'It is as if slaughtering those overgrown cuts of meat has become our unignorable, even our one-and-only, calling.' The clock ticks and tocks. The dreadnought obstructs the rays as they come down from the dome. Ulpianus lifts his head and fixes his eyes on the flickering indicator lights, as if in thought. 'It ought not be,' the young female Consul replies, following a long hesitation. 'Of course it ought not. When an Ægir wakes, the first thought that enters their mind should not be of what they've lost, never. Nor of how to take back what they've lost.' Ulpianus is silent for a juncture, some kind of emotion flowing about his raspy throat. After a good while, he sighs, 'Oh, how many magnificent works we once made.' 'And now, the battle to survive has become the only to-do list that this new generation knows.' 'Battle. A glorious word, to be sure. And yet, our outstanding creativity and pursuit of beauty have been all but forgotten.' The two simultaneously gaze afar. Lights dazzle beneath the dome. '...Not by choice.' Ulpianus adds. Gladiia shoots a glance at Ulpianus, mulls over the wording for a moment, then speaks inquisitively: 'You were never the type to be so receptive to sentimentality.' 'Indeed.' Ulpianus does not halt this time. 'We should address this matter solemnly. Our culture is in the midst of being permanently altered by these protracted days of calamity.' A colossal rumbling cuts short Gladiia's pregnant pause. More ships are entering port, a new fleet of migration and reconstruction, and she is left to ponder in earnest what Ulpianus has said. Over the pursuit of beauty, over the creation of the new. Before she was born, or perhaps earlier than that... centuries ago? Millennia? When the Ægir founded this stark and grand culture—did they imagine that now, its radiance would be so dull? Did they make any preparations for the present day? Gladiia's thoughts are lost for but an instant. To her, the past is of unimportance. More vital are what preparations she is soon to make, what things she <i>can</i> do. 'A new Abyssal Hunter.' Ulpianus unceremoniously breaks the silence. 'I hear she previously had quite an interest in the arts. Ballet, opera, she's dabbled in it all.' 'Laurentina has mentioned a rather profound recollection of the sculpture in her hometown.' 'Then she still retains some of the essence what all Ægir should have by rights.' Ulpianus turns around. The Consul's light attire for the season cannot conceal his body scarred by experimentation. 'What is she like? If she truly is an epitome of Ægir life from days gone by, then being forced away from the proper course of things must fill her with so much hate.' 'No. Such sentimentality is but a small supplement to her whole.' Gladiia breaks into a rare smile. This, despite how her smiles always took careful observation and judgment, on the muscular and nervous levels. 'She creates a beauty of her own through battle. One of the sorts you speak of, with great exuberance.' Ulpianus makes a light and noncommittal harrumph in response, after which he soon leaves Gladiia by herself under those gigantic shadows to appreciate the serenity. The grand hall echoes with only the sounds of the Ægir's footsteps forward.