Inquisitor H-64
The cloying scent of honeysuckle was deeply infused with the thick July humidity. That first waft of sweetness was pleasant, but once tessera’s sense memory kicked in, it made her sick. A burning sensation flashed across her knuckles as her eyes grazed over the soft, delicate flowers, defiantly jutting from their overgrown shrubs. They trumpeted out of her hair with the same undeniable prominence that day, deftly woven into a fragrant circlet atop her head. That predictable string of words echoed through every corner of her mind, as they did every time that floral aroma assaulted her senses “leave the flowers to the plants and trees, exinda-tessera, they are here to look pretty. Humans are built to achieve and advance, not to be ornaments.” Her knuckles seared as she recalled each word. It was as if each joint had its own memory, faithfully recreating each sting of the elder’s switch. One lash for each blossom that adorned her. She was only a child, but, as the elders say, that’s when it starts. She thought that she was creating something, wasn't that what humans were supposed to do? They achieve, advance, transform something that exists into something that didn’t before. It was a clever little crown but it served no purpose. Beauty, as she learned, is not a purpose, it is a way to gain favor with little effort or contribution. It’s a sickness in humans that will take decades, even centuries, to cure.
