child's memory.  But.. That was the smiling woman, 
right?  The one who grinned too much and proclaimed herself leader of Ethos the 
moment he was away.  Well.  There doesn't seem to be much harm in that either, 
does there?  The once-Bishop does not seem upset about it, after all.  And she 
tries to look as serious as she can at the mention of the gun.. She nods, 
serious as can be.  "I know.."  Mild her words, and distant.. But it is a 
sentence, isn't it?  And charming that she can do so!  And strange, still, that 
a child can be so quite serious about such a thing.. And mean it, too.  What a 
child Aquavy has forged.

Aquavy has indeed forged a blend unique. The Ethos is a darling child. Almost as 
darling as Primera. But it is tiresome, it is filled with worries, and to have 
Erine in charge of it for now... while it grows ever stronger still in his 
vision--what is that to him to be disturbed about? Let Erine take the weight of 
the sinners for now. And blessing upon her, to have her own share of the 
ignorants who plague even Aquavy's shores. It is a nation of scattered islands 
who hold no tithe to one another--each as tiny, perfect pearls gleaming in the 
sun. It is a nation of priests who are given the sanctity of dispensing the gift 
of death along with their prayers. For theirs is the glory. A glory handed down 
by those who know the true God themselves. "Whenever you are ready," he repeats 
with a smile, and then slips the pistol back into the wide sleeve to be hidden 
away again. "Until then, would you like to take a walk upon the beach? Brother 
Stirling seems pleased by your scores this round, and I know that we do and I 
know that we do not need to check closely to prove that you have done well." 
Pistols held ever close to the body are not promise of a threat--only second 
nature. That is the truth of the Etones. That is Stein, and Primera too... if 
she accepts her own talent. She, too, is like an island, gleaming in the sun. 
She is a Child of Aquavy.

Strange, for so much pride universally to be shown in but a simple quick taking 
to a weapon which harms.  But it seems not to Primera.  No, none of this does.  
Not even the wondering thought of if any of this -should- be wrong comes to her 
young mind.  Instead she is happy, instead she is content.  There is nothing 
wrong in persuing such a value of guns.  Especially if she has talent.  
Especially if she aquires all the more praise for it.  For how -easy- it is to 
win the heart of a child.  Strange, perhaps, that this particular child was so 
unfriendly to the once-Bishop before...  But for the moment none of that is a 
concern.  She is happy. And what can be a problem with that?  Only pride echoes 
across those expressions at the mentions of her likley good score.. And how 
lovely that is, too.  She has never truly succeeded in anything in her life 
after all.  She has never had anything to succeed -in-.  And what an experience 
it is!  Being told that you have an ability, and that others will be proud of 
what you can do with it.  It only goes to make her smile more honest, and that 
nod of enthusiasm to a walk moreso.  Words?  No, still no need for those.  
Emotion is enough.

Wrong? How could it be wrong, for a child to hold a weapon that kills? For young 
hands to train themselves so early in death? That cannot be wrong, for it is 
simply the world. And the world does require -discipline- to exist within it. 
For to do otherwise is to slide into corruption, and that so easily leads to a 
self-blinding from the truth. "For lunch, I believe we shall have sandwiches. 
There should still be some jams from Bledavik left." Bledavik--mention, yes, of 
the world outside. Why should it be censored? The world was no threat to this 
island, unless it had plans to destroy it. And it does not. "I should send 
Brother Frederick to Aveh to find some more soon. I wonder what fills the 
markets this season..." Stone turns away from the targets after the result, 
pleasing, has been tallied, and holds out a hand for Primera to talk while they 
walk. Let the world end tomorrow. He has found the salvation within him from his 
demons today.

Teach the children to kill.  But..  Is that not also teaching them to protect 
themselves?  And in a world full of so much betrayal and hate and pain.. And in 
a land so dwelt by Wels, to be less dramatic to the wonder, it is only a 
safeguard.  Only a hope for survival in lands that mean to allow anything but.  
And more.  But does Primera understand that?  Perhaps on the more basic, 
innocent level.  To protect yourself and those you care for, and because.. It is 
common.  It is right.  It is part of Aquavy.  And so is she.  So Primera take's 
the once-Bishop's hand without even as much as a shy or wondering pause as they 
walk, with that cheerful little edge to her step that is only a small enthusiasm 
away from skipping.  "All right.."  Small words, but cheerful to the wonder of 
lunch.  And amazing how cheerful she -is-.  And from such origins!  Its 
remarkable, indeed.  But such a happy child she is, when given mere time and 
attention.  And ever happy, and yet still but quiet, quiet chimes of sound, so 
easily distractable as yet another brush of wind or shift of the ever-nearby 
sea, she seems almost to test these syllables and precious words, and adds in 
quiet, but yet cheerful note, "...Uncle Stone."