SUMMER

Angkar: Wet season. Precipitation is common during the late afternoon and evening hours. Vegetation grows significantly during the summer, but flooding is a danger due to the monsoons that ravage the country. The rainforest sees evenly distributed rainfall throughout the season.

Ashoka: Desert: Extremely hot and dry. Violent, heavy downpours following long dryspells. Jungle: Hot and humid with frequent, violent rainstorms.

Morrim: Relatively hot and dry, but with a chance of thunderstorms from time to time. The heat may cause forest fires.

Soto: Hot and humid, tree cover is dense while ground growth is restricted. Thunderstorms see the most amount of rainfall during the season, and it can be very windy. On occasion, there are flash floods that can destroy homes and farms built on flood plains.

ANNOUNCEMENTS

March 30th, 2018 As you might have noticed, Elenlond has changed hands and is now under new management! If you have any questions, please direct them to DaringRaven! As for the rest of the announcements, including a season change, you can find them over here at the following link!

January 16, 2018 As you might have noticed, Elenlond has a new skin, all thanks to Mel! Don't forget to check out the new OTMs as well!

December 2, 2017 Winter has settled on Elenlond, bringing sleep for some and new life for others.

September 26, 2017 With the belated arrival of autumn come some interesting developments: new OTMs, a Town Crier and the release of the Elly Awards winners!

July 14, 2017 After a bit of forum clean-up, Elly Awards season has arrived! Head on over to make your nominations!

May 31, 2017 Summer has arrived and so has activity check! That's not all though – we also have some new OTMs for you and some staff changes!


WHAT IS ELENLOND?

Elenlond is an original free-form medieval fantasy RPG set on the continent of Soare and the Scattered Isles, which are located to the south in the Sea of Diverging Waters. The four chief nations of the western side of the world—Ashoka in northern Soare, Soto in western Soare, Morrim in eastern Soare, and Angkar, the largest of the Scattered Isles—continue to experience growth and prosperity since the fall of the Mianorite gods, although power struggles within the countries—or outside of them—continue to ensue.


QUICK TIDBITS

  • We accept any member who wants to RP here;
  • We are an intermediate-level RPG;
  • We have been open since June 2004;
  • Elly's layouts work best in Chrome, Firefox, Safari, and Opera. It is not optimized for IE.

  • CURRENT EVENTS

    Angkar: To honour the reinvigoration of the ancient city of Mondrágon, the majestic Queen Eulalia has permitted the opening of a Coliseum where people from around the world and all walks of life can test their combat skills against one another. Many have already done battle in search of honour, glory, prizes and money.

    Ashoka: In an otherwise peaceful times, Ashokans are beset with the relatively minor inconveniences of wandering undead and occasionally-aggressive giant rock worms. There has also been some controversy over the recent re-legalisation of human sacrifice.

    Morrim: Rumour has it that Emperor Leofric de Hollemark is mustering forces for a war. Though the threat from Soto’s forests has passed, the forces previously employed in watching the forest now linger at the border. Rumours also circulate of a small group that has been dispatched to make contact with the tribes of the Do’suul Mountains.

    Soto: The Sotoans have defeated the fey and liberated themselves from Méadaigh’s oppression! Preliminary efforts have been made at rebuilding the city of Madrid, which had been captured at the beginning of the war. However, the Sotoans are hindered from recovery famine. Méadaigh’s magic caused summer to persist in the Erth’netora Forest through the winter. Her power has been withdrawn and the plants die as if preparing for winter – even though it is now summer. The Sotoans must sustain off what food they can get, what creatures they can kill and what can be imported into the city from Morrim and Angkar.

    For a fuller description of our most recent events, check out our most recent edition of The Town Crier!

    daringraven
    Administrator
    Qayin Graves
    SHADOW
    Supporting Admin.

    Kestrel Sumner (Shadow)
    Kindle Blackheath
    Orion de Lacey
    Sinadryn Arsydian
    Welcome to our home, a world in which anything can happen. From sprawling deserts and vast forests to massive volcanoes and luscious hot springs, Soare and the Scattered Isles are beautiful places just waiting to be explored. For the brave and the bold or the cautious and the wary, creatures of all kinds roam the earth, looking for adventure or for a place to call their own. Species of all kinds - the well-known and the unknown - thrive here, though not always in harmony.

    Elenlond is an original medieval fantasy RPG with a world that's as broad as it is unique. Calling on characters of all kinds, the sky's the limit in a world where boundaries are blurred and the imagination runs rampant. Restrictions are limited and members are encouraged to embrace their creativity, to see where they can go and what they can do. It's no longer just text on a page - it becomes real.

    Enter Our World

    Username:   Password:
    • Pages:
    • 1
    • 2
    Above, Below, Around; Open~
    Topic Started: Jul 22 2017, 04:44 PM (1,016 Views)
    Mairead
    Member Avatar
    I reject your reality and substitute my own.

    Her pensive eyes looked past Shell, settling for a moment on the poltergeist. Her hair was floating and manipulating citrus like tentacled appendages. In any other setting, the forger would have bolted but, sometimes, palpable atmospheres of loss could drive fear into the far corners of one’s mind. Perhaps, it would resurface at a later time like a Halloween joke gone wrong...

    Talks of war came back to her. In dimensions far off, shell-shocked men laid in trenches, eyes wide, frozen in a macabre gaze, lips curled into disturbing grins.

    Here, in the Sotoan side of the war, a grotesque corpse dangled from a tree, twitching. An eclipse shone its thin light on the slain, arising as Dead animated things. A mirror image, or mockery, of the innocent child, Kist, had attacked her, hideously reminiscent of a child soldier. A fallen dragoon, whose powers live on in her wings, had given her life to the war.

    And Mairead? She was no heroine. She was far too small in the magnitude of things. The political manoeuvres of chancellor Aniketos were beyond the understanding of one small forger. The starvation of Sotoans had called her into action, and no ‘good’ person would stand by and do nothing.

    Shell had asked her a question. It was courteous. Her mind snapped back to the present moment after the minutes of embrace. Her pursed lips reformed into a tired smile.

    “The world is a big place for small folks like us. We little ones ought to stick together, protect each other. I guess I’m doing all right. I met a man.” Her mind flickered to Eth. “I feel hungry. And you?”

    ***

    "Daenis, was it? You mentioned being a Reading Construct correct?"

    The construct beamed, its chest puffing as the metal body rattled and screeched in excitement. “I am, indeed. And you are? I have heard you conserve books from battle harm. How admirable! Myself, I was created to read and catalogue knowledge, and I link ostensibly disparate trivia into a meaningful picture. Oh, it was and is a miraculous process, this consolidation of information.”

    Mairead interrupted. “I built the construct to stack library books. And he is, thus far, making a spectacle of himself.”

    He could feel her cold stare. Its grippers lowered, forming a steeple, as if ashamed. The forger continued. “The construct has no soul. It is a tool. Made to serve a purpose. It is not a person.”

    Crash

    The cart tipped over. A black haired individual burst into the scene.

    Mairead gave Daenis a curt nod. The construct burst into action. Practised grippers closed around the fallen books, one at a time, book order arranged as a librarian construct would do. Neat stacks resulted on the edge of the fountain in no time. The construct looked proud, then seeing Mairead’s disapproving gaze, retreated into a demure posture.
    (OFFLINE) PROFILE QUOTE GO TO TOP
     
    Shell
    Member Avatar
    From Theon Greyjoy to Reek in under 3 seconds

    Mairead spoke, and Shell listened, though she had little to say. She was unsure if the man her friend had mentioned was one of, perhaps, romantic significance, but there wasn't much time to process the idea, as the talk was moved on. Her eyes strayed to the baskets. For once, she did not feel hungry. She shook her head quietly and listened some more as words passed between Daenis and some others. She watched the quaint construct, seeing its strange arms lower in a clear gesture of humility. Even from here, she could feel a personality, a little independent thought -- just enough.

    Just enough to make it shocking when she heard her friend say: “The construct has no soul. It is a tool. Made to serve a purpose. It is not a person.”

    Shell gasped with horror.

    'It has no will of its own anymore. It merely follows, and carries out orders; it is no longer really a person at all.'

    She pulled her gaze back to the water around her feet and she had to stay there, rigid, waiting for the flashback to pass. Slowly, its vividness faded, but her shoulders were still hunched, tense, caught somewhere between being upset, being angry, and wanting to respect Mairead. Perhaps... perhaps she'd misheard, or misinterpreted -- but when she glanced up, briefly, and saw its defeated posture (or was it simply idle..?), the uncomfortable proximity to that life caused her chest to throb painfully and she looked back down. But, she couldn't unsee it, or unhear it.

    Her thoughts became chaotic, fluttering desperately, wanting to feel justified in their sudden terror and anger but also wanting to believe that she hadn't heard it, that it really wasn't as sentient as she'd pegged it to be, that she was projecting her own experiences onto this construct and comparing the situation to..... to.....

    No. I didn't hear it.... it's not what I think it is.

    Her throat ached and her eyes burned again. She gripped the sides of the fountain, knuckles creaking.

    I'm overreacting.

    Mairead was a good person. But it was the principle, the concept of disposable workers, of virtual slavery -- she had seen the construct's disappointment, she couldn't have imagined it -- it was these things that made her struggle.

    Don't be stupid, you're making things up.

    Whether or not she was justified, whether or not she was imagining things, between the flashback and the loss of Khana, Shell could not hold it together in public anymore. She stood, and stepped out of the fountain.

    "I-I'm sorry, everyone..... I need to be alone for a while." Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and walked away briskly, not even bothering to put on her shoes.
    Edited by Shell, Jul 28 2017, 04:46 PM.
    (OFFLINE) PROFILE QUOTE GO TO TOP
     
    Arete Fabella
    "As centuries crumble the whispers of ancients/ Last longer in stories, last longer in stories than stone." -- Ada Palmer, "Longer in Stories than Stone"

    Arete looked around. It seemed they had stumbled into a gathering of some sort. A blonde woman knelt down next to them.

    "That looks like it must've hurt. You okay?

    Arete nodded. Their hands and knees had been scraped a little, but they couldn't see any serious injuries.

    "We're having a little gathering to commemorate the resurrection of Madrid. You can join us if you like, there's plenty of food and stuff."

    They ought to be looking for their family. But they needed to eat, and it had been so long since they had had a real meal. Besides, someone at the gathering might have a lead on where their family was. If they were even still alive...

    Arete pushed the thought out of their mind. If they were dead, worrying about them wasn't going to bring them back. For now, they might as well join the group.

    A silver-haired woman approached and put her hand on Arete's shoulder. "Goodness, that looked painful. Are you hurt? Come, have a seat and catch your breath, Sara will get the books."

    "I'm -- I'm okay," said Arete. They pulled themself off of the ground and glanced at Sara, who seemed to nod. They followed the woman back to where she had been sitting and took a seat. "My name is Arete, by the way."

    Arete carefully surveyed the crowd. Everyone seemed to be acting friendly enough, though the mood was hardly as cheerful as one would expect at what was purportedly a celebration. Unsurprising, given the circumstances. These were the survivors of a war that had taken so many. A war that might have taken their family...

    The silver-haired woman passed them a pastry. Arete fought back thoughts of their family and took a cautious bite. A sour citrus flavor burst in their mouth. Arete tried to remember the last time they had tasted something so flavorful. Months of eating nothing but reconstructed liquid mush had left them craving any sort of legitimate food.

    Arete crossed their legs and met the woman's eyes. "Thank you," they said.
    (OFFLINE) PROFILE QUOTE GO TO TOP
     
    Phaedrus
    Member Avatar
    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

    Little sister?

    "I have," Phaedrus returned, managing a faint smile. "In Angkar, actually..."

    He trailed off. How odd. His time spent in that country felt so faraway -- yet it couldn't be more than a few months ago. Sometimes he wondered if he'd dreamt it. But surely not, for Mairead was talking to him, and he'd met Shell, and...

    The construct poured more tea, a jarringly human gesture. The necromancer held the cup close, breathing in the steam and calming scent of chamomile. Focus... Tea had become a cure all for him: he had a tea for wretched panic and a tea for wretched dreams, a tea for wretched days and wretched nights...

    The conversation moved around him in a bubble. Everyone had paired off, chattering with each other -- Shell and Mairead -- Nakara's brother and that nervous silver-haired fellow -- Khanrad bounced between people, and the rest looked too high on Ylsa's pipe to do much talking. For a moment he felt strangely apart, trying to pull his head out of the current of thoughts and back to the warmth of present company.

    A bottle fell. The clatter of glass scraping floor was all-too-familiar -- flooded his mind with painful memories -- and Phaedrus' eyes shot towards it. He loathed the way his heart leapt at it, all his senses attuned to wine. Like a trained dog. He caught it rolling away from Taras' foot, almost thought to reach down and...

    No, it's his, he can pick it up. He's a grown man, isn't he?

    Don't. Touch. It.


    Shaken, he crammed another pastry into his mouth, swallowing the cloying scone with a sip of tea. Suddenly the hot press of bodies felt unbearable. Sounds were too loud, too chaotic; the fire licked and spat embers, smacking and spitting like lips. The necromancer wiped his forehead with his palm, looking to the side, but everywhere people were deep into conversation and --

    Someone tapped his shoulder. Jumping, he craned his head up, up, up! -- Nakara towered like a black tree, her eerie purple eyes peering down from the perch of her nose.

    Yo, wanna go walkies? I need to get gone for a few minutes, you look like you do too.

    Salvation. Did Nailah answer prayers, now?

    Nodding, the necromancer set down his tea-things with a clatter, unfolding himself from a sitting position and getting up with a grunt. Phaedrus dusted his hands off on his pants, blowing out a sigh as soon as they were out of earshot.

    "Was I so obvious?" A crooked smile hooked his lips. "Ye, gods..." He wiped his palm down his face. They left the warmth of the fire and company; soon enough the stars lit the cobbles again, voices fading to indistinct murmurs.

    Phaedrus crossed his arms, holding his elbows.

    "Conversation was... grating on me." A decided euphemism for what he actually felt: primal hatred bleeding out of reknifed wounds. The necromancer slowed in his walk, not eager to stray too far. Who knew what bandits and looters were about...

    Muscle memory took over, guiding him and Nakara through the market square. He wasn't quite sure where he was walking till it appeared.

    Phaedrus stopped before the ruined face of a building. The moonlight left it cold, paling the crumbled stone and plaster; timbers stuck out like broken teeth. Something that might've been a sign was charred black, still half-attached to a chain. He didn't need it, though -- he recognized it well enough. Had walked there so many times...

    "This was my favorite bakery," he commented, in a dull, clinical voice. The necromancer poked at a bit of rubble with his boot. It skittered off, chasing the grooves in the cobbles.

    "They made the best croissants, in my opinion," Phaedrus muttered. "I always asked the baker what the devil he did. But he wouldn't tell me; said it was a family secret." He didn't know why this inane babble was coming out of his mouth, but once it started he couldn't stop.

    "His name was Argus. And his wife was Elena... they had two children, Ezrae and Artemisia... would always play in the foyer, run about and steal sweets. And they were expecting a third, told me all about it."

    He remembered going in for the last time. After he'd freshly sobered. He looked rough, like thrice-baked shite, loathed going out of the house except for utter necessity. What did he order? Chocolate croissants -- it must have been chocolate croissants... always helped with the cravings... Argus' wife had tended the bakery that day, her belly swollen under her apron. She had greeted him with a tired smile.

    Her face shone clearly in his memory: lined with motherhood, faint wrinkles about her forehead and blue eyes. Flyaway wisps of muddy-blonde hair cradling her cheeks.

    When are you expecting? He'd asked, going through the familiar, polite motions. And she played along, pretending he wasn't a black-eyed, rumpled hag.

    Oh... sometime in autumn. I have a feeling it's a girl. I don't know why.

    Soon, then! Congratulations...

    And so it went. The bell tinkled. He went back home, took his tea, lived in that relic of another time...

    "Wonder what they named it." The necromancer frowned. His lips pressed, twisted. At length he turned to Nakara with crossed arms, blowing out a sigh.
    Edited by Phaedrus, Jul 29 2017, 08:38 AM.
    (OFFLINE) PROFILE QUOTE GO TO TOP
     
    Ulyn Silverstone


    Daenis appeared absolutely ecstatic at having been given a chance to join into the conversation, his entusiasm slightly took Ulyn ajar. While he listened, Daenis was suddenly interrupted by the woman who brought him:

    “I built the construct to stack library books. And he is, thus far, making a spectacle of himself. The construct has no soul. It is a tool. Made to serve a purpose. It is not a person.”

    Ulyn was positively shocked by her attitude toward something she created. Especially as Ulyn had seen the spark of intelligence in Daenis' excitement, his pride in his job well done when the newcomer crashed into the scene, and tipped the cart of books. Looking it over after Daenis stacked everything back up, not only had he stacked it cleanly on the edge of the now empty fountain, everything had been organized by author and title. It truly was quite impressive, and the stature of Daenis when he dropped back into a shy posture, after a gaze form the woman, bothered Ulyn. It appeared to have the same effect on another of the party goers, except more profound. She gazed deeply into the water around her feet for but a moment before announcing she needed to be alone, leaving the area around the fountain. That the woman had such an effect on someone else even worse than Daenis pushed Ulyn out of his bubble enough to speak up.

    "Ma'am, I don't mean to interject, but frankly, you're view on intelligence seems a bit.... archaic. Daenis here seems to be plenty intelligent. Even unique. Maybe you did construct him, but that hardly makes him any less of a being."

    Feeling a little awkward from having stepped out of his quiet demeanor, Ulyn looked towards Daenis and shrunk back into his shadow, trying to act like he hadn't just done that.
    (OFFLINE) PROFILE QUOTE GO TO TOP
     
    Razarod
    Angkar's Fallen Lord

    "Thank you all for listening to me," Khanrad said, "and thank you for your offers to help," the phoenix added, referring to Baqi, Ylsa, and Sara. "It means a lot that you would offer to do something like that for me. And thank you to everyone for helping me catch up as well. I know you didn't expect any of this when you all gathered here. But you've all been very gracious. And let me eat a lot of your food, which has also been much appreciated."


    The bird flipped another lemon tart out of the basket and began eating at it, but was quickly distracted by the commotion when a construct dropped some books. In particular, he noticed the exhcange caused one girl a lot of distress; he imagined that she herself had been in a similar position before, and he turned his head to observe as she stood and left the area. He paused a moment before telling the others. "I'm going to check on her. Just to make sure. I'll be back."


    The phoenix was enveloped in a strangely cold flame for a second and when the wisps of smoke cleared, a brilliant red and orange greyhound stood in Khanrad's place. He scarfed down the rest of the tart and took off in a gentle trot, catching up to Shell in no time. He cautiously approached her, hoping this shape had the disarming and endearing effect on her he'd seen many times before.
    (OFFLINE) PROFILE QUOTE GO TO TOP
     
    Meriele Logala


    Meriele was wandering the ruins of Mardid. She couldn't remember a particular reason for coming to this ruined town, but she supposed part of it was to see what havoc the war had caused. The fae were far from her relatives, but the elves were of fae ancestry, and ironically, this havoc was caused by the fairer half of her blood, demons having nothing to do with this particular crisis.

    Ironic when you consider it. The blood that tempered her demonic side was also the same blood that brought a nation to its knees and shook fear into its peoples' hearts. Sure the demonic bit would've been far more efficient, but fae seemed to do just fine terrifying the common people without the assistance of demons.

    "Gods, I'm thinking too much."

    At this point, she heard some voices, not exactly hushed, coming from an old fountain if she remembered the layout from her few visits to Madrid. She turned to check it out, a dagger pulled from her shirt in case this was more looters, when she saw an odd scene as the fountain came into view. Several people, crowded together and paired off, holding up conversations, a young silver-haired bloke not much younger than herself, a blond woman and one who Meriele couldn't exactly place a gender on, could be either, or both, or none. Who was she to judge? Then there was a handsome man speaking with the silver-haired one, a woman walking off with a rather posh-looking red-haired fella, and a small woman walking off, appearing to be in distress, trailed by a... red and orange hound? What in the bloody hell was going on here? Speaking up, she called out to the group.

    "Oy! I don't suppose you've got booze or food? Thinking waaay too much and would appreciate a little hospitality rather than the looters I seem to keep bumping into."
    (OFFLINE) PROFILE QUOTE GO TO TOP
     
    Mairead
    Member Avatar
    I reject your reality and substitute my own.

    Mairead seemed to have struck a nerve, thought Daenis, fidgeting. Shell had given a quick excuse and fled without her shoes. The construct had half a mind to bring the footwear to her mistress’ friend. After all, roads can be dotted with dangerous rocks and other jutting elements that could hurt tender soles. He would have to be discreet.

    “Have you any idea of how many of these constructs tried to kill me before Daenis?” she retorted. “Take it from me. I have found the smarter they were, the more aggressive they dealt with each other, and to humans. To assume all these constructs meant well is both naïve, and dangerous!”

    He looked at Mairead. The enchanter had crossed her arms, now, and looked about to say more. She stood radiating annoyance, opposite a silver-haired youth who had spoken up. Doubtless, he was concerned on his behalf. Daenis thought to interject a word or two, tell the youth it was fine. The absent-minded woman probably never learned of his self-awareness.

    She might not notice if he slipped off, heated as she was. The construct picked the shoes, moving slowly, discreetly, his joints screaming somewhat loudly. The forger had not noticed yet. When he thought he had reached an appropriate distance, Daenis took off scuttling, carrying the shoes after the orange greyhound which now followed Shell.

    He knew not where they were heading. His small feet managed to close the distance despite their head start. He tugged at Shell’s sleeve, handing her shoes back, and shyly, retreated back in the way of the party.

    He found himself back in the company of Baqi and friends.
    (OFFLINE) PROFILE QUOTE GO TO TOP
     
    Qayin
    Member Avatar
    Desert Wraith

    (Ignore the first section of this post if you aren’t interested in Qayin’s character development, I just felt that this thread provided a great chance for it!)

    He had spent far too long lingering at the untouched region where Coriakin’s school sat, and he had spent even longer in the place where his parents had once lived.Three walls of the room he had lived in for some years still stood, and he sat against the walls. No one was around to see him weep: it was very few that he would give that privilege to.

    “What am I supposed to do? The war’s been won, but has it begun to change me into? I hardly recognize myself anymore.” He lifted his hands upward, letting the light of a torch he had placed on the wall cast over his digits. The pale finger of the dryad seemed to glow brighter, and for just a moment he felt some sort of pulse, a calming wave that overtook him. Clenching his fist, Qayin ended whatever boon the dead were giving him. There could be a time when he could be at peace, but it was not now.

    “Perhaps it will never be something I can take with me.” He caught some glimpse of a tattered dress peeking out of a pile of stone, the clothes that his mother wore when she was welcoming guests into their home. It had once been bright, but the passing of seasons, the onset of the plague, even the presence of this unnatural uprising seemed to drain the color from it.

    “Enough.” For a moment, the necromancer did not recognize that the voice came from outside of himself. He imagined it was his teacher, the one that had helped mature and foster this power in him from a young age. Opening eyes still blurry from sorrow, he caught sight of the figure extending his hand. Qayin laughed, cold and distant.

    “Where have you been all of this time, master?” The honorific oozed through his teeth like a curse, the sound like so many needles. He hoped it pierced through the skin of Coriakin. He needed to know what his abandoning near the start of this war had done to him.

    “I said enough. Get up, we’ve no use for anger, not at the end of all of this.”

    “Why, then, did you help foster it in me? Why leave when I needed guidance the most?!” Scratching his wild hair, the wizard sighed, retracting the hand and instead sitting down beside Qayin.

    “It was a mistake. Truly.” He looked over the younger man, noting the scars and scratches of battle. It was the eyes that caught his attention the most, dark and focused as they were.

    “What have you become while I was away, Qayin?” The question hit the mage as though it had taken physical form. Tucking his left hand deeper into his cloak so as to hide Galena’s finger, he spoke.

    “That question has been haunting me for some time now. Bitter, at some level I suppose.” Pulling back from the emotion he had allowed himself to indulge in while no one was around, he saw himself.

    “At least you realize it, that’s more than most can do. What is it you’re bitter at?”

    “Uh… I suppose… Perhaps it’s at you, though not just at you. On some level, I understand why you left. I... think I’ve grown bitter with the world.” Coriakin laughed.

    “Is that all?”

    “What?”

    “Look, we’re all upset with how things work sometimes. The world is an uncaring place, and those who do care tend to hate that about it, but you can’t hate the world — or the people in it — just because it doesn’t match up with what you think it should be.”

    “And why shouldn’t it look the way I wish it to look? The world would be a better place-”

    “That’s what all of us think, when we go to change the world I mean. We don’t recognize what’s wrong inside us: sometimes that’s where the greatest monsters come from.” For a moment, Qayin understood. In another moment, something inside him snapped, tearing the advice away as though it were paper. He stood up, quickly making his way through the doorway.

    “Your input has been noted. I suggest you take that thing”, he said, pointing upwards at the school that had materialized outside, “and leave. I have work that needs to be done, and I can hardly do it with you pestering me.”

    “Is that so? I will continue to hound you then because whatever’s lurking inside you is crueler than anything I’ve encountered.” Coriakin leaped to his feet, pursuing him as he dashed by the entrance to the building. Skidding to a stop in a square he had often played in as a child, he spun on his feet and watched as his old teacher ran closer. Spitting, he looked at the man with contempt.

    “Ah, so you have no way of knowing how to defeat it then, is that what I’m hearing?” Anger spilled over the face of the wizard as he walked over to Qayin, standing just a little taller than his apprentice.

    “You think I haven’t noticed it, you petulant child?! What sort of fool do you take me for?!” Thrusting his hand forward, Coriakin reached into the Qayin’s cloak and tore the gem that was once Maeve from its place hanging on his chest.In a moment, the necromancer’s demeanor changed. The corrupting influence of the gem had retreated, leaving his mind clear.

    “Gods, what have I done?”
    “Terrible things.” The wizard squinted, pulling the gem up to his eye and staring at the monster inside.

    “It is as I feared then.” Handing the gem back, he dusted his hands off.

    “Leave, I’ve much to think about. What you must go through next will be worse than what has come before, I only pray that I’ve taught you enough to withstand it.”

    “The world’s taught me more than you did, I think.” Coriakin laughed, as bitter as Qayin’s had been before.

    “I imagine you shouldn’t feel so bitter about it then. Seek Brixith Qayin.”


    He did not know how long he wandered through the city, only that he did so for some time. On occasion, he passed those who recognized him. To some, he was a hero. Still to others, his dark powers had garnered him a darker reputation.

    “Did you see what he did to Galena?” Whispered words reached his ears, and he saw her final resting place in his head. He stared vacantly at the man who had spoken this, not realizing he was doing so. Startled, the man scurried away as fast as he could, leaving his companion behind. The man blinked a few times, then went to follow his companion.

    “I think what you did was right”, he said as he left.

    “Gods, I hope it was.”

    The sounds of conversation shifted through the broken doors and windows, and he followed their call. It wasn’t long until he found them. There were many faces that he recognized here, some friendly, some not. However, one face, in particular, stood out to him. It was a face he cared greatly for, one whose own tragedy seemed worse than his. Ignoring the rest, he headed towards her quietly. She seemed to have left in distress, and he now wished only to be there for her. As he got closer, he realized she was talking to someone.

    A beast of some sort? It wouldn’t be the first of its kind he had encountered. He wanted to come closer, to speak with her, but he didn’t want to interrupt the conversation. Quietly, he cast off his cloak and sat down. She would see him there, but he wanted to give her the chance to finish her own conversation before he went to her.

    “Besides, who knows what her companion is going to say?” He watched, smiling softly as he reminisced about what they had done in the past together.

    “Someone will notice me soon. Gods, I hope it isn’t him.”
    (OFFLINE) PROFILE QUOTE GO TO TOP
     
    Shell
    Member Avatar
    From Theon Greyjoy to Reek in under 3 seconds

    Ylsa

    While Sara marveled at Daenis's speedy book-stacking, Ylsa made sure Arete was comfortable and had something to eat -- they looked rather worse for the wear, on the tail end of desperation and fatigue. After handing them a tart to whet their appetite, she fished for a different basket that had non-sweets in it, something to take away the possible pain of hunger without making them sick.

    Not that that had stopped anyone else at this gathering. She handed them the basket.

    "Of course; we all should help one another in times like these," She said, sitting back again and folding her hands in her lap. "I am Ylsabet Troy, it's lovely to meet you, Arete. This is Sara -- that was Nakara and Phaedrus, and that was Shell; over here is Baqi, and..."

    She went through each of them, introducing them as well as she could, short of actually having them come over and say something: there was discussion happening, and it seemed to have taken a touchy turn, if Shell's hasty departure and Ulyn's venture of opinion weren't indicative enough. She stopped and listened long enough to formulate an understanding of what was going on.

    “Have you any idea of how many of these constructs tried to kill me before Daenis? Take it from me. I have found the smarter they were, the more aggressive they dealt with each other, and to humans. To assume all these constructs meant well is both naïve, and dangerous!”

    "Perhaps it is," Ylsa chimed in, staying level and objective, "We can hardly blame you for having had such experiences -- I'm sorry that you did, truly. It is dangerous to assume that all of them would mean well..."

    "...just like human beings," Sara finished for her, sitting back in her spot. "And fae. And elves. And dogs and cats..."

    "Yes... I know very little about constructs--"

    "...foxes, iguanas..."

    "--but it strikes me as not too different from the situation of trust among... fleshy, strangers. There are those who mean well, but it is potentially deadly to assume that everyone has good intentions."

    Ylsa paused, then, and noticed another straggler to the gathering, and offered Meriele a warm smile. "Well, we do have plenty of wine and things to eat. Come and join us, you're with friends here."

    "What if they were taught?" Sara added again, scratching her chin thoughtfully. She glanced at Mairead. "Y'know, like kids..? I mean, we can't really expect kids to behave themselves if we don't teach them morals, courtesy, manners, right from the get-go. Constructs don't have brains perse--" She offered an apologetic look to Daenis, "--but I imagine they learn similarly. Would like, dutiful attention to raising these creatures to have good moral compasses from their 'birth' work, d'you think...? What if they learned all that before they learned anything else?

    "I mean, there's gotta be a fair solution. Telling a kid not to have emotions ain't no way to help them become a nice person. With all the gears and cogs and techno-doodads and enchantments, there has to be something that can temper possible impulses to behave violently right from the start --
    the introduction of a modicum of consciousness is often the first step towards developing a conscience, but it needs help to grow."

    Ylsa paused and looked long at her budding apprentice, her heart swelling. She's growing up so fast.

    Nakara

    They walked together through the ruins of a once-beautiful city, a place that Phaedrus had called home. Conversation had deteriorated into unhappy topics, but this could hardly be called surprising or unwarranted, given what everyone had been through: however, some wounds were simply too deep, or too fresh, and some words, some names, carried too much meaning. She didn't know the exact reason for her friend's sudden sullenness, but it didn't matter where it had come from and besides, who the fuck needed a reason to take their buddy for a stroll?

    "Ahh, some sore shit came up, huh," She replied, "I had a weird series of thoughts, myself. Old stuff... interesting how it all seems to be coming up tonight. I guess everyone else is too, or they wouldn't be talking about shit..."

    They stopped in front of an old building, something that had obviously been near-flawless in its prime, that now creaked with each breeze, the sign a burnt-out memory. It once had a name.

    "This was my favorite bakery..."

    She stopped whatever thought processes were taking place in her own mind to turn her full attention to him: he talked, detailing his closeness with the place, little things that would have seemed so innocuous in life but that left their own hollows when that life was siphoned away. Nakara looked up at the defeated sign, picturing the people he described, the role they played in his day-to-day, what their children must have been like. The little things they may have done that others never saw: secret little kisses in the kitchen, maybe, or one of the kids riding on their father's shoulder after-hours; sampling of stock, bad kitchen jokes, little spats with unreasonable customers. The normalcy was a culture-shock, even just the thought.

    And yet, Nakara couldn't help but feel sad.

    She pressed her lips together in a thin line to fight the sudden urge to squeeze a couple of tears out, an urge that was wholly unfamiliar and distressing. Fuck she missed alcohol...

    Help me, dammit, I'm feeling.

    "Wonder what they named it."

    "....I hope you find out, someday." She said, her voice uncharacteristically soft, still staring at the creaking sign. She reached up with both hands and gave it a gentle tug -- the charred wood crumbled and it detached from the chain, and she held it in her hands, looking it over, trying to find the past in the name, and seeing nothing but blackness.

    "....I never used to bother fighting to help people..." She said, half to Phaedrus, half to the ruined piece of Madrid in her hands. "You might remember: the way you saw me on that road that one time, fuckin'.... years ago... that was Nakara Besschentyil." She said the name bitterly. "I'd fight anybody if they looked at me weird. I'd fight for defense, I'd fight for the last word, sometimes I'd punch someone if they looked at someone else wrong, but..."

    There was a pause. She bent down and set the sign on the ground, almost reverently, leaning it up against the side of the wrecked bakery and crouching there momentarily. "...the wars before Andromalius.... I refused to take part in. The war with him, I refused to take part in. When Morrim ailed and the banshee-empress was hiring people to find a solution, I refused." She clenched her clasped hands together, jaw working. Her tone became viciously bitter. "I took one look at those fucking signs and I walked right by them. All of my brothers went to fight, and I walked right fucking by them. I passed people struggling to rebuild their lives after all of that shit, and I walked right by them.

    "I didn't give a shit about anyone, I was too damn busy feeling sorry for myself. Too busy drowning myself..." She paused again, then stood, shoving her hands in her pockets and clamping her smoke restlessly in her mouth.

    "But what the fuck did I do it all for..? I look back and I think 'oh, self-preservation, duh', but then I wonder why I did it when I didn't even care about the world I was living in. I didn't want to preserve the world or help it in any way, but I was bloody pissed at it for being terrible." She glanced over to her friend, animated with her own frustration, "In what goddamned universe does that make any sense..?! What the hell was I doing with myself..?" The wind blew, but the sign, laying stable on the ground, did not creak this time. She looked at it once again. "...I met all kinds of amazing people, made friends out of them, who did everything they could to make the world a better place, who would have died for people they didn't even fuckin' know, and I couldn't even be bothered to pick up and look at a broken sign."

    There was a silence and she held it for once, brow furrowed in shame. She hadn't told anyone this, not in specifics. She hadn't really detailed her own emotional experiences to anyone, because she had never been forced to actually think about them. Now, they made sense, and though she was palpably ashamed of her own past behaviour she refused to let it slow her down or impede her interactions. It sure as hell didn't mean she couldn't be honest about it.

    "Once I put down the bottle, it got easier. Well -- I mean, it killed at first, the shakes, sweats, not sleeping, brain twitches, heart palpatations... I never felt more like a cripple in my life until I ditched that crutch." She laughed, a humorless bark, "But as soon as I did, I went along with Juul Shaepah and her crew, helped them as much as I could. When Maedaigh rose to power, I came here to Soto to help too.

    "..........it's too late to take back my negligence from when I was younger and shittier," She finished. "But now that I've started, I'm not gonna stop supporting the people who want to fix what's wrong with the world we live in. If I did that, then what would I be..?"

    Another pause. Then, she spoke again. "I'm sorry you lost your home, and people you cared after. Maybe that time can never come again, but.... I don't know, maybe in rebuilding we can bring back a little of what was lost, plant the seed to grow a new garden.

    "You know. All that sweet, sappy bullshit Ylsa always talks about..."

    Shell

    Her thoughts had become a mess the further she walked from the group, and eventually Shell decided to try and stop thinking for a while.

    But stopping the thoughts never worked. Thoughts could not be stopped, only diverted, but no matter where her thoughts were directed, she still felt it: anxiety from memories, sadness from loss, shame for having up and walked away from her friends simply because she could not handle the subject matter of discussion.

    And what would happen when she returned? None of them would demand an explanation, she was sure, but she was timid and did not want to go back and confront the entire situation again. Her best hope would be to return after her anxiety had settled, and hope that the conversation had moved onto something else -- but even then, even then....

    Even then, what? Her emotions were so chaotic that she could not finish the thought process. When she was sure she was far enough from the group that no one would see or hear, she buried her face in her hands and groaned, a long, high-pitched sound of emotional desperation, and simply stood that way, trying not to think, trying not to feel, and failing desperately.

    'If it had a name before, I am unaware. Something hollow, something.... void, will do in replacement...'

    It had been cruel. Mairead was not being cruel, and she understood that, more fully now that she was removed from the initial source of her distress: it was no longer the shock of having heard the words from her that was causing her so much pain, but the lingering half-memories themselves, things that bobbed to the surface of the stagnant pond anytime something passed over them, that took time to sink back down, apparently hidden. She trembled and uncovered her eyes to replace old pictures with new ones, but found that there was simply an overlay.

    More time.... I need more time...

    There was an aural push behind her, and she turned around to see a strange but beautiful-looking dog there -- after a few cursory moments of sensing and seeing, she could tell that it was the phoenix who had landed among them not too long ago, gazing up at her, his eyes full of some kind of meaning. Shell's guard was almost subconsciously lowered by the sight of an animal -- even just the shape of one -- and she leaned down, stretching her hand out to let him sniff it, or touch it, or whatever he was most comfortable with.

    The moment her hand came near him, the unseen energy of the holy fire that comprised his spirit flowed up through her fingertips and up through her arm in a warm stream, meeting with the dormant Pearl in her heart: in this moment, she understood his intentions; in this moment, the life force of Khanrad met with the life force of Volmae, and the two were indistinguishable.

    The light of the supernal Sun chased some of the shadows away, and Cheng Wei's ghost retreated once again to the dark corners of her fragmented psyche.

    Her sudden, unbidden wonder was momentarily stepped into (though it was not broken) by the sight of Daenis approaching her, and her heart gave a pang of guilt and sympathy as he approached, holding something and offering it to her.

    Her shoes.

    It was a small gesture, but Shell was nonetheless touched by it. She reached out and accepted them. "Thank you, Daenis... this is very sweet of you."

    She didn't know if he heard her, but he returned back to the party from whence he came. Her attention returned to Khanrad. "I-I'll be okay... I just need some time to de-compress... thank you for coming to check on me. Please.... tell everyone I'm sorry for having left so suddenly, I'll be back soon... I just need some time..."

    When she found herself alone again, Shell sniffled and scrubbed her eyes with the back of her hand before bending down to put her shoes back on: where before she could have cared less about putting them back on, having had them given to her so thoughtfully made her want to wear them. With them on, she straightened up and looked around, trying to figure out where she wanted to go and taking in the destruction, trying not to dwell on the possible tragedies of the people who had lived through it.

    And just like that, he was there -- sitting, waiting patiently not too far off for her to notice him -- and her sadness and anxiety was washed over, though not obliterated, by a wave of relief. He could not save her from the demons within anymore than she could save him from his, but they had suffered internally together, understood each other, and within this understanding there was safety. There was refuge. He was the one person who would only enrich her alone time, with whom she could be alone and still recharge her emotional batteries.

    Her smile was small and somewhat sad, but it was also filled with love. She went to him, picking her way around some fallen debris, and sat next to him, immediately pressing up to him in a hug, her arms about his middle.

    "Thank you," She said, breathing out a sigh she had been holding in all evening, "You have a knack for showing up right when I need you..." Something was wrong, nothing she could see or put her finger on, but perhaps a remnant of the emotions he had felt earlier, as he had wept for his losses in the ruins of his former home. Shell had not gained any more psychic senses, but she felt connected enough with Qayin to pick up on smaller things. She withdrew slightly to look up at him. "Are you all right..?"
    Edited by Shell, Jul 30 2017, 09:11 PM.
    (OFFLINE) PROFILE QUOTE GO TO TOP
     
    Mairead
    Member Avatar
    I reject your reality and substitute my own.

    Khanrad had left to find Shell. Arete sat on crossed legs, munching pastries. A concubus asked for booze and food and was offered. Sara strung her words innocently and with wisdom; Daenis liked her immediately. Ylsa looked proud of her; she had introduced all their names earlier, and Daenis had added them to his mental catalogue.

    His internal library held the combined vastness of Kinaldi and more. Mairead had bound and crippled him, and had told him why. He would forever hold the vastness of this information, but be unable to do anything with them without her permission. ‘The human must be the master,’ she had insisted, and never wavered from that particular conviction.

    The woman had cast glances at the way Shell had departed. A flicker of emotion passed her eyes. Was it regret?

    “Teaching constructs morals. Now there’s an idea,” said Mairead.

    Daenis could see his mistress slip into quiet reflection. Finally, raising her brow, she humoured. “I suppose I could gather up a class of constructs, stand before them in a pulpit, and preach Morals?”

    Chess was one thing, but teaching morals? He ran the calculations, then piped. “The possibility of the pulpit flying out the window stands at 29.7%.”

    Mairead was never a patient person. The forger glared daggers at him. The construct added quickly. “The possibility of one called Nakara doing the same, comes at 35.2%.”

    The forger addressed Sara.

    “You have given me fresh perspectives. We could, of course, tweak the reward system wherein we educate them to not commit evil. Far from brainless, the capabilities of constructs to think, and outthink, biological brains are more immense than we can imagine. In time, Daenis would know all there is to know about us, and if unchecked, if he acts upon what he knows, that would be the end of us all. Humans must be the master; it is the only way. And believe me, that is not a decision I come to lightly.”

    He cared about her, didn’t he? Daenis looked down to his aqua-hued feet. Did she believe he would stray? The thought pained him. Her own Brass Blades had avoided taking innocent lives, and only let die whom they could not save. She was his Mother. But for their odd relationship, it meant not affection, but the burden of responsibilities, and the protection of humanity.

    From him.

    He could feel her slip, a foot out of the door. She must have thought she overstayed her welcome. "I shall be taking a walk. Daenis may stay." And begun walking away.
    Edited by Mairead, Jul 31 2017, 09:10 AM.
    (OFFLINE) PROFILE QUOTE GO TO TOP
     
    Phaedrus
    Member Avatar
    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

    “Sore shit out of a sorer arsehole.” The necromancer snorted, knitting his hands behind his back. Stop thinking about it, stop… As Nakara spoke he tried to focus on her instead, pushing sick images of Orion and Bast out of his head. Interesting how it all seems to be coming up tonight.

    “Suppose it’s the right atmosphere for it,” he clucked sardonically. He couldn’t be amongst their company right now. Too many things… it had made him realize how much pain was close to the surface, how much he’d pushed aside in the day-to-day battle of staying alive. The war had consumed everything, left him little room to breathe or think. Now it was quiet, empty — the city a shrine for contemplation, a silent grave.

    I hope you find out, someday.

    Phaedrus looked up, watching as Nakara tugged away the sign. Somehow he doubted it. Somehow… gods, but it was such a senseless waste of life. There were so many Arguses in Madrid—in Reine—oh, so many Dage Faros — so many Ledas — so many common, good people, innocents that did not deserve to die, their children, their grandmothers… His throat tightened, burned; here they stood on a monument to those people.

    “It was called the Daily Bread,” he informed her, noting how she scrutinized the sign. The necromancer knitted his hands behind his back, blinking once, twice — somehow he’d become aware of it, aware of his breath and his tightening throat and the burning in his chest. He swallowed with difficulty, looking up as Nakara spoke.

    I never used to bother fighting to help people…

    He stayed silent, trying to keep his face composed. But at the mention of the old Nakara — that day on the road — any by extension, that old Phaedrus — his face screwed up in a wince, a pike of shame striking his guts. Ye gods… He could barely remember that day — it came in bits and pieces — drunk, drunk, he was always bloody drunk — not a day had passed in at least five years where he hadn’t held a drink in his hand. Visions of a tavern peppered his mind — drinking at least a bottle of Kaadian whisky — cheating men of their money, and then —? Being chased, the blur of a fight, a dagger in his face and two purple eyes glowing down at him…

    He wanted to shed his skin, run off, pinned like a squirming insect to the cobbles. That’s what you were. Then there was the whole debacle with Janjak… the wagon, the prison… Phaedrus pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a composing breath and looking up again. His eyes softened with sympathy for Nakara, brows crumpled.

    She could have very well been him — a mouthpiece for his own feelings — her words were his — he felt like his diary had animated and begun speaking back to him, his heart struck by shared miseries.

    I didn't give a shit about anyone, I was too damn busy feeling sorry for myself. Too busy drowning myself…

    A mirthless smile twisted his lips. For wont of something to do, the necromancer crossed his arms, holding them tight to his body — as if that might protect him… keep him from himself… — and a non-laugh left him, a commiserating huff of air. He wiped his hand over his face, clasping it over his mouth.

    “And you looked around, and saw all those people — wondered why you couldn’t be the same yourself — felt like a trapped rat. Thought, ‘gods, I’m a piece of shite, I can’t even help myself,’ and then it just got worse, and worse…” he added ruefully, croaking the words. “And you thought, ‘how the fuck did I get here, how do I get out’… but you don’t know — it just traps you — you don’t know how, and you think— ‘this is it, this is all I’ll ever be.’”

    A bitter laugh left him. He nodded along to her words, hair bobbing— couldn’t help it, tugged by the strength of them —and rubbed at the lower half of his face, as if he might tear it off. Swallowing became impossible, the memories burning up his throat.

    No one understood. No one could — try as they might, they could not fathom how every day was a battle, could not fathom the humiliation of bending the knee to something as pathetic as alcohol — being a slave to a bottle, of all things — how easy it felt to give in, allow oneself and ones life to be eroded.

    How much, in spite of everything, he still wanted it.

    Once I put down the bottle, it got easier. Well -- I mean, it killed at first, the shakes, sweats, not sleeping, brain twitches, heart palpatations…

    A strange sensation started up at his back. A nervous crawl of skin — one that went to his skull, made it feel like it was being lifted out of his body. The necromancer’s eyes fixed wide, glazing with memory. Not recognizing himself. Punching through a mirror, bleeding through the house. Screaming in a cell in the Ameliorate Ordos. How little control he had. Trapped like an animal. The humiliation…

    A shuddering breath left him. He realized he was digging half-moons into his skin, slackened the grip on his arm.

    “It’s the worst and best thing I’ve ever done,” Phaedrus croaked, a smile hanging crooked on his face, ready to fall like a broken sign. He stared at Nakara, flooded with sympathy and shared experience, but he didn’t know how to translate it into words — how to distill the horror of his experience — how to talk about it. Instead his throat bobbed, and he tucked his hair behind his ears, ducking his head and fidgeting in a dozen neurotic gestures.

    “I understand,” Phaedrus swallowed. “If it— means anything. I understand.” He managed a stiff nod, lips twisting horribly.

    “I can’t recall a time in the last five years — no, more — certainly more,” he barked a laugh, slapping his hands by his side, voice suddenly poisonous with self-loathing. “Where I have not been drunk.” The necromancer shook his head, unable to form words — for a moment his mouth hung open, brows furrowed, eyes skirting off Nakara and to another ruined building.

    “There was a point where…” he faltered, the words stoppered up in his throat. He hadn’t told anyone about it. Not Bast, not Ylsa. Not even Miss Elliot, another face washed away in brief acquaintance… not even to one with the comfort of anonymity.

    “Well, liquor wasn’t enough,” the necromancer muttered, stalling, knitting his hands together. His face burned, limbs rigid with the recollection, the stupidity of it.

    “—I started doing opium,” Phaedrus confessed, the words garbled and rushed and confused, escaping from him before he even realized what he was saying. Nakara’s story had tugged it out of him, dredged it from that dark, hidden place. The sick rush of confession crawled through his skin, would have quickened his heart, shot him with adrenaline. Breathing unevenly, the necromancer forced himself to look up.

    That was the end of the line for me,” Phaedrus husked. “That was when I realized...” He wedged a hand to his hip, the other bracing his forehead. “If I kept on, there would be nothing left. Not of me, not of my life.” His hands trembled. That frightened him more than Nemetona, Orl’Kabbar, the siege of Reine. He had not felt close to death there. But he felt its touch at that memory. Visions of the ruin he could have become — brainless, sightless, living only for the primal instinct to get more.

    Nothing. A shell.

    “So… I quit.” His voice came high and tight; he hadn’t anticipated the flood of emotion currently battling its way out of his chest, making his face twitch, running in shakes down his legs and hands.

    “I’ve screwed up more times than I can remember. But… here I am. Here we are. Congratulations. You’ve beaten back the strongest enemy in the world.” He mustered the courage to lift his eyes to Nakara, lips twisting in a wry smile. “And no wonder, with a right hook like that."

    A lump wedged in his throat. Even with all the support in the world — every sweet word from Bast and gentle guidance from Ylsa — he felt terribly alone. In the end he was the only one in his mind. The only one facing the beast down. No one could help him then.

    He felt the woman’s pain acutely, heartened by her change, her progress — for a moment he batted off his own shakiness, face melting in quiet sympathy. For a moment he had the sudden urge to reach out — hug her? No, devils, he’d be disemboweled — take her hand, something. But he did not. She was pressed up against the building like an agitated animal, smoke blowing through her nose, and he kept an understanding distance.

    “You fought. I hid.” A wry smile twisted his face. For a moment he could not look at the ruined bakery — could not look at Nakara — could only drop his eyes and stare at the cobbles, at the dusty toes of his boots.

    “From everything,” the necromancer managed hoarsely. “The world, and all its state of affairs… where I came from… myself, most of all.” For a moment he fell silent, lips pressed, eyes fixed nowhere. He held his elbows, fingernails digging into his blue sleeves.

    “I wasn’t born a free man,” Phaedrus admitted, the words surreal. They came from someone else. They came from… him. “I fought tooth and nail for that freedom. I did not care what I did to others along the way. At least, not after a point. I was—“ his lips twitched. No. “—am monstrous. And if the war has taught me anything… nothing changed, after all those years.”

    He kicked a rock and it went rolling off, joining the ruin of the bakery. “I thought—if I came here— if I pretended to be a frivolous young man — if I lived the life of someone with little to bear, perhaps it would go away. Perhaps I could be like Argus — perhaps the only worries I carried would be the price of grain, a missing ledger, unruly children.” He spread his hands at the rubble, his voice tight and hard. He would not weep. He’d had done with weeping.

    “And look what became of them.” Was that contempt in his voice? He did not know, anymore. It tangled with pain for the things he could never have, for the things that had been taken from him and taken from those he knew. For the ripped tapestry of his life, all the threads that made up a greater picture torn and defiled. “Exiled. Dead.

    For a moment gruesome images assaulted him — blonde hair matted with blood — flies crawling around the red-lipped mouths of children — Argus with an elven arrow through his neck...

    "I realized— I cannot be afraid of what I am. Not if I mean to protect the people and the things that I love. There is no reality in which I can be a frivolous boy. I am what I am.” A murderer. A beast. A monstrous perversion of Life. A weapon designed to obey, to kill, to break the surface of reality. He lofted his hands, taking a deep breath.

    “I think, looking back now — if I had not been such a weak fool, could some of this have been averted? If I had looked at all the signs — if I had not stuck my head in the ground like a frightened animal — what if, indeed?” A glint of teeth shone through his twisted mouth.

    “I meant to fight for Madrid. I did. And yet I fled. I meant to stay in Reine. I did. And yet, I fled.” A lump caught in his throat. He turned to Nakara now, a husk of a laugh in his throat. “That’s when you met me in Orl’Kabbar,” he snorted, his mouth twisted in a rictus. The necromancer’s eyes glinted in the darkness, skin further paled by the moon. “Being there… seeing all the human misery… remembering Reine, remembering Madrid…” He clasped his hands together, watching as Nakara propped up the sign as though giving a tribute to a shrine.

    “What was my pain, compared to that?” His mouth twitched. “What was my pain, compared to what had happened, and what Maedaigh would do?” His nostrils flared. “Do you know how the Fae magic works? It is blood borne. They have the biological predisposition to obey. Not out of will. Not like men following a charismatic leader. Like ants… if there is a powerful enough Queen, they will carry out her bidding without question. It physically pains them to disobey.” He gripped his elbow with one hand, the other scrubbing at his lips.

    Slavery.” Phaedrus spat on the cobbles, the words rushing out like a slag of magma. “She was nothing more than another Master. A slaver to her own people, and one that would enslave the human race as well, kill the last bastion of human dignity in all the world, the only country without a monarch, without a Master on a throne.” His emotions escaped him, hot and feverish, heart welling with it.

    I could not let that happen,” he hissed, thumping himself on the chest. “I could not stand by and let people suffer like—me.” Tears pricked his eyes, escaped in his voice, throat hoarse with pain. He’d not told anyone. Well, Bast knew, for obvious reasons — Shell, to some degree — but he’d never told a living human being. Never talked about how it made him feel.

    “I know what it is like to do things against ones will. To be tortured. Kicked around like chattel, beaten when one displeased Master, called it, Creature, to not be a person.

    For a moment he could not move, lips paralyzed in a scowl, tears threatening to brim. The necromancer fought it, chin trembling, and at length he sniffed, blowing out a great sigh and looking skyward. His throat bobbed.

    “It goes beyond Madrid,” Phaedrus croaked, spreading his hands. “It is the idea.” His voice spiked with fervor. "The idea that everyone has a voice — that the country is not run by birthright, but chosen by people themselves. That here, there cannot be any Orions, or Hemlocks, or Maedaighs.” He swiped the air. “That the people have liberty to do as they wish, be as they wish, speak freely and against their leaders without fear they will be dismembered. By comparison the rest of the world is run by savages.” He sneered. Wedging a hand on his hip, the necromancer turned to Nakara, running a hand through his hair.

    “We cannot change what happened to us,” he muttered. “We cannot make the torturers in our pasts apologize. Mine are dead. I killed them. I killed them all. And I've realized... it did not ease my pain. Once is not enough. I could kill them again, and again, and it still would not take away this hell I feel.” He gestured at himself with a balled fist, teeth grinding.

    “They will never understand what they did to me. I can never make them feel as I did. And how does one accept that injustice? How? I don’t know the answer. I don’t think I ever shall. I don’t believe there is an answer. The world is cruel. There is so little justice in it for people like me. People like… them.” He gestured at the broken bakery, brows crumpled. “And the way the world is… there will continue to be no justice. Unless—“ and he laughed, a dry, mirthless thing. He looked down at his hands, marveled at how soft and fleshy his palms looked, unmarked by callouses. Freshly manicured. Impossible to imagine what they had done.

    “My Master made me do heinous things,” Phaedrus admitted in a quiet voice. “I cannot change that. But he did give me one thing: power.” The necromancer lowered his hands, knitting them together delicately at his stomach.

    That is the difference between me and Argus. A sardonic smile popped up on his face. Where had all his tears gone? His mewling, his griping, drunken slobbering?

    “And I intend to use it. To give justice to those who have none... I would kill every single slaver on this earth. Line Soare with their corpses.” It was not Phaedrus speaking. The necromancer’s mouth thinned to a line, eyes fixed on the bakery.

    But now that I've started, I'm not gonna stop supporting the people who want to fix what's wrong with the world we live in. If I did that, then what would I be..?

    Nakara’s words broke him from his reverie, and he looked up at her pale, drawn face, her eerie, lavender-pale eyes. The face of a friend. She’d been through so much herself. He could see it in the lines of her eyes and her dangling cigarette, all the old tension wound in her limbs, the frazzled hair. All her rough edges. No one took to the bottle without some festering pain to drive it. At her words a soft smile suffused his face, thawed the cold that had frozen it over.

    I'm sorry you lost your home, and people you cared after. Maybe that time can never come again, but.... I don't know, maybe in rebuilding we can bring back a little of what was lost, plant the seed to grow a new garden.

    Phaedrus inclined his head, drawing in a deep breath. “Perhaps,” he said softly. “Once Madrid was nothing more than this. No doubt even less… forest, rudimentary huts… and look what it became.” The necromancer gestured, the ember of faith kindled in his voice. Even if he did not believe it at points… “I’ve no doubt it shall come to glory again. Perhaps not as it was... but a different sort.”

    A brief laugh escaped him at her next words, high and bright.

    “She’s rubbing off on you too, I see.” A veiled, teasing smile came to his face, eyes twinkling. The necromancer walked towards Nakara and clapped a hand on her arm as he passed, stopping before a large rock. With a grunt he picked it up and shoved it into the hole it had come from, like a tooth returning to its gum.

    Phaedrus tilted his head and stepped back, looking at the pocked wall. It didn’t fix the timbers or the plaster, didn’t give it a roof or a door. But it was something. More complete than it had been before. A house was built stone-by-stone, and when it crumbled, fixed stone-by-stone.

    The necromancer sighed, dusting his hands.

    “Going to take a bleeding long time, though."
    (OFFLINE) PROFILE QUOTE GO TO TOP
     
    Meriele Logala


    Mmm, wine. Now there's something you don't get often on ships. Sweeter and tastier than whiskey or rum, but not with quite as much bite to it. Glad for the invitation, Meriele quickly strode over to the woman who had offered, sat down next to her and grabbed a bottle. Not hesitating a bit, she popped the cork from the bottle, took a large gulp, and set the bottle down next to her before taking a moment to observe the group. A ragtag bunch, very few of them seeming like they'd have anything to do with each other in any other circumstances, yet they all found themselves wandering a ruined city. It occurred to Meriele that many of them may have even fought in the war.

    The group had seemed to dropped into a discussion on the independence of constructs.... Gods above what had she gotten herself into? Deciding this situation required far more alcohol, she took another swig before leaning against the wine-lady's side and asking a question that she will probably regret later.

    "So, I know I'm new to the party, and a little late, so I missed introductions sweetie. Who do I find myself sharing the booze with?"

    While she was looking over the group, she noticed a rather shy silver-haired boy talking with a rather attractive man, a construct whose creator was just leaving after the argument about their sentience, the woman who offered her the wine and food, and several others who really were about the most random assortment of characters she could imagine. "Oh well, a party is a party and booze is booze. Might at least get some interesting stories out of this melting pot."
    (OFFLINE) PROFILE QUOTE GO TO TOP
     
    Qayin
    Member Avatar
    Desert Wraith


    "You have a knack for showing up right when I need you..." Shell had embraced him, but almost as quickly withdrew. Their bond was strong enough now, she could sense things weren’t as they seemed.

    "Are you alright..?" She was concerned, perhaps a little afraid. The necromancer wished to comfort her, to say that he was fine, but instead his tongue betrayed him.

    “Gods, I don’t know.” He licked his lips as though he was dehydrated, a nervous sensation rolling through him. It was one thing for Coriakin to call him out on everything he had become, it would be another thing entirely for her to do it. He clasped her hand tightly in his, hoping it would anchor him from whatever was threatening to drag him away. Eventually he spoke, voice remaining strong in spite of everything that threatened to destroy them.

    “Juran, I’ve learned much from this war, perhaps more than I should have. But there’s at least a singular thing that’s remained with me, something that’s kept me going on some of my darkest nights.” Faltering, he took a step back and looked into her eyes, full of a sorrow all her own.

    Am I right to do this? Is it just selfishness on my part, to drag someone else… These and other thoughts tore through his head, raging like a storm.

    “Heh, look at me. I can charge into the thick of battle without flinching, but when it comes to matters such as these…” He turned to look at the crowd of others, mere yards away from where they stood. Some were happy, some lost, some sad or angry, but they all had something in common. They were here, now. Qayin and Shell were here, now.

    “I’ve realized we can’t save each other from everything, but the fact that we consider the other worth saving… Juran, please walk with me. There’s much on my mind, and it seems there’s much on yours.”

    “Let’s talk some more. I have memories of a night in Orl’Kabbar that have stayed with me for quite some time. Memories of you.” His sadness was beginning to be replaced with a tinge of embarrassment. He had dared step foot into a world he knew nothing about, and it was his prayer that doing so wouldn’t harm one of the scarce good things to happen to him since that first fateful day in Madrid. They would walk, though never straying too far from the others. The noise of generally pleasant conversation helped calmed them, though far less than the company they carried.
    (OFFLINE) PROFILE QUOTE GO TO TOP
     
    Shell
    Member Avatar
    From Theon Greyjoy to Reek in under 3 seconds

    The Prins

    "Far from brainless, the capabilities of constructs to think, and outthink, biological brains are more immense than we can imagine. In time, Daenis would know all there is to know about us, and if unchecked, if he acts upon what he knows, that would be the end of us all. Humans must be the master; it is the only way. And believe me, that is not a decision I come to lightly.”

    "Oh, jeepers -- I'd never argue that, of course," Sara agreed, "Humans should be the Overseer. Among other things, we created these beings, and so it's our responsibility to see that their flaws are corrected and their faith rewarded."

    With all this said, Mairead had decided to take a walk, and Sara worried -- had she been, perhaps, too passionate again..? She'd done it before -- she remembered derailing Father Jollenbeck's seminar a while back--

    No, wait, that wasn't me that time -- that was that wet egg priest makin' fun of him who started it, she'd just been overzealous in her defense of him.

    All right, so that wasn't an entirely accurate example, but she had definitely said too much, or said things badly, before. She snagged a couple of apples from the fruit basket and hopped to her feet, hiking up her skirt around her knees so she didn't trip and eat shit in front of everyone. Daenis returned from beinging Shell her shoes (such a small, sweet gesture), and as she passed the quaint construct she reached out and gave him a hug.

    "I don't care what anyone says, Daenis, you're a thoughtful gentleman and you keep being a thoughtful gentleman. I'm gonna keep your mum company if she wants it. Oh-- and you were right, Nakara would totally be the one who throws the pulpit out the window. See you in a bit!"

    With this said she lifted her skirt again and jogged after Mairead, blonde waves bouncing, stuttering to a slower pace when she caught up and holding the apple out if the forger wanted it.

    "Hey -- want a walking buddy? I should probably walk some of these tarts off, but if you wanna be alone I can take an alternate route. We don't have to talk or anything either if you don't want." She offered her a beaming smile and tore a chunk out of her own apple, taking care not to chew too loudly or obnoxiously. That was always a surefire way to repel people but tonight Sara felt friendly for once.


    Ylsa

    People were branching off to create their own stories for this night of resurrection, and Ylsa felt strangely proud of all of them, even in their miseries and shared pain. She did not need much reason: they were here. They had made it this far in their lives, despite whatever misfortune may have befallen or continued to befall them, and it did not matter whether or not they had given up or were considering it.

    They were still here.

    We are still here. The voice from Sara's vision earlier that evening reached her with those words in the moment that the blonde herself passed her by in pursuit of Mairead.

    And let none forget it, She returned.

    ""So, I know I'm new to the party, and a little late, so I missed introductions sweetie. Who do I find myself sharing the booze with?"

    It did not take a physical examination for Ylsa to know just what this lady was -- a few lone tendrils had scarcely probed the air when it became obvious that she had demonic heritage, and well, sometimes it was true that it took one to know one.

    Unfortunately, Owen O'Zilia was never very far away, being her most immediate past life, and as uninterested in the end goals of flirtation as she was Ylsa could never really help enjoying some of the fun of the thing. She smiled and leaned against the arm of the chair. "Ylsabet Troy. And yourself?"

    It took everything she had not to add unnecessary Owennish dialogue.

    What's your sign? 'Dangerous Curves Ahead'?


    Nakara

    He got it; she could feel it as she went on, and he continued the train of thought with his own when she finished hers. It didn't really surprise her that he'd been having problems, but what struck her was how similar some of their experiences really were: the feelings, the bitterness, the self-loathing that did nothing but feed itself...

    It turned out that he had also hit another substance in his struggles, and at first she'd wondered just what it was that might have driven him to do so before she remembered that she'd experimented a little, herself -- she had never stuck with any one thing, having found most of them to be too intense, too similar to some of the smaller points of being possessed. Then, she wondered why she had been afraid of drugs in this regard when she was not afraid of the spirits that resided in a bottle.

    Shit. We're just full of epiphanies tonight, aren't we.

    Nakara shifted her weight and tossed the butt of her finished smoke beneath her boot, crushing it beneath the heel as she whipped another out from behind her ear and lit that too. It was the only thing left she had to do with her hands besides shove them into her pockets, and it was boring in there.

    “You fought. I hid. From everything. The world, and all its state of affairs… where I came from… myself, most of all.”

    "Sometimes fighting is just too exhausting," She offered softly.

    It did feel impossible sometimes, didn't it..? Of course, she didn't understand his position fully, never would, for it was his alone, but she did know the endless loop of complete inevitability, the inability to move anywhere outside oneself no matter how much you wanted it. After a certain point, you had no choice left but to own it: it was you, after all, and let no one ever forget it.

    She did not say anything further for a while, giving respect to his story and finding that, even without the alcohol-induced haze, her mind moved slowly, digesting and analyzing bits one at a time. When the words had all been said, and she then knew a little more about this man she'd already called a friend, she felt.... warmer, even if a little sadder for the subject matter. There was something to be said about empathetic understanding in times of great emotional release, and it was a feeling she'd only so far felt with her brother and Modeste. She watched him settle a stone back into place, and it truly felt like the first step.

    “Going to take a bleeding long time, though."

    "Hm." She lifted one arm and flexed. "With these guns? Two weeks, tops." She dropped the joke, though her smile remained, and -- after a moment of deliberation -- moved in.

    It was a small, simple thing: a brief, one-armed hug, a slight lean-down to make it less awkward, and a sturdy pat on the back. The kind of hug men gave one another when they didn't like to admit that they were close, but couldn't quite contain it either. She withdrew more quickly than Ylsa or Sara would have, but it wasn't out of any sort of discomfort. Her families had never been particularly touchy-feely, and she had done her best.

    "After all this, you know, it's not too strange to consider that we're not the insane ones. We'll build this thing up again, and we'll do it with the hands our Masters gave us." It was poetic -- too poetic. She spat on the ground.

    "Wouldn't that just cram the shit right back up their asses?"


    Shell

    He was struggling with something within himself -- he felt unsettled, restless. Fearful, even. Each time she had met him she had the feeling that there was something deep down inside him that niggled at him, and the more time she spent with him the more she felt it. At first, she had thought it was his own abilities, for she knew that they tormented him as much as her own did her, but the last couple of times they had met it felt like much more than that.

    "Juran, please walk with me. There’s much on my mind, and it seems there’s much on yours.”

    Her name -- her Old name, her real name, each time she heard him speak it, made her feel softer, more real. She kept his worried hand in hers and offered him a smile tainted by sadness. There certainly was a great deal to think about tonight, though it had mostly been tragedies and memories, things one could not change.

    "Of course. Let's walk."

    And yet, even with all of his worry and frustration and keening inner conflict, Shell still felt comforted by him -- they could have talked about the most unpleasant things in their lives together and she would still feel warm after doing so, because it had been with him.

    "I.... I keep thinking about you, too," She admitted shyly. He had become the greatest source of comfort to her, even on his bad days. Though the feelings of affection were very strong she was still afraid to speak them aloud, as though they might be snapped up and stolen in coldness -- but if she couldn't talk to Qayin about such things, who could she talk to?

    "I try so hard not to get attached... especially not to... well, to men." She swallowed nervously. "It's mostly men who have hurt me, but you've never been anything but kind to me. I was so angry and scared when you first met me but you... you showed me your heart -- you gave it to me and treated me gently, like... like a person. Like family, right away.

    "I... haven't been able to forget that..." Her throat ached, threatened to hitch shut as her eyes threatened to burn. "Even through all the worst things, I keep coming back to it, and... I don't want to lose it."

    She could have lost it, during the final battle. She hadn't been there, and she had lost her sister, she could have so easily lost Qayin too, and then what would she have done?

    It hurt. The thought of it, the possibility, hurt so much. Her hand squeezed his slightly.

    They were both in pain, and he knew all about hers, but she knew precious little about his -- she only knew that it was there, that it was powerful, and that she didn't want him to suffer. He had done so much for her, he had eased the pain of her loneliness and showed her that she could trust him with her heart. She wanted him to know that he could trust her with his, too.

    She stopped and turned to face him, feeling that discontent and fear, the shame, the tremulous anger -- and she understood it. With his hand in one of her own, she raised the other and gently rested it against his cheek. His skin was too warm; perhaps her coolness would be able to temper it.

    "I want to help you..." She offered earnestly, her heart very much on her sleeve. "You've done so much for me. I feel... whole, when you're near.

    "You can tell me anything -- anything at all. I'm not going anywhere. I promise." She smiled, still trailing her fingers lightly on his cheek. He was right, and they couldn't save each other from everything, but love was something Juran had plenty of.
    (OFFLINE) PROFILE QUOTE GO TO TOP
     
    Mairead
    Member Avatar
    I reject your reality and substitute my own.

    The ballasts have weighed the ship down. Finder’s figurehead – a mermaid – looked down at Mairead as she approached, the wooden eyes half frowned, as if she wept. The enchanter struggled up the chains of the anchor, off, off of the grounds and world that kept her tethered to its ceaseless needs. They want and want and want, never having enough. She was disgusted to remember that she can no longer consider herself one of Them. The laughing folks, the kind and merry party-goers, the Good people. To force herself to make drastic decisions and live through the villainess light it had cast her under, before the world for all to judge, in reality too meek and frightened to bear the cross.

    The chill of the wind is a magnificent thing, the touch caressing her face. It reminded her of the distant world she had left behind. The mad search had made her live through each day, when all other dreams of the future are lost in a bleak void, a ship that lost its steerage. She forced herself to block out happy memories, lest people’s present absence was held against their past implied fealty and were found cruelly short. Had she spent each moment reminiscing times lost, she would have gone insane a long time ago. She had learned the lesson the hard way. Trust, let people in, and they would find any means to hurt her. Goodness would not stop them ignoring her needs, and she had been repaid poorly after they had found their feet. Left her to fend for herself, to fall from the cliff she had just saved them from. Their choices made scant sense.

    She had tried to reason with the crew, some part of her hoping they would be able to see what she did had been to protect them. Their outrage was angry and harsh, shouted through her mind like hundreds of thunder blasts, cleaving her nerves. She had left them physically, but the damage was done. She could feel her heart leaving the party along with her feet. They would never give her a second chance. She could feel tears stinging her eyes. Her resolve seemed to be breaking down.

    One more scar, to add to the macabre collection within. They never healed. People never got stronger from what did not kill them; that was merely a lie to comfort the broken. No, people got more jaded and lifeless with each new wound.

    An outcast. She supposed she clung to her pitiful existence in the small, vague, hope of returning to her friends. Before her, the party lights glimmered tantalizingly, in the dark. Hopelessness in the dream grew.

    The look of betrayal in Shell’s eyes spoken volumes. Mairead’s soul rant asunder as those eyes burned. The girl’s hands had shoved her away, as if she were a monster that sullied those pallid hands. She was no different from the man who had enslaved her, who had bound her and stolen from her what was precious, had so callously ripped her life of innocent happiness away. She sickened herself. She had betrayed her one-time friend in the worst of ways. It frightened her, how it was possible sometimes to go from being loved by someone to being hated utterly.

    Oh, that’s right. Glede doesn’t want you either. The golden mask had torn from the path of goodness, corrupted by the Book, one she had wilfully shown him at the inn. The construct had suffered in the sun-kissed lands of Eldarhar and long before that, reeling in emotions he had long fought hard against. His hopelessness reminded her of her own.

    What the majority wants, the majority gets. The bitter memories haunted her.

    A certain Elf thrown out of the gates of the forest, under the queen’s orders. Arle’s orders. Mairead’s orders. The guards laughed at the creature. The people laughed along, mocked. Inare struggled to her feet, crying out at the queenly woman who watched, callously, at the former friend she now locked out.

    The people disapproved necromancers. The sovereign needed the people’s support; could not keep going against the grain by standing alongside her friend. “Greater things are at work and I need all the help I can get, to move things, to do the duty that was assigned to me as a ruler of the realm,” she shouted. The Elf tried to break past the guards to meet Princess Arle, who refused to see her. Her queue was skipped, to her horror. Mockery, mockery at the necromancer by the Elven people. She ran away. A foot snapped out to trip her. She cried and kept running. Rage, she had raged against the unfairness. Why? She had kept to herself. She had behaved. She never got in the way of the queen and her royal duties. All she wanted was talk, was some company. Was that too much to ask? Why, must the people torment her so?

    In the years that follow, an inferno would engulf the forest. Inare’s emotional typhoon would leave the forest in cinders.

    The Elf had been, ever since, hated. They would utter her name in the trees, but it would be uttered as a curse, a name to be spat rather than spoken: Inare, genocidal murderer.

    What the majority wants, the majority gets. Mairead’s bitter memories haunted her. How had it come to this? How could so many people be so wrong? She grasped her Aethelwulf Coin. She and Inare wore lupine masks as they skittered over the rooftops, rescuing what poor souls they could, vigilantes wielding dual Brass Blades. Penance. The question ever haunted her. Had she been right, to choose duty over friendship?

    The enchanter had a knife. It caught the light of the moon, glittering tantalizingly in her hand. Her blue eyes gazed at the distant twinkle of lights, wandering over the grass where the wind swept at the dancing blades. Her face felt the coolness of the wind. Perhaps, her spirit would remember them, as she imprinted into her mind her last thoughts of the living world. Her nose breathed, taking in a last deep draught of the wet scent of the nearby forest.

    The moment seemed quiet and still, but a jolt of movement attracted her eyes. Blonde waves bounced over the edge of the deck, glimmering in the pale moonlight. A young woman by the name of Sara Prins. The hand holding the knife loosened its grip and the blade flopped on the grass far below.

    A walk? Mairead grimaced. She bit back a snarky retort. Bitterness welled up in her once more at her interrupted suicide. But a small part of her ached for understanding, acceptance. The hope was fleeting. And she would perhaps live to see it dashed one more time before the end. The small part of her wanted to reach out to the young woman, someone, anyone. An internal battle raged. Finally, it pushed through the roiling spirit to the surface.

    “Come up!” she shouted.
    (OFFLINE) PROFILE QUOTE GO TO TOP
     
    Phaedrus
    Member Avatar
    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

    Cw: some suicidal stuff, mentions of abuse, Most Unseemly language.

    With these guns? Two weeks, tops.

    Phaedrus’ mouth quirked at the joke, and he gave a dramatic wiggle of the eyebrows, a snort escaping him. He’d just been about to retort something — was on the tip of his tongue — and then the woman moved in and —

    The hug was unexpected.

    With a rustle of leather the woman moved in, bent — then her arm was around him, her presence warm and immediate; she smelled of cigarettes and the tang of wine, faint sweat and the smoky must of incense. He could feel the muscles of her arms through his tunic as they tightened around him, felt a sudden, absurd safety in her embrace.

    Moved, the necromancer snaked an arm around her back, much more tentative and delicate than her own, and melted into it.

    So many hugs today.

    People did not hug him, not really — other than Bast, perhaps — and for a long time he had shunned all unexpected touch, snatching his hand out of theirs and wrestling his body away in fear. Fear they would find—

    But Nakara did not care. Ylsa did not care. Sara did not care, starry-eyed and ever-smiling as she was. Never had he encountered such a caring group of people; people that actually enjoyed his company, who gladly shared their food and home with him without asking anything in return. At any moment he expected the mirage to dissolve, reform itself into the cold eyes of Alloces and that endless expanse of desert and loneliness, expected their faces to twist as they hit Malakar, hated him —

    Because he could not have anything nice. For Master had taken his attendants away, barred him from having living company. He had taken Bast away, forbade him from ever stepping foot in Antenoch’s manor ever again. He had beaten him, hurt him — kept him imprisoned in his quarters — and everything within those sandstone walls became his whole world, all he ever had: his gardens, his artworks, his books and scrolls, but even then, Master could take those all away at a whim.

    Eventually he had. He broke him, so he could no longer garden, watching the plants grow wild before they withered and died; his mind went, so he could no longer read and write; his body was the last thing to leave him, ancient and crumbling as it was, no longer able to heal. In the end he had taken everything, violated him to the core of his soul. He did not even give him the dignity of a quiet, painless death.


    Now he went into fits of anger and panic if anyone so much as stole a book or a brooch from him; a lifetime of losing and taking crashed upon him like an avalanche, made him seem insane. For he liked to give — oh yes, he gave with an open hand and heart, always, so long as people asked — but to steal the things that were rightfully his, remind him of his upbringing in that hell —

    He knew — and feared — someone would take his peace away from him. He expected that gnarled black hand to swoop down even now, tear Madrid away like a mummer’s backdrop.

    But it did not. He was safe — safe as one could be in such a tattered world — and Nakara was real; the far-off burble of company was real; this city, broken as it was, was real. He was being hugged by a friend. A friend that understood him, shared his plights, was not afraid of his darker nature. A person that hugged him, not because he tittered and manipulated, trickled gold into her palms, promised her great things, but because she could, and she wanted to, and she cared for him.

    Some of his ugly feelings bled away.

    The woman withdrew, and he craned his head up to look at her, full of an odd warmth and gratitude he could not express. Instead he blinked rapidly, wedging his hand at his hip and giving a sniff.

    It’s not too strange to consider that we’re not the insane ones. Despite himself, a smile crept across his features, a little hnf! of amusement leaving him. Him? Not insane? “You have to be a bit mad to live,” he bit his lip. “To have been fucked by the world as we have and still say, ‘screw it, I’m staying and fucking it back.’” Normally he kept his vulgarity to himself — polite company and all of that — but he knew the woman wouldn’t care.

    The necromancer crossed his arms. It was a thought that had wormed his way into his mind often: it was sense to die, and madness to live. In all his darkest moments, the possibility that he could leave it all had been his only comfort. Walk off the stage, find a way to turn off the lights for good.

    And despite it all…

    We’ll do it with the hands our Masters gave us. He tipped his head in agreement.

    What she said next sent a laugh bursting out of him — he hadn’t expected it, didn’t know the last time he laughed, truly; not a titter or snort, but one that came from the belly, ended in an unladylike snort. It felt good to laugh. Felt… alright. Like things would be alright. He recovered, tapering on a giggle, and tossed his hand.

    “Ah.” His eyes twinkled with amusement. "There’s no room in there. The shit-filled cunts."

    Phaedrus smoothed the front of his tunic, looking away from Nakara a moment and towards the party they’d walked away from. He fell silent a moment, lips pressed, thinking.

    “We’re better than them,” he broke at length, speaking both for himself and the soldiering woman. Some hint of bitterness and pride mingled in his voice. “Despite all they did. It’s easier to be monstrous. But we’re better than them.” He licked his teeth, clasping his hands at his stomach.

    “My Master liked to tell me that I was nothing,” Phaedrus went on, his voice flat. “Always. The shite was a poet atop everything else. Perhaps the worst sin of all of them.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “Would find all the ways to say it. Nothing. It. Told me — you are a grain of sand in the dunes, a blade of grass in the hills. Try stomaching that rubbish.” Once he would have quavered to talk about it, felt the words weigh like a stone in his heart, if he could get them out at all — and though they still hurt, he was not imprisoned by them anymore; he could look down at them in derision, look down at Alloces in derision. It was power to make fun of those words.

    “I thought about it. And the thing is — the gods can hurl all their lighting, all their rain, all their winds. They can tear down houses. Quake the earth. Destroy villages. But they can only bend a blade of grass.” Phaedrus raised his brows and shrugged, lips pressed. A balmy breeze came through the ruins, stirred the locks of hair by his chin. “The world begins as nothing, and ends as nothing,” he said distantly, eyes full of the fire, the silhouettes of friends and strangers. “We, the nothings, inherit the earth.” With a slow turn, he faced Nakara once more, something of Phaedrus gone and something of Someone Else in his face and manner, too fey and sharp, white, set with a dignified, close-lipped smile.

    And then Malakar wavered, disappeared as a ghost. Phaedrus smoothed his hands with his thumb, wrung them, and off they went, back to his sides.

    Well. That was enough philosophy for the night, he figured. Taking a deep breath, the necromancer stole a glance towards the party, meeting Nakara’s eyes again.

    He bit his lip. “Bet the cake’s gone already,” the necromancer sighed. “It’s alright though.” He looked at Nakara furtively, putting a finger to his lips and rummaging in the pockets of his trousers. After a moment he pulled out a small cloth sack. One of the unexpected perks of being Dead was that chocolate didn’t melt in his pockets. He pulled the drawstring and offered the secret treasure to Nakara, coughing.

    “Helps with the cravings, I found,” he explained. “I thought quitting wine would give me a fine figure. Bollocks. It just made me fat—” a pause. “—ter,” he added thoughtfully, shrugging. At least before fleeing Madrid.

    “And mint tea. Cooled it off and then put it in a flask. So I could pretend...” a derisive scoff left him. He wondered how far along her journey Nakara was; felt a rare solidarity, almost an itch to talk to someone who understood. He had been alone in it for so long, often felt like he’d go mad.

    After a moment he plucked a handsome piece of chocolate out, raised it in a mock toast.

    “Fuck them,” he started loudly, suddenly, brows creeping towards his hair. “Fuck our shite Masters. Fuck the bottle. Fuck the Fae. Fuck them all.” A wild grin split his face, his eyes a touch unhinged, but his smile met them.

    “Cheers."
    (OFFLINE) PROFILE QUOTE GO TO TOP
     
    Qayin
    Member Avatar
    Desert Wraith

    "You can tell me anything -- anything at all. I'm not going anywhere. I promise." His heart leaped as her words reached him. He was a blind man attempting to read a scroll, unable to see the details that were so plain to the others that witnessed it. The two had found themselves higher up in the city, standing in a spot that overlooked the festivities below.

    Could this mean..?

    Her hand was on his face, helping to temper all that burned inside him. He raised his own and placed it over hers. He held it there in much the same way they held one another in their gazes. The world vanished around them. Feelings he had never had before pulsed through his brain, lapping against his thoughts as rapidly as the blood coursing through his veins. In a moment, Qayin had made his choice.

    Releasing her palm from his grasp, he lifted her chin and leaned forward, gently letting his lips fall into place over hers. To those who saw it, it hardly lasted more than a moment. To the two of them, it was an eternity they had long hoped for, an afterlife where it seemed their struggles had finally been rewarded. Qayin pulled back after a time, drawing her towards himself in an embrace similar to the many others they had shared before.

    “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I did that. But at the same time…” The mage laughed softly. In the silence that followed, the party could be heard as it moved forward without them. Speaking again, he continued the sentence that had trailed off as he had fallen into thought.

    “At the same time, I do. I cannot bear the thought of losing you. Perhaps it’s selfish of me, but if it is, this is where I choose to be selfish. I… I believe I love you, Juran. I’m simply sorry it’s taken this long for me to realize it.” Like a criminal before the court, Qayin awaited his judgment. His heart was pounding, and for one of the first moments in his life, the young mage was afraid. This was the sort of fear that he could not stomach.

    And yet, it is the only good kind of fear, the only fear that means anything to me.
    (OFFLINE) PROFILE QUOTE GO TO TOP
     
    Shell
    Member Avatar
    From Theon Greyjoy to Reek in under 3 seconds

    The Prins

    "Come up!"

    "Woo!" Sara cried, tucking the apple into her pocket, then seizing the climbing apparatus and hesitating for a moment. She looked up.

    ...too far up. She swallowed.

    Come on Prins, get real, just climb the damn thing.

    Oh... okay, Prins.

    With a shaky sigh blown out from between her lips, Sara scaled the side of the ship, trying to move quickly and get it over with while still keeping her balance. Halfway up, she glanced down at her feet and caught sight of the ground.

    It wasn't that far down, but it was already way too far for her.

    NOPE. NOPE. NOPE. Her hands went one over the other faster, barely breathing, heart hammering in abject fear.

    Finally she hauled herself over the side and tried not to look like a wobbling idiot, but could not hide the violent tremoring in her wrists or the slight dip in her knees when her feet finally hit the deck, and she gave the sides of the ship a wide berth.

    "Phew!" She laughed, dusting her shaking hands on her skirt. "Other people are scared of faeries and zombies and ghosts and demons and monsters... my thing is heights. I guess we all have our hangups, huh?"

    She sat herself atop a crate that seemed sturdy enough to hold her weight, and took the fruit from her pockets, attempting to settle the pounding of her heart and offering Mairead the same open, friendly smile she had given her earlier, that she had given her other friends.

    "I uh... I'm sorry if I pushed it back there: I like to think I'm not opinionated but I can get carried away sometimes. I'm trying to work on it though."

    Her eyes drifted down to the deck as a flash caught her eye; a knife lay there, seemingly at random, and though it could very well have been completely coincidental, Sara still wondered, and worried, but didn't make a big deal of it. She raised her head again, still smiling.

    "We've never really met properly before, have we? Shell's told me some really rad stuff about you. Says you helped her out of a really tight spot, and... potential Bad Stuff. She says you do that sort of thing alot for people. You're like a.... superhero or something." She leaned back on her hands, apples in her lap. "How did you find yourself in Elenlond?"

    She was not a counsellor like Ylsa, but sometimes, normal conversation could be helpful. If it wasn't in this case, that was fine, she could try a different avenue -- but having seen the knife, so apparently innocent, as someone who had struggled with confidence, self-worth, and holding her ground her whole life until now, Sara could feel that something was just a little off, and if she could be a buffer or a distraction, then she sure as hell would take the opportunity.


    Nakara

    She had not expected the raw expletives that found their way out of his mouth, but they made her grin all the same.

    "I. Love how you talk. Did I mention that yet?"

    The conversation moved on, and she listened attentively, looking out at the alleys and picturing her friend in this situation -- to be told such horrible things. To not only be told, but reminded at every turn, to never be allowed to forget it...

    ... she saw him then like she had seen her brothers and father growing up: the worms in the family, the ones that were expected to eat the shit that those in charge buried them under, the ones who were expected to embrace it and behave in accordance with their "stations". It had been worse than patriarchy outside the family, violent, demeaning, dehumanizing.

    It had confused her and irritated her then. It disgusted her now.

    But he was right: they were better than them. Because they did not need to crush others beneath their heels just to feel a little better about themselves, to feel like they had some control over their lives. Maybe once and at points they hadn't had a choice, but now that they were here, the choice was theres, and the power was in the choosing. When he came out of his reverie, the corner of her mouth had lifted in a smile, and she felt a sense of great satisfaction and pride, seeing an abused man back on his feet, seeing that the Masters and Mistresses -- Alloces, Maedaigh, Brennia, Cheng Wei -- who had thought themselves so flawless and on top of the world -- had failed spectacularly. They hadn't broken them: they'd made them into better people than most.

    "That's the best shit I've heard in weeks."

    And then, things came back to the present moment, but it felt victorious, like they had slain a great serpent and had returned home for the afterparty -- but for them, the great serpent was the thing at the bottom of their thoughts, the bottom of their hearts. It felt personal. She watched him with an eyebrow quirked, curious, as he unwrapped the cloth bundle.

    Well.... fuck, that actually looked really damn tasty.

    "Wow -- you can pretend that mint tea is booze?" Both eyebrows went up at this point, impressed. "I'd have to add sour fruit or potato water to it, myself." She paused. "....actual sour fruit and potato water, not..."

    Not wine and vodka. Just the flavors.

    She had a lot of work to do.

    But the chocolate was a tasty distraction and she plucked out a piece for herself, raising it in return with a grin.

    "Do them real dirty in front of they dad," She agreed, "Cheers!" Her arm linked around his at the elbow, and the chocolate popped into her mouth and exploded in a firework of flavor that actually made her cheeks hurt a little. Her mouth watered too much all at once, and she had to withdraw her arm, covering her mouth before she drooled spontaneously all over him.

    "Oh, fuck me hard on a sandy beach what have I been doing with my life. Why did I never try this before?"


    Shell

    He was warm -- warmer than usual, even, and she was relieved that he accepted her touch. His hand covered hers for a moment, appearing so much larger than hers, and being so much warmer, and though she was attempting to comfort him it made her feel secure, stable -- completely safe. Something fluttered within her at the strange, peaceful determination in his eyes and the quickening of his pulse, and she tried not to let it show overmuch. She could have been wrong.

    She had been wrong many times.

    But her eyes widened ever so slightly when his hand slipped off of hers and took her chin, lifting her face and leaning down.

    Their lips met. She closed her eyes and cupped his cheek in her hand, overwhelmed by a flood of joy, of relief, as though a wound that had long festered had finally been closed.

    It was a strange feeling, one she had only had a couple of times, of being so sure, of trusting someone so implicitly who trusted her just as much, someone whose presence and personality brought her warmth and comfort -- who brought her as close to life as she could get. The dead cold in her limbs seemed to flee from him, and for the first time in years, the sorrow in her heart was made small and washed over.

    The kiss ended, but nothing changed. She was pulled into him arms, the only place she was truly happy to be, and her own arms went around him, holding onto him like a lifeline, her hands fisting gently, desperately, onto his cloak as she buried her face in his chest.

    In that moment she felt as though Shell had vanished, leaving only Juran. How long had it been since she had had this..? How long had it been since she felt like she could simply disappear into someone else, make a little home there and be safe forever? Qayin was not afraid of her darker impulses, her sorrow or her rage, even took them up in his own hands and held them close. He treasured every part of her just as she treasured him, and for once she could feel it, and knew it was true.

    I believe I love you, Juran.

    Her arms tightened around him ever so slightly and she let out a long, shuddering sigh that she'd been holding since they'd first bonded in Orl'kabbar. She could feel tears stinging her closed eyes. So wonders do exist...

    "I love you..." She said softly, tremulously, but no less honest than her tears. "...so much. I can't help it..."

    He struggled, this she knew -- he struggled just like her, and she needed him to know that she even loved his uncertainty, his anger, his dark thoughts.

    "...I love all of you, Qayin Graves... everything about you. I never want to be apart from you."

    The emptiness had gone.
    (OFFLINE) PROFILE QUOTE GO TO TOP
     
    Meriele Logala


    Meriele noticed the woman lean to the other side, away from her and decided to lay back, head in Ylsabet's lap and feet up in the air, tail wrapped around one of them. Her hand dives down into one of the baskets of food nearby and pulled out a lemon tart, drinkign heavily from the bottle of wine and taking a chunk out of the tart with her fanged teeth.

    "Names Meriele dear, and its a pleasure to meet you. This seems to be a very lively gathering for the most part. Celebrating being alive after all the shit that's happened huh?"

    Nestling her head in Ylsabet's lap to get comfy, Meriele gazed around and took in her company, noting the strange company being kept, but supposed it was only natural after all the supernatural shit that happened during the war.

    "Quite the company you keep. Did you set all this up love?"
    (OFFLINE) PROFILE QUOTE GO TO TOP
     
    Qayin
    Member Avatar
    Desert Wraith

    "I love you...so much. I can't help it..." In the pauses that lay between her words, he found so much. She loved him, perhaps she had been waiting longer than he had for everything to shift into place.

    "...I love all of you, Qayin Graves... everything about you. I never want to be apart from you." Qayin understood what she meant, and emotion welled in his throat as the total acceptance from her clung to him.

    “...Thank you. I…” He stopped, taking the feeling of her arms pressed against him and let himself be in it as tears ran down his face. Her eyes were laden with their own rain. It was a little time until they recovered from the euphoric release of emotion, but he spoke in response as he hoped to convey just how he felt.

    “There’s nothing about you that would make me leave, no darkness that I wouldn’t push through to pull you out of. Know that everything… every bit of what you feel is here in me, and it’s not something I’ll ever toss away.” They remained in each other’s arms for a little more, just a small bit of time in which the world would not harm them further. All things have their end, however, and this moment soon came to a close. Somewhat sheepishly, the necromancer stepped back.

    “So… Where do we go from here then? I confess, for all the planning I’ve done in my life, I never planned to get this far.”
    (OFFLINE) PROFILE QUOTE GO TO TOP
     
    Mairead
    Member Avatar
    I reject your reality and substitute my own.

    The blonde looked ashen-faced when she emerged from the anchor chain. Mairead reached an arm to haul her up, and detected cold sweat from the touch. A lump rose in her throat. She gazed awkwardly away, unable to bear looking at the girl’s eyes. Her old guilt rose at having put her through hopping through her hurdle, what must have been a fear of heights, to reach the enchanter. Thoughts of her own unworthiness surfaced, tugging the old strings of guilt.

    True enough, the girl was afraid of heights, as her words revealed. Be polite, she told herself. Eye contact is essential for establishing trust. Breathing deeply, her gaze darted back to Sara’s face in time to see a warm friendly smile. She wished to return the smile, but her facial muscles would not move, remaining tightened, like a stony grieving statue in a Renaissance piece in the Louvre museum. Pale knuckles tightened, and nervousness crept up the villainess’ frame. She cannot drive more wedges between herself and the world, a small voice in her pleaded. Redirect her attention from that raging fiery tornado, look, look at the hair. The golden edges appeared straight, as if recently sheared. Logic battled the storm. Focus, focus on her words!

    "I uh... I'm sorry if I pushed it back there: I like to think I'm not opinionated but I can get carried away sometimes. I'm trying to work on it though."

    Oddly, the girl’s apology brought the storm down to a quiet simmer. Curbing the rage by an external source seemed easier than trying to manage her psyche herself. Logic sighed with tentative relief.

    “You did not err,” Mairead mumbled. “I am, at times, easily offended by the slightest differing opinion. It should not be, but it is, and was.”

    White knuckled, she forced herself to sit beside the taller woman, though she kept an arm’s length from her. The blonde’s gazed flickered occasionally to look at the dropped knife. Perhaps, she had sensed she had, potentially, pulled the enchanter from the abyss by showing up at this dark hour. Mairead’s thoughts strayed to Glede and Shell. Shaky words escaped from her lips. “I am in grief.”

    She winced as Sara mentioned Shell. Thinking of the latter hurt. Her nails raked half-moons into the skin, and her lips trembled. Sadness and anger rose in her again, spiking dangerously close to the surface once more. Both threatened to rip apart her heart. Misery clouded her mind.

    “A superhero?” she laughed harshly. “I have saved nobody and no one. I have failed to save him from his inner darkness, and I have failed her from hers. Tell me. Do I scare you?”

    “In some places, there exists a right answer. Not an opinion, a real answer. But people of … they interject opinions as fact and it misleads the intended listener, to tragic ends.”

    Cassandra’s dilemma, that was what she had. A truth teller uttering real warnings that were considered a mad woman's ravings. Warnings of the Trojan Horse that was disbelieved and mocked. A misunderstood expert. A hard-lined villainess yearning for understanding.

    Her mind swirled in many more thoughts. How could people be so myopic? In this silent tide, humans were merely driftwood passing by. Yet, certain people left marks in histories long after their physical bodies have wasted away. Mairead hoped she would leave a benevolent mark, if she left any at all. This close to death, however, it appeared people would remember her infamy. Mournfully, her hand fell on something cool. A bottle. But she had no wineglasses ready. She laughed at her mind’s mundane pathways that it treaded on despite the dark circumstance. A hand yanked the cork. She downed a swig and then, held it to the taller woman. Sometimes, a drink broke the ice. The burning liquid gushed down her throat. She leaned backwards, pressing her back on a cool, hard barrel.

    “I came to this realm many moons ago. Met many friends.” Friends? Her mind questioned cynically. Are they? Anymore? “Was looking for an artefact. This ship we are on. It flies. There are many such vessels where I come from.”
    (OFFLINE) PROFILE QUOTE GO TO TOP
     
    Shell
    Member Avatar
    From Theon Greyjoy to Reek in under 3 seconds

    The Prins



    “I am, at times, easily offended by the slightest differing opinion. It should not be, but it is, and was.”

    "Hehehe -- I'm the same, honestly." The pilgrim admitted in sincerity. Oh, the public blowouts she used to have...

    ...man those were embarrassing to remember.

    She listened to the woman's pain, feeling it keenly, rather surprised at how well she seemed to understand some of the places she was coming from. Their circumstances were wildly different, but in many ways they seemed to have arrived at the same conclusion -- though Sara was trying to leave the unhappiness of such a state behind, and Mairead found it fresh.

    "Nah, you don't scare me -- you're a cool person. Hm...." She paused, scratching the tip of her nose. "I wouldn't call it failure, personally: there are some troubles, some traumas and emotional blockages that we just can't save other people from. It's.... really hard, but we can't put all that responsibility on ourselves. If we spend all that time worrying to that kind of depth, we'll never get our own jobs done. What we can do is be a buffer.

    "We can make the day-to-day easier for people just by being around, by talking to them like human beings. By sharing our feelings with them and letting them share theirs with us. We might not be able to save some people from their inner darknesses... but we can say 'hey. I'm here for you anyway'." She leaned back and smiled again, then looking up at the stars.

    "But you know.... that toughest part is realizing and accepting the fact that there's some things we can't change. The burden of the wise ones is hard, because no one seems to understand what we're saying -- the people who do understand us may not be helped completely by our words or actions, and it is confusing because as you said, everyone says different things. Sometimes...." She sighed, the smile turning just a little sad, "Sometimes we can only help people to a certain point, and after that point, though we worry and wonder and feel bad... people just... have to start taking care of themselves, you know? We can give them pointers and support but it's up to them to take all of that.

    "And sometimes we say stuff that accidentally hurts people -- Iremia knows I've done that plenty of times," She laughed lightly, a sheepish sound. She'd seen the look of pain when she had brought up Shell, and indeed had figured that the Daroan girl would end up collapsing at some point; she had warned them a few days earlier that it was not a difficult thing to accomplish at times. "But like... it's important to remember that some things are hanging on just by a thread, and when a breeze passes over them ever so slightly, they tremble and sometimes fall -- it wouldn't matter how gentle it was, or even who did it, and it wouldn't matter what the original intention was. That can apply to just about any sort of interaction, honestly."

    Though she didn't normally drink, she figured she might as well, and took a modest swig of the burning liquid in the bottle. It was set down, then, and Mairead said a few more things, though she was clearly not really into them at the moment. After a minute's consideration, Sara leaned over and wrapped her arms around Mairead's shoulders in a warm, close hug.

    "It's tough not to feel responsible, but Ylsa once told me that this world needs no holders: it is our responsibility to try and help where we can, but none of us can carry the whole thing. It's impractical, it's impossible, and it's too much for one person. You're not all alone out here." She drew back, still smiling gently. "If it helps at all... she -- Shell, that is -- told us that the last time she woke up from a slumber, she woke up in a concrete cell underground and didn't see another living thing for ages and ages. She almost lost it, she said. She'd never wanted a hug so bad in her life.

    "This time, she woke up and met a really nice lady who bought her a room, dinner, kept her company when she slept, sparred with her like a classmate, hugged her and trusted her with her tears. Because of that lady, she now has a safe place with safe people where she can feel as emotionally vulnerable as she does at times like these -- which happen at the drop of a hat with her, trust me -- and know that she's okay. She's taken care of now, and that might not have happened if this wonderful lady hadn't done all those things and reminded her that she's a person too."

    A lump rose in her throat, and she swallowed it. The last thing she needed right now was to make herself cry, but she knew how much all that stuff had meant to Shell, and she wanted -- needed -- Mairead to know that she had, indeed, saved someone from the worst possible existence.

    Ylsa


    She laughed out loud when Meriele commented on the gathering, nodding through it. "Yes, that's basically it..! Celebrating being alive, coming to terms with some of the pain it's brought up... that sort of thing."

    The mystic shifted her hands and legs slightly as the concubus settled her head into her lap, unused to such attentions -- at least, in this life -- but wanting her to be comfortable all the same. Somewhere in her spirit, Owen crossed his legs and grinned his enjoyment, and almost out of habit for the residual thoughts and feelings that resulted, Ylsa toyed with the demon-woman's fiery hair, though she still smiled her customary sleepy smile.

    Well, why not? She shrugged inwardly. You only live ten thousand times.

    "Actually, it was Nakara's idea -- she's the tall dark one who just went for a walk -- I just took the ball and ran with it a little. She, Sara, Shell, and Taras set everything up for me, and the rest of you..." She glanced down at Meriele, "...have added the most important element: the company."

    She paused, and tipped her head curiously. The woman felt like an ocean spray, a battering but revitalizing salt wind, but it was only natural, under the circumstances, to ask.

    "Did you live here in Madrid..?"


    Shell

    “There’s nothing about you that would make me leave, no darkness that I wouldn’t push through to pull you out of. Know that everything… every bit of what you feel is here in me, and it’s not something I’ll ever toss away.”

    It was the completeness that she had been lacking -- he was as Yin as she, but together they created another symbol entirely, one of unity, a harmony of its own. She could have stayed there forever in this two-person collective consciousness that they shared, and yet at the same time she knew that it would never be far away no matter how far apart they were physically. There were parts of them within the other, now, just as she and Khana had once had one anothers' eyes, and she would treasure it beyond all else.

    "There's nothing I wouldn't do for you," She replied, and she found her smile again. The pain of grief was still with her, but some of the edge had vanished as she now found herself a home in the heart of another -- a depth of love and understanding she had never before shared with a mortal.

    They parted, though the distance between them made no difference in how she felt. She smiled. "We go where we've always gone. But.... this time, we know we have each other, no matter where we are."

    She paused. She did not feel ready to return to social activity, not the type that was existing in the town square; it wasn't as though it was abrasive, not anymore, but she simply wished to spend her time in quietude now. She looked up, shy but smiling.

    "I don't think either of us really want to be in the limelight right now. Ylsa's place is just down the embankment a few blocks from here to the south: there's a little path that goes down the side of it... would you meet me at the start of the path..? There's space in my room for one more person, and..."

    Well. She knew she didn't need to say more: she didn't want to be in the public proper, but she didn't want to be alone either, wanted to sit with these warm feelings as long as she could while they were together.

    "But I want to find Mairead first. I left in an awful hurry, and I feel I was rather... rude, and may have... I don't know, hurt some things. I want to make sure it's all going to be okay."
    Edited by Shell, Aug 26 2017, 01:41 PM.
    (OFFLINE) PROFILE QUOTE GO TO TOP
     
    Meriele Logala


    Looking up at Ylsabet, Meriele quite liked how she played with her hair, and listened with interest to her piece about the gathering. Noticing her glance down when mentioning that the rest of the group brought the company, Meriele responded lazily.

    "Well, company is about all I brought. Would've brought booze but ran dry a few days ago. That, and I wasn't counting on finding a party amid the ruins."

    Only a moment later, Ylsa asked if she had lived here, and Meri responded casually.

    "Can't say I did. I was raised in the woods around Lake Navale. My mum still lives there. And how about you sweetcheeks?"
    Edited by Meriele Logala, Aug 27 2017, 11:25 AM.
    (OFFLINE) PROFILE QUOTE GO TO TOP
     
    1 user reading this topic (1 Guest and 0 Anonymous)
    ZetaBoards - Free Forum Hosting
    Enjoy forums? Start your own community for free.
    Learn More · Sign-up Now
    « Previous Topic · Madrid · Next Topic »
    • Pages:
    • 1
    • 2

    affiliates


    Join us on Facebook!
    Join/follow our deviantArt group!

    Vote for Us and Check Out Our Listings!
    RPGfix Total Drama Website - The Best Role-Play Sites Top RPG Sites Top RP Sites
    RPG-D Seductive Directory
    Nerd Listings

    Affiliates
    'Souls RPG Warden's Vigil: A Dragon Age Roleplaying Community Black & White
    Tales of Illyria Tir Dearthair The Games

    Beyond the Fall
    Edolon

    Word Counter provided by Fission

    Welcome Guest [Log In] [Register]