> While the creators of Hives clearly drew inspiration from hive and colony based eusocial insects, one should not generalize the functional elegance of these natural collectives to Hive behaviours. Hives were designed for the purpose of efficient, large-scale human constructions and their conditioned behaviours prioritize those goals, oftentimes at the expense of more adaptive patterns.

>

> It must have been a sight to behold. Tired settlers entering into a new region only to find an already finished village ready for its new inhabitants! Fields already plowed, wells dug, homes and roads built. The ease of expansion would have brought every frontier within reach! Indeed, signs of Hiver activity can be seen across the continent, and why not? After they finish their expansions the creatures even have the good manners to die off and bury themselves.

>

> Of course, without oversight the problem of behavioural drift has become evident. Persistent Hives, sometimes numbering in the millions of individuals have claimed significant land area. The only saving grace is their seeming disinclination to expand. Vast cities of creatures, all nearly mindless, endlessly constructing and deconstructing their domains; sometimes coexisting with each other, sometimes entering frenzied blood-lettings of their own kind for reasons obscure. Such enclaves are best left alone and are luckily passive without provocation.

>

> Unfortunately, some of their aberrant behavioural patterns are more hazardous. So-called 'erratics' are fortunately incapable of maintaining long-term stable Hives, but remain dangerous. Overwhelmed by their instinctive aggression, these mutations inevitably lead to Hive collapse. But woe upon anyone who encounters them before their inevitable fall.

>

> Encyclopedia of Shaped

Jack was not what she had expected.

There was little resemblance to the bumbling ponce she had—somewhat foolishly she now realized—crafted in her mind.

After his first hurried warning, he had been quick to pull her into the outlines of a haphazard plan, and she had been too off-kilter to do more than acquiesce to this sudden deviation from the script she had prepared for.

He had expressed adamant indignation on her behalf at her father's supposed machinations, reiterated to her that he believed wholly in her right to choose her own partner, and proposed that they maintain the cover of courtship while determining how to undermine Jam's plans for her.

At that point some of his aristocratic breeding seemed to shine through, when he sniffed haughtily and said "Frankly, I thought much better of your father until this."

She'd had to stifle a sort of spasmodic laugh at that but, luckily, he'd seemed to have taken it as a relieved sob, only worsening the threat to her precariously held composure by offering a painfully sincere reassurance.

Jam, of course, had found the whole thing hilarious.

"It's not funny," Wyli had admonished her father afterwards, "how am I supposed to test myself properly? I'm not supposed to be co-conspirators with him, I'm supposed to be an innocent girl swept into a whirlwind romance, clumsily reaching just slightly beyond my station. That was the character we planned for."

Jam reclined contentedly on the cushions of his cot. They were in the somewhat cramped interior of his cart, packed as it was with as much versatility and functionality as could be stuffed in through artifice and skilled craftsmanship. He was running his hand absentmindedly over a small, damaged spot on the board by his side.

"From the first conversation I had with him I knew our plans were waylaid, my dear. Forgive me that I'm further along in accepting fate," Jam replied, grinning in his infuriating way that seemed to hint at a joke only he'd understood.

"Easy enough for you! I have to improvise, I have to keep yet another new layer of deception. Who knows if I'll even return to normal, maybe I'll just be a simpering fool of a girl when this is done."

"A marked improvement we can only pray for," Jam answered instantly.

She snapped at the air, too white teeth clicking together with a strangely resonant tone; glaring at him until, unable to hold herself any longer, she began to giggle.

"See now? There's my little beast, no masks could cover her," he told her warmly.

"Little beasts don't get to go where they will. Little beasts get hunted," she reminded him, but there was no edge to it.

Jam sighed, but pressed on. "The unexpected always comes. If anything this is a truer test for you than if our waters were untroubled. Besides, after that boy saved our lives, I would have had a mutiny if I treated badly with him. This new arrangement is much less harsh to the lad's feelings."

"You would have managed something," she reflexively denied the true threat of the umbrar, unwilling to accept that they had truly come so close to disaster.

"I'm not so sure," Jam murmured, "regardless, I shouldn't keep you longer. Go back to your beau and plot my undoing."

With a sneer, followed by a flash of an adoring smile before she turned away, Wyli left Jam alone.

He worried his hand over the damaged section of wood, running his fingers in sequence through the parallel grooves that looked like nothing so much as the bite-mark of a small child.

"I'm not so sure," he repeated again to himself. Wondering, not for the first time, just how an umbrar of that grade had appeared so far south.

----------------------------------------

Jack still couldn't quite believe Jam's intentions. Arranged marriages may have been the norm elsewhere, but in Calamut, and particularly within his family, they were viewed with distaste. Jam had barreled over his objections, insisting that he at least get to know his daughter, and besides, after Jack's contributions Jam had determined that he'd make a fine son-in-law.

As if that was the issue at heart. No, Jack's concerns were for Wyli, the poor girl had been so timid around him, barely saying a word. Obviously petrified at the prospect. Jack could sort of understand Jam's intentions, the girl was obviously unsuited for the life Jam led, and marrying her well would provide for her. But Jack certainly wasn't happy to be foisted upon (or on anyone) in such a manner.

Jack's mother would know exactly the thing to do with her, he was sure. If he could only manage to keep Jam pacified until their return, she would undoubtedly put Jam in his place and provide for Wyli.

She was well-mannered enough, curiously so, that a match could be found for her if that was truly what she wanted. Jack could even admit that she was quite attractive, if a little too prim for him.

It was all very stressful, and Stroph's obvious amusement at the predicament wasn't helping matters.

"So ya admit she's fetching?"

Jack arranged his best withering look. The one with the lip curl.

"You're being obtuse, and I shan't be drawn in by such an obvious effort."

"And to think," Stroph continued, ignoring Jack's best attempt to glare him down, "ya've got that mousy girl home in Underwave doncha? Ahh to be spoiled for choice."

Flashes of a dark-haired girl holding his hand, the slight tremble stilled by a tightening grip.

The memory was broken by Stroph’s interjection.

"Ahh, now I've gone and set ya mind a wanderin' in untoward directions. I'll warn ya now, as a friend, the pair of 'em won't be flattered by such a proposition."

Jack took a moment to parse what Stroph was implying. Comprehension arriving, he began to calmly pluck and weave long blades of grass into an impromptu cord.

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"Watcha doin' there Jack-y?" Stroph asked sing-song.

"There's no branches for miles, but this will do in a pinch," Jack answered calmly, giving a few practice spins of his work.

"Watcha doin' with that there switch Jack?" Stroph asked again, a little more nervous.

Jack turned on him with a slowly growing smile.

Recognizing his own peril, Stroph set to sprint away, only to receive a stinging slap on his back.

"Help help! I'm beset by an accountant plighted with romantical troubles!"

And they ran like fools into the grasses, letting themselves pretend that they carried no burdens greater than the moment.

Stroph’s disposition had markedly improved after the stop at Hilltop, and they had returned to their wandering adventures in their off time.

Those escapades had new elements of caution. Only wilds and lost ruins existed past Hilltop, and the scarcity of people left space for... other things. Jack noticed that whenever they ventured out of sight of the caravan, Stroph was inclined to scoop up the first fist-sized stone he could find, a deadly weapon in his hands.

But even caution can allow for frivolity.

After suffering a few more well-deserved blows, Stroph called foul on the inequity of their respective armaments.

"I will craft you a blade its equal then, let it never be said that Jack Lonquil is without honour." And he set about doing exactly that.

"Honour enough to strike an innoce-" Jack's raised eyebrow aborted that claim mid-utterance, "-largely without fault senior."

Jack finished his work, and rose with a haughty sneer.

"So the foul cur admits fault! Well, if it's swords to be crossed, you shan't have a claim of inferiority of weapon to protect your esteem upon your righteous defeat! I bequeath you the grass-blade, uh, blade!"

Stroph mouthed back at him, "the grass-blade blade?", with a smirk.

But Jack charged ahead, "forged on this day by my hand, it cuts the wind and drinks only blood. Now have at you!"

They crossed blades!... of grass.

Fighting against their own weapons at least as much as each other, they suffered tremendous blows that would cripple anyone of lesser constitution than a soap bubble. The fierce duel paused only to remove a seed grain that had come dangerously close to an eye, and the noble combatants mutually agreed on a 'below the neck only' rule of engagement, before resuming their unstoppable conflict.

Jack had been spending enough time in Issaiah's company that he felt extremely confident in the mental game of their battle.

"Thou has the reactions of a nerve-damaged slug! Perhaps I should give you warning a minute before every blow, and give you a chance to keep up!"

"Better a nerve-damaged slug than a dead man!" which Stroph did his best to counter.

Of course Stroph's longer reach gave him a significant advantage overall, Jack only managing to truly overcome him whenever Pivot was redrawn, as his grass-blade would suddenly snap into unison with him, joining his rotations to both ravage Stroph with whistling blows and guaranteeing a few seconds of impossible grace with which to evade all counters, before returning to defensive action.

Their competitive efforts left them both bent over gasping for air, blades bent and torn, and clothes stained.

"T-truce?" Jack uttered between breaths.

"N-never!" Stroph replied, but on his attempt to raise his hand to deliver a coup de grace, he discovered the grip on his thigh was in fact load-bearing, and tumbled forward instead. A few more gasping breaths before he continued, "...never, never-mind. Yes, truce with ya."

Peace restored, they finally took account of their surroundings and realized that they had wandered well out of sight of the caravan.

"Where are we?" Stroph ventured, looking around a bit anxiously.

Their track wasn't obvious through the tall grasses, and the landscape's low rolling hills were nearly indistinguishable from each other.

"Dunno, but I know the way back," Jack reassured him, "when we left the sun was there. But it's moved only a bit. We can just follow the same angle and make sure to undershoot the caravan's path. As long as we can find the trail it's left we'll be fine. Worst thing we can do is get ahead of it and have to double back."

Issaiah had taught him how to safely return to the caravan after wandering away and getting lost, one of his first lessons.

"Good thing ya are capable at this navigation stuff, never could get the hang of it meself," Stroph replied with, what felt to Jack, a too casual tone.

But Jack let the mild evasion slide, they needed to be getting back anyway.

"Come on then, I'll lead us ba-" his words fell from him. Back the way they came, a figure could be seen against the background of the sky. It watched them.

It stood taller than a human, obvious on the horizon even from where it stood thirty meters away. It had two sets of arms; the first were long trunks of muscle, ending in chitinous scythe-like blades; the second were smaller, growing from the middle of its chest, there were too many joints in the limbs to make up for lack of shoulder socket, which made the near-human hands all the more unsettling.

Its head followed the same pattern, seeming at first merely a somewhat odd looking man from a distance, until the creeping details carried through.

The bridge of the nose stretched back too far, stealing space that rightfully belonged to eyes, which sat too wide in compensation.

The ears were inset, ribboned structures. The folds undulated as if cajoling sound into the orifice of the ear.

The mouth appeared normal, until the darting extension of pale, insectoid limbs slipped out to taste the air, looking like nothing so much as if a spider had made residence beyond its lips.

Long, digitigrade legs gave it its height and, Jack knew, a sprinting speed that would overwhelm any human.

It swung one of its long blades before it, a controlled and smooth motion through the grass, and where it passed the stalks fell as if in harvest.

Stroph moved in front of Jack with a small arsenal.

He had gathered stones in the meantime, quickly tearing at the earth to gather handfuls of loose pebbles and one dearly needed fist sized rock.

Upon seeing the Hiver warrior—for that was only what it could be—slice the grass before it, he drew his arm back and threw one of his pebbles at the warrior, tearing away the grass to its side as the stone ripped past.

A miss! But to Jack’s amazement, Stroph didn’t follow up and instead locked his gaze with the inhuman one before him.

‘They’re showing their strengths,’ Jack realized, and activated Vital Flow in preparation.

But when the shaped creature started forward suddenly, he knew that Stroph’s effort had been found wanting.

Fwip. Fwwip. Fwwwwip. The air ripped as Stroph threw stone after stone at the charging creature. The first missed. The second appeared as a small splash of blood—blue ichor appeared on its arm.

It didn’t stop its advance, but instead began moving erratically, zig-zagging on its approach. Jack stood helplessly by as it came, and Stroph’s next few misses had him hold his remaining handful in reserve.

It neared them, and Stroph struck out with his flakshot of stones, hurling them in a mass that spluttered dust up all around the warrior, and scoring another few gushes of bright blue fluid.

Then it was upon them.

Pivot.

A scythe arm swept low towards Jack, and he spun himself out of its path, feeling the cutting edge barely miss him. Even injured, it was faster than he could believe.

Out of the corner of his eye Jack could see Stroph take the blow from the opposite arm, but to his relief, there was no rush of red to follow.

Stroph had caught the blade, and even with blood welling from his hands where it had cut deep, he strained against the mass of the warrior pushing on him.

With a sudden surge of strength, the chitinous edge shattered in his grip, his abused fingers tearing through the structure with a strangely muffled crack.

An utterly alien cry arose from the too-human throat, a clatter of hard edges. It tried to step back and stabilize, but Stroph gave it no room to.

What followed was almost clinical, but for its savagery.

The warrior’s every effort to create space was met with Stroph's relentless pursuit. Destruction followed his touch. Every time he managed to land his fingers upon it, the blue ichor would spill forth from his hands as if the tough flesh was rotten fruit.

The blows he received in turn were terrible. Even with its body eroding under Stroph’s assault the thing refused to die. Struggling to find the room to swing its blade it resorted to sawing at Stroph’s back, spilling blood in flowing ribbons.

The warrior attempted to kick Stroph away and instead he caught its leg in his full grip. In an instant the limb was a mangled wreck, shattered in his hands.

Jack expected Stroph to step back then, as there was nothing to be gained from further assault. It was immobilized, heading inevitably towards death as its strange blood flowed from it in arhythmic pulses.

But he didn’t.

Stroph continued tearing at the now feebly struggling warrior, ripping into it with only increasing fervor. Tearing it apart piece by piece, his punches now struck clean through it, his fingers sought purchase on internal levers until, with violent suddenness, its body’s structures tore.

He was not systematic. His attention drifted constantly as limbs twitched in death throes or an organ released a gush of fluid. There was nothing rational in his action.

Finally, all was still. Stroph was unrecognizable, a figure sopping with red and blue blood.

Jack made a soft noise, and Stroph swung around in an instant.

There was nothing human in his gaze.