22nd of Ash, Year 118
Every breath hurt. Not just for him -- but also for them.
Nothing could ever be easy.
The Artificed Golem that had been assisting the Famished train-conductor at the helm roamed across the halls of each car, and after having removed of the corpses in the second-to-last compartment by throwing them against the walls of the cave, most of his visits had been largely to gather general information on the passengers' current wellbeing. Taelian theorized that he might have been Awoken, but one akin with the Famished he followed; quiet and with little interest in living an unnecessarily complex life. He displayed some of the characteristics of mortality, but much of the detached aloofness of false personhood.
"Attention to all passengers," the Awoken-Golem, or-so-he-thought, began to announce. "Due to a Dust Storm raging overhead, we are noting dangerously high levels of Sundered air. Dust particles have been descending through the soil and through the windows and imperfections of the train. Please be aware that if you are having difficulty breathing, these difficulties should subside. As former residents of Sil-Elaine, you should feel a natural resistance to Sunder-Sickness, instilled in your biology. For this reason we advise calm; please report symptoms including violent coughing, deathly illness and sudden mutation to your nearest operator. We are happy to help you survive your journey."
Strange. He spoke methodically, formally. Without any of the gilded Siltori flair. He was foolish to think that his words would not cause panic, however; nearly all of those in his cabin were now frantically searching the closets for medical supplies, hoping that their bandages and other baubles would somehow remedy their overt Sunder-Sickness. No matter their genetic advantages against the effects of the Sundering, the Siltori were still mortal. They could not easily survive being submerged by one of Daravin's Dread-Mist Dust Storms.
"Why are you not worried, Ebon Knight?" a young man asked him; one who also appeared to be relatively calm. He was a tall Siltori like him, likely an inch or two shorter than Taelian. His build was athletic and he wore casual, linen clothes, with his short but curly hair messily dancing across his face and the rest of his head.
"Everyone's been calling me 'Ebon Knight' from the moment I got on," Taelian muttered, and rolled his eyes. "Elindra was more of one than me. And she died to that Dranoch in the car ahead. I was weak to not help her before." Perhaps, he thought, if he had gone there without hesitation...
...but Taelian wasn't one to sulk and mope in moral quandaries. What happened had already happened. And technically, even though he was leaving, he was still an Ebon Knight. Part of why he had gone away was to serve Aldrin's will from afar, seeking to garner the attentions of the powerful Siltori of the world who might feel empathy for their people's plight. Aldrin had always been idealistic.
