“Lovely display, don’t you think?”

Without turning his head, Malak saw that irritating glint of burnished gold, the white shirt that never seemed to get soiled despite living in a jungle. Dariel had a unique talent for announcing his presence without announcing anything.

“Not particularly.” Malak responded. “I find it all a bit… lavish.”

What he really meant was gaudy. It was an intricate tapestry, rich in dyes and embroidery. The Golden Mother creating the first Progeny out of her own essence. She had a benevolent smile, long flowing hair, and enough golden thread that it hurt to look at in direct sunlight.

Dariel seemed be amused by Malak’s speculation. “Well of course. Nothing is too extravagant to give praise to our Mother.”

“I find that the highest respect comes from silence, not extravagance.”

This earned the smallest eye twitch from Dariel. “An… interesting idea.”

“Hm. Perhaps it’s the color.”

“Oh? And how so?”

“I’ve never been a fan of orange.”

“Ah. May I ask why?”

“It’s way too aggressive,” Malak said, reaching out to run the tassels through his fingers. “Like someone wanted to use red but decided to soften the message.”

“The point of orange is to be inviting.” Dariel said. “Like the divine fire of the Progeny, it symbolizes warmth and safety. Shelter from the cruel winter storm.”

“A jungle seems an awful place to start a fire. You wouldn’t be able to keep it in check.”

“Speaking in metaphors only, mister Malak. Surely you seek the warmth and light of a campfire at the end of a hard day?”

“Not unless I’m sure we aren’t being watched. Smoke in the air can attract some unsavory fellows looking for a fight.”

“Perhaps if you were less intent on picking fights you can’t win, it wouldn’t be a problem.”

“And if I had never started the fire, I wouldn’t need to pick a fight I can’t win.” Malak shot back, sharply turning his back to the abrasive tapestry and the idiotic conversation. He gave Dariel one side-eyed glare. “Speaking in metaphors, of course.”