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| Two Sides of the Same Coin; phaedrus and nevneni | |
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| Topic Started: Feb 12 2014, 08:15 AM (396 Views) | |
| Phaedrus | Feb 12 2014, 08:15 AM Post #1 |
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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.
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[ here's what this idiot is singing: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nGT5lBve_v4 ] Death’s bell was a notorious pain to harvest. It favored cold temperatures, blooming quickly before withering to nothingness-- killing everything in a circle around it when it died, hence its name. If it was miserable, dreary, and icy with early winter winds, then undoubtedly the flower would be hiding under some turned log or chilly bank, blue petals unfurling in mud. Harmless if swallowed outright, deadly when crushed and boiled. One drop for sleep. Two for stupor. Three for death. Phaedrus knelt, pants and hands wet with slush as he carefully harvested the thorny plant. Breath smoked from his mouth, dispersing above his red cheeks and nose. Tiny blue flowers jumped around in a vial as he worked, hands growing increasingly numb and fumbling. What a perfectly wretched day. His cloak did little to avail his chill, snapping about him as a dagger of wind picked up again and cut right through him, knocking his hood back. Teeth chattering, the necromancer forged on, raising his voice over the fluttering of his cloak. “Lady, long have I loved you, I would have you for my wife--” For the past fifteen minutes or so, he’d been humming snatches of ballads under his breath to stave off boredom, but the bleakness of the weather and distance from the road had convinced him no one would pass by. He’d since fancied himself a bard, singing a merry tune to keep his mind from the numbness of his fingers and the sight of grey sky between twisted branches. “I will stay upon your shoreland, though it robs me of my life--” A most absurd love story between a maiden and a selkie, but then, he had a soft spot for odd tales, and it had burrowed in his head like a niggling worm since he’d heard it. “I will stay one night beside you, never go back to the sea--” Phaedrus’ pale fingers dug around in the cold, grey mud, teasing the roots of the death’s bell from the earth. Strands of fiery red hair clung to his forehead, his cheek, his neck; the wind had blown it into a nightmare, and he half considered forgoing it all and merely walking bald on the way back--but a second snap of cold convinced him otherwise. One would think I’d be used to this. The Gates of Death held a similar chill, some of which numbed the spirit, slowed the heart to a sluggish crawl. This is a balmy summer afternoon, by comparison. Still, it did not change the fact he was singing alone in the midst of Erth'netora Forest, his pants muddy, sorting meticulously through decaying plants and thorns for the ingredients to nightshade. The draught of Death, the doorman for the First Gate. He could see the recipe emblazoned in one of his oldest tomes, every rune seared into his mind. He had not made nightshade since... since when, really? Time dissipated in his memory, chaotic, formless strands of half-impressions, glimpses, guesses; but he felt it had been a very long time since his hands had grasped a pestle and his lips had drank of the tonic. He hadn’t needed it. There was once a time where the First Gate was at his fingertips, breathing always upon his neck, a doorway he slipped into like an old friend’s house. Now, he was so weak he could scarcely draw the life from a rabbit-- what had happened? What indeed? Must I drink poison to lull myself into the appropriate State? Thoughts, wretched thoughts-- he pushed them away with another lyric, voice growing far too loud and dramatic. He'd long decided that if there were any bandits or demons, they would have been drawn to him by now, and ceased caring. “I will stay and be thy husband, though it be the death of meee-- ach.” A thorn jabbed his skin, cutting off his singing with a brief curse. Mother Nature telling me to be quiet, perhaps? Phaedrus dropped the vial and grabbed his thumb, watching a black, oily bubble ooze from the wound. It moved with the sluggishness of molasses, blotting the soil in a fat droplet. The substance hissed, writhed, and abruptly dissipated, leaving an ugly trail on his skin. “Curse it,” Phaedrus hissed under his breath, disgusted anew by his -- blood? could such a vile thing even be compared to blood? -- ichor, and wiped it brusquely upon his pants. Was his heart as black and repulsive too? A sluggish, squelching thing, pumping mud through dark veins? Falling quiet for a moment, the necromancer picked up the vial and twirled it between two fingers, disgust thinly veiled on his face. There were moments, such as that, where his facade broke and he was afforded a glimpse -- a reminder -- into the inhuman void stirring beneath his mask; it never ceased to startle him, to make a pit open in the bottom of his stomach. Perhaps some part of his dormant memory still expected to see blood bloom, red and fresh, from the cut -- expected any vestige of humanity. Instead, his body felt like a foreign vessel: a nightmare he had not yet awakened from, one where he was feeble and lost and confused. Idly, Phaedrus squeezed his hands together, trying to rub some warmth into them. He was tired, and growing bored with harvesting. Perhaps it was time for a break. The thought of a warm, crackling fire and lunch helped to nudge his mind from its unpleasant mood, just barely. The damp had set into his clothes and made his tunic cling to him, giving the impression the forest breathed wetly down his neck. Somewhere, a bird shrieked and exploded from the underbrush, breaking the silence with an abruptness that made him start. Exhaling, the necromancer wearily regarded his task, digging out the surrounding soil to uproot the death’s bell without killing it outright. Just one more, and then I will take a break from this wretched task. Plucking up a melody again, the necromancer resumed singing, corking the new vial with a satisfying pop. Edited by Phaedrus, Feb 12 2014, 06:00 PM.
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| Nevneni | Feb 25 2014, 01:09 PM Post #2 |
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Asperges me hysopo, et mundabor: lavabis me, et super nivem dealbabor.
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(The melody of Nevneni's song, also a guy with some hair: x) Nevneni walked with an almost-smile on her face, glad for the way the cold bit at her. The hand that held her staff was red and swollen, aching most wonderfully as the heat of her body rebelled against the winter. She had stood in a puddle of slush a while back, just to soak her boots so that now her feet were like loaves of pain in sodden wrappings. It had dimly occurred to her that she could probably lose her toes to this folly, but why shouldn't she? She had to lose something and there was little else left to her. There was just her own body, a wonderful sacrifice to give so she might atone for those dreadful works wrought by her hands. The thought had her feeling quite cheery, in her own twisted way, for she felt as if she stood on the brink of an abyss of chance. Anything could happen now! she told herself. If there's an inn on the road soon, then you keep your toes! If there isn't, then you might not! You could even die if you're lucky! Ah, that voice in her head, that distorted version of her own voice. It was almost the only thing that ever sounded inside her head nowadays. Had it ever been kinder? Had she ever talked in her mind about herself, not to herself? Maybe, but she didn't remember now. Inside, she felt stuck full of needles, she felt like the sharp, grating pain of metal left in the skin. She felt like the feverish, swollen infection of foreign objects in the flesh. It had been there so long that she could feel happiness still. Thoughts of death brought to her mind a song, so she sung it out immediately without a thought spared for its origin. "There is a reaper men call Death! And Gods hath given him pow'r!" Her voice, light and untrained, a bit off-key, trilled down the latter sentence. The next few lines were like leaves falling, starting high and fluttering to the earth. "His blade he is wetting, sharp-sharper it's growing, soon will he be mowing, all must fall before him." Nevneni drew breath, momentarily aware of a voice sounding somewhere out in the woods, off the path. She didn't notice her, for memory had struck venomously once again. It was the kind of song that sounded better sung by a man with a deep voice, just like Aravin and yes, that was where it had come from. Her father and Aravin had learned it in their youth and were amused by its morbidity. They had sung it together sometimes, in happier days, making light of death. Did Aravin ever guess how violently the reaper would come for him? Did he ever hear the sharpening of the blade as a foretaste of what was to come? After that moment's hesitation, she sang out the last line. "Beware, oh lovely flow'r!" Then she heard the other voice again, or rather, she realised it this time. Just as soon as she noticed it, it was cut off. The singer had hurt himself, Nevneni could just guess it. A wound very slight, but one that made her wince even before she knew what it was. Someone else's pain had ignited awareness of her own. She had forgotten it was pain for a while and had thought it a delight. Curious, she stepped off the path and trod silently through the woods, clumsy on her frozen feet. The voice had begun to call to her again, reminding her of the time that she and Vorkael had been assaulted in the woods, that other time that she had been at the handle of the blade, guilty and covered in blood. What if this person attacks you? it crowed, Wouldn't that be lovely? If only you could get stabbed in this chest, right where you stabbed him and him; then the balance of the world would surely fall into place! A flame-tongue of hair became apparent between the trees. Nevneni plunged forth, scaring a bird from its roost. She took no notice. He was working on some plant, singing again. Was he a herbalist as well? Her mind was stiff with cold, it took her some time to recognise the plant. It was a death's bell. Nothing she'd ever had to harvest, nothing she'd ever seen in person. She'd seen it in a book though, read about it. It reminded her of belladonna. She smiled and stepped forth, announcing her arrival with a bright voice: "Hello! Is that a death's bell? I've never seen one. What're you using it for?" Edited by Nevneni, Feb 25 2014, 01:12 PM.
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| Phaedrus | Feb 25 2014, 08:47 PM Post #3 |
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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.
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Song warded off the loneliness. Music dispelled silence, thought, beat away the oppressive isolation of the forest, its stirring boughs, Death creeping from root to root, locking its life in a dormant core. As long as he sung, or kept moving, or distracted himself, reality would be kept at bay. Drink, parchment, and company were his weapons of self-denial. It left no time to ponder why he was so eager to return to the Gates that had destroyed him, left him in this state to begin with. An Art he carried in him like a tumor, a parasitic twin--unwanted, and yet ever-present, a stain that did not come off his soul. His livelihood. His namesake, a thing he'd devoted his past life to, a thing that -- however vile -- held answers, or at least the hope of them. And so his fingers worked, and his lips moved to dispel the cold and self-doubt eating its way to the forefront of his mind. Phaedrus rubbed his numb hands together, trying to wring some life into them, voice lilting. "La la lie la la, la laa-- ah!" The sound of a voice startled him badly, knocked the melody from his teeth, made him jolt and turn around with violated confusion, as though someone had walked in on him on the toilet. The vial glinted in his clenched fingers, mouth still caught in its last syllable, and the necromancer blinked, regarding his newfound company with a curious stare. What in seven hells--what a perfectly strange place to find a conversation. Gaining his bearings, the necromancer tucked away the vial of death's bell and dusted off his hands, face relaxing with a quiet titter. "Oh, dear. Forgive me, I was not expecting company." Indeed, you were wailing like some gutted pig. Perhaps that song functions as some kind of perverse mating call. An easy grin hung on his face, though his mind turned suspiciously. Is she a bandit? Hardly seems so, I see no weapons on her person. Why, she looks colder and more wretched than I do. "It is indeed," he crossed his arms, sticking his hands into his armpits to warm them, and regarded the woman with a relaxed stance, leaning most of his weight on one hip. One eyebrow quirked at her knowledge, a smile curving his lips. "To shut up my in-laws," he delivered without a beat, voice deadpan, then broke his mask with a sudden titter, one pallid hand tossing in dismissal. Too morbid? Too morbid. No need to terrify a woman you've scarcely met, Phaedrus. "…I kid. It's for myself, in truth. When diluted, death's bell makes a fine sleep potion and anesthetic. Most apothecaries do not carry it, however, for fear of its darker uses, so here I am." A sigh withered off his lips. "I did not think people wandered this far from the road. Are you an herbalist?" Curious, the necromancer noted the weary crease of her mouth, the heavy bags under her eyes, her baggy, ill-worn clothes and wet boots. And there, peeking from her brown hair--an elf? How curious. It looked like she carried some great burden; looking closer, he noticed a sort of void-call, the extinguished spirit behind the eyes of someone who'd seen much. The necromancer held his tongue a moment, hands fidgeting, and blinked so not to stare, tilting his head idly. "…Well. I mean no offense, but you look quite weary. I was just about to take a break, if you've a mind to sit by a fire." He shrugged, spreading his hands in invitation, then gestured idly to his pack on the ground. Unexpected company did not mean she was unwelcome. "I have cake," he added brightly, as if that were reason enough to accept his offer. Edited by Phaedrus, Feb 25 2014, 08:54 PM.
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| Nevneni | Mar 6 2014, 08:10 PM Post #4 |
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Asperges me hysopo, et mundabor: lavabis me, et super nivem dealbabor.
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Nevneni's smile faltered when he said what is for, but it was still smeared across her face. When he told her it was joke, the frozen smile melted into a small laugh. "No, I see. I remember reading about it being used in such a way. Perhaps I should take some...most sleep potions have not worked on me." She stared at the plant longingly. When had she last slept? She had tried a night or two ago and had nearly frozen, so she'd started walking again. Maybe it hadn't been since Madrid then, when she'd let herself stay at an inn, too tired to realise that it was an inn she and Vorkael had shared once. They had been in the root cellar, of course, hidden away from the daylight, but she had gotten up and left her room in the middle of the night and crept down there to sit in the smells of earth and food. For a moment, she'd almost smelled him in amongst all that, almost felt his cold skin under her hand instead of the cold dirt floor. "Though really, if you were shutting people up, it would work better than most. Especially belladonna." A dark knot of though writhed inside her, hidden by that smiling mask. "I am a herbalist; my name's Nevneni. Are you a herbalist?" For a chilling moment, he looked into her eyes. She could only manage to stare back for a moment, then her gaze flickered down towards her freezing feet. She felt like his sunflower-bud eyes were piercing her own, opening up inside her own head, filling up the space that echoed so dismally within her. She looked up again when he pointed out her weariness, but her gaze hovered somewhere on his chin, refusing to meet those budding eyes. "Weary" meant a lot in a mouth, at least in reference to her. There was some mutual understanding there and she wasn't sure if that was a relief or if she feared it. Something in her sank at the mention of a fire. Well, you won't be losing your toes today, but it's only thanks to luck! "No offence taken...I suppose that's a good idea," she said, her smile dropping. The true meaning of her pain was back, for her twisted joy was no longer there to veil it. However, a distraction came. "Cake?" What sort of traveller happened to have cake with him? Was he wealthy? She'd only ever had fancy cake, not honey cakes, when she'd been staying with Alex, but maybe that wasn't what this man was talking about. Her perplexity and curiosity was a pleasant distraction. She stood differently, leaning towards him slightly instead of slouching on herself like a pile of laundry. "Alright...What sort of cake?" |
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| Phaedrus | Mar 7 2014, 11:17 PM Post #5 |
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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.
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Most sleep potions have not worked on me. Well, that much was obvious. Her longing stare didn't escape him, and he offered a friendly smile, tilting his head. How much had he harvested? At least a few vials full. "Well. I can certainly concoct a potion, if you are so inclined. One drop, diluted in water or wine, is enough for a dreamless sleep." He guessed that was the reason--nightmares certainly wrenched him from sleep at all hours of the night; formless, terrible things, memory of incomprehensible horrors that left him bolt-upright and hyperventilating, the feeling of a knife… it went on and on, bubbled up on the nights he did not drink or fuck himself to oblivion. As a rule, he didn't need much anyway; wondered how much of his behavior was simply a vestige of his humanity, or actually necessary… a philosophical gamble that left him reaching for a wineglass. At her next comment, he tittered behind his hand in a nearly effeminate gesture, eyes dancing. "In truth, I am not one to shut people up. I am fond of company." After a beat, he extended his hand, other on his hip, inclining his head in a polite gesture. "A pleasure, Neveni. I am Phaedrus." Am I an herbalist? Oh, my. "Of a sort," he dodged, shrugging. "Only for ritual uses. I am a sorcerer." Delivered so airily, one might have thought he'd just announced himself a baker or an inn keep. And just as quickly, he'd lost her gaze. She refused to look at him, something he was pointedly aware of, and it stung somewhat. Vile, sulfurous eyes. It did not matter how much he smiled or how bright his tone was -- something always hid behind them, made them chipped and cold and inhuman. Her smile faded at the mention of a fire, which perplexed him. At the pressure of spending time with a stranger, or something else? She didn't look equipped to be in the cold at all, tired, nearing frostbite, with no regard to her person. And she knew much about death herbs. Not a comforting thought, and his eyes lingered on her face, dark considerations rising in his mind. Before she could change her mind, he'd already crossed to his bag with a fluid flap of his cloak, kneeling to bring out its contents. With a rustle, he brought out a wrapped bundle, beaming as he extended it to the woman. "Cinnamon-and-fruit cake. I hope you're not averse to raisins." If she didn't take it, he motioned to put it on a relatively clean-looking spot of ground, then set his attentions on making a fire. The necromancer drew kindling and starting wood from his pack, kicking wet leaves out of the way and arranging the sticks. Everything was damp and wretched. In a few minutes, he'd gathered some slightly-less-miserable looking wood from the area, arranging it in a pile. Satisfied, the necromancer stood and dusted off his hands, narrowing his eyes at the bundle. A moment later, he raised a hand and snapped his fingers, watching the kindling roar to life as cold drenched his arm. Phaedrus swiftly wrapped himself in his cloak again, tittering. "I love doing that," he confessed, looking sidelong at his guest with a careless shrug. Edited by Phaedrus, Mar 7 2014, 11:19 PM.
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| Nevneni | Mar 16 2014, 04:38 PM Post #6 |
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Asperges me hysopo, et mundabor: lavabis me, et super nivem dealbabor.
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Nevneni blinked in surprise. "Cinnamon...from Angkar?" She'd had some of the stuff once, when a travelling peddler came through the town. She must have been fourteen years old, comparable to a human of half that age. She remembered the strange man's cart, with oddities from all over the world: enchanted toys that moved of their own accord, floating baubles of light that had to be kept in a bird cage, bolts of cloth from Morrim, heavy jewelery from Eldahar, perfumes from Fairin...Point was, her mother had bought some dried cinnamon bark at a hefty price. Less expensive in cities like Reine, explained the Ashokan peddler, who wore white cloth wrapped around his head, but still something only for those with money to spare. Nevneni's mother had been interested in the medicinal properties of course, but she did spare a little to make buns with it for a spring festival and Nevneni could almost remember the taste, just barely... "No, of course I'm not averse," she added, realising she'd spent a silent moment lost in thought. She took the bundle carefully, then stood awkwardly for a second, realising that she couldn't help with the fire because she was holding it. She had the feeling that Phaedrus wouldn't accept help anyways; he was simply too kind for it. So, she put down her staff, swung her pack off her shoulder and put it down. With one hand, she dragged out an old blanket and spread out on the ground. It was wide enough for both of them. She sat down at the edge, placing the bundle in her lap and, after a moment's hesitation, untying it. The wrapping fell open in her lap, revealing the cake, which was soft and maybe a bit smushed. Carefully, Nevneni pulled her knife off her belt and cut off a triangle. Cradling the piece in one small hand, she put the parcel down onto the blanket, sheathed her knife and turned her attention to the food. She was hungrier than she thought. The first bite awakened the fire of hunger beneath her ribs, so voracious that she hardly even noticed that distantly familiar taste of cinnamon. When had she last eaten? It had been long enough that she only vaguely remembered what food she carried with her. It was all she could do not to cram the cake into her face like some sort of animal. Nevneni jumped a little when Phaedrus clicked his fingers, bringing fire into life. She had practically forgotten what was happening around her. She managed to laugh a little to. "I've never been able to do magic like that," she said, "Only things like this." She pointed at the parcel of cake, left open like a flower, and a tiny shimmer of magic pulsed through the air. Slowly, the cake and its wrapping rose up into the air and stayed there, hovering about a foot off the ground. The sight was weirdly humorous to her. She couldn't help but laugh a little, which surprised her. With food and fire, some of her misery had begun to evaporate. Her toes were coming painfully back to life, wafted by the waxy warmth of the fire. It wasn't that twisted joy that came to her either: her sadness was slowly being forgotten, rather than being mixed with happiness. The truth was, they didn't really go together, not easily; they were like oil and water. |
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| Phaedrus | Apr 7 2014, 12:10 PM Post #7 |
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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.
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"I suppose, yes." He'd never been there. Ah, he'd certainly read about it -- the curious island, swathed in a canopy of jungle, wreathed in mist and crawling with strange peoples. Read of the series of priests and hierarchies and complex religion, heard tales of the child-queen Eulalia, of Angkar's exoticism and grandeur and… intrigue. A place he'd visit one day, perhaps. If I can manage the boat ride. The world had so much to see -- unfurled like a flower in his palms, whispering of strange vistas and ancient palaces, crumbling ruins and people in fanciful headdress or no dress at all -- religions ever so multifarious, young gods and old, all the peoples of the earth in various stages of life, of all walks and treads, some with dusted feet and tired eyes, some who'd never toiled at all… And all the same, in the end. Death is the great equalizer. Phaedrus dusted his hands and rose with a smile, watching her take a piece and eat it. My, we are hungry. "Please, help yourself," the necromancer gestured vaguely, then resumed rummaging in his pack. Out came a cast pot, big enough for two or three bowls of stew -- a wooden spoon, a series of strange skewers. Enchanted. Damn useful. For all the sneers "household wizards" faced, they knew how to make proper kitchen supplies. Soto had a marvelous wizard's guild, full of peculiarities and trinkets, and petty enchanters were all-too-eager to sell their practical crafts in specialty shops. The necromancer screwed them into the ground, and the top snapped between them through some whip of magnetism, making a cooking spit. He turned around just to see the cake hovering in the air, hanging like some absurd ornament, and tittered. "Well, that's helpful. You can pour tea with your mind, or reach a book from an impossible shelf. I've always marveled at telekinesis. It's probably for the best I've never managed it. Else I'd be lazier than I already am." A yawn punctuated his point as he threw some clean snow into the pot, hooking it onto the spit and peering disinterestedly at the melting, slushy contents. His guest was far more intriguing, after all, and it seemed the fire had warmed her spirits -- the melancholy frown had eased some, and a laugh even bubbled from her lips. As he waited for the water to boil, the necromancer swept over to cut a piece of cake for himself, suppressing a shiver as he moved away from the fire. I'm an Ashokan through-and-through, it seems. A single breeze is an arctic howl. "So," the necromancer continued conversationally, taking a prodigious bite of the cake in his hand and chewing it over in thought. So not to be barbaric, he waited until he'd swallowed the cloying lump before speaking. "…What brings you to Erth'netora? It's colder than a witch's tit this time of year." Phaedrus wrapped himself in his cloak, a hint of displeasure souring his tone. Edited by Phaedrus, Apr 7 2014, 12:12 PM.
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| Nevneni | Apr 15 2014, 12:54 PM Post #8 |
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Asperges me hysopo, et mundabor: lavabis me, et super nivem dealbabor.
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Nevneni shrugged, picking crumbs off her skirt and taking them to her mouth. "That's only small stuff. Surely it's more useful to make a fire. I was never taught that." Despite herself, her voice hinted that she wished to be taught, and in nervousness she avoided looking at him, apparently wholly focused on the task of cleaning up crumbs. Even so, she peered up through the veil of her lashes to watch him with his implements, the cauldron and the snow. She wanted to ask what it was that he was making, but she dared not, fearing that he would then feel obliged to give her some. The cake was enough really, or so she tried to convince herself. Her hunger had been ignited and now blazed in her belly vigorously, seeking more. Surreptitiously, she reached into her pack and rooted around, trying to find food in there. She honestly wasn't sure; the lack of sleep and food had degraded her memory that much. Her hands travelled across a sickle's sharp blade, a few bundles of herbs; her fingers scraped across the bottom of her bag at the detritus of lost chamomile flowers and crumbled rosemary leaves. Finally, she came across a thin package, wrapped in an old rag. Pulling it out and unwrapping it, she found it to contain her last few strips of dried meat. Smiling a little, she took one slice and began to chew slowly. It wasn't the most enjoyable thing in the world to her; really she desired more of that cake, which still hovered in place, rotating slowly. As Phaedrus spoke, she offered him some of the dried beef, her smile welcoming. She mouthed the idiom slowly, amused: "Colder than a witch's tit." However, she faltered a little at the question itself. She could make up some reason, some quest or task that she was to perform, but nothing came to mind. Why should she lie to this man anyways? He had given her cake. Her face pale and furrowed, she said, "I don't know. I'm just walking. I'm used to the cold. Grew up in Soto. But perhaps you are not? Why?" Edited by Nevneni, Apr 15 2014, 12:54 PM.
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| Phaedrus | Apr 16 2014, 10:25 PM Post #9 |
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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.
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"Ah." The necromancer poked the rest of the cake into his mouth, chewing it over. From her tone, it sounded like she wanted to learn, but perhaps was too -- shy? polite? -- to ask outright, letting it linger instead in an unspoken . Every twitch of her body language suggested that she tried to shrink away, be as forgettable and unassuming as possible, as if her very presence was something she felt to be a burden. "Well, it's not terribly far off from what you just did. Creating basic sparks is just an exchange of energy, after all. You have to draw upon a source, and direct it into a realization. It can be magic reserves, or your own body heat, or the life of things around you." The necromancer splayed his fingers, wiggled them vaguely. "Fire is a bit of a devil. Getting a feel for how much energy it takes to create it is perhaps the most difficult part. And focusing that energy effectively. But! If you have the mental routing to translate your thoughts into telekinesis, you're already on the right path." As he spoke, he rummaged in his bag for potatoes, laying out a cloth. Sitting cross-legged, the necromancer drew a dagger from his belt, beginning to slice them in a practiced movement. His thumb danced around the knife as medallions fell to the cloth, creating a neat little pile of potatoes. Phaedrus' eyes darted up when Nevneni offered the jerky, reading the hollowness of her cheek and eyes, and he paused. It is telling when a person has barely anything, and is still willing to share. He shook his head. "Thank you. But please, keep it. If you are in no rush, you are welcome to my stew. It's not often I get company. I am delighted to share." Noting the way she side-eyed the cake, he chirped a second invitation, moving on to a second potato. "Please, eat more cake. I can't finish it myself. Best to eat it before it goes stale." Phaedrus tossed his hand, hummed something tunelessly under his breath. Just walking, hmm? No food, no direction, no fire. Was she fleeing from something, perhaps? The necromancer lifted his head at the oddly honest answer, scuffling in the bag for a carrot. "Ah." He drew out the vegetable, peeling it absently. Orange strips curled past his fingers, dropping softly to the dirt. Phaedrus scraped his knife against it, watched idly as a cheery pile of orange joined the raw potato slices. "Well, I hope you find what you're looking for." There was a subtext there -- people did not have restless feet without reason. He skipped merrily along, content to be simply sitting next to a crackling fire, moving in the monotonous task of preparing stew. "Are you, now? Where from? I'm not used to cold, I'm afraid. I'm from Ashoka." He tittered quietly, waggled the stump of carrot northward. "But. I am no fan of the Moghul, or their policies towards sorcerers. I needed a change of pace," Phaedrus concluded elusively, glancing sideways into the pot. The snow had melted, tiny bubbles clinging to the cast iron and wriggling away. The chill air smoked, creating a haze above the pot, and he waved it off. "Besides, Soto has the finest wine in all of Soare." Giving a careless shrug, the necromancer started on another carrot. |
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| Nevneni | May 14 2014, 11:46 AM Post #10 |
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Asperges me hysopo, et mundabor: lavabis me, et super nivem dealbabor.
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Nevneni listened with interest to his tutorial on making fire as she chewed on her shards of meat. Her mother had only ever taught her daughters to do some of the simplest tricks, such as the telekinesis spell. She certainly had never discussed theory such as this with them. Nevneni suspected that the woman had it in her – after all, she was an elf – but she had kept it hidden from her offspring, knowing that their mixed blood made them weak. Indeed, Nevneni had very limited magical capacity; healing wounds just about took it out of her. Liosi had no magical ability whatsoever and as for Temia...well, Nevneni didn't want to think about her. Thankfully, distraction came, now in the form of Phaedrus' hospitality. Nevneni felt a spring of emotion welling up when he offered her a share of the stew. It didn't matter that this was basically common courtesy: that wasn't even on her mind right now. No, it was a matter of being shown that she was not so vile that she deserved food as well. Blinking rapidly, Nevneni put the jerky away, murmuring a thank you. She reached for another piece of cake, gently lifting it from the floating package, and put it to her mouth. "Just...a small town," she said haltingly, "You wouldn't know of it." Or what if, by some small chance, he did? What if he'd passed through and heard of a gruesome murder by a woman who once lived there, visited and then ran away, trying to escape her guilt. She winced a little. "I've been to Ashoka," she said blandly, "Orion is...awful." She'd heard the rumours. She'd had to cover up her ears for some of them. One time she'd abruptly a circle of gossipers in a tavern because they'd gotten to talking about his behaviour at the Harlot's Inn and what they said had made her head pound, made her hands and feet feel like they were a million miles away... "I helped out those refugees in Soto a few years ago. You know, the ones that left after Orion ascended and they had no space to be because no one wanted them here and Orion didn't want to do anything about the situation. I just helped the sick and the wounded for a while...there were a lot of those. I wasn't there when Councillor Aniketos raided them though." This was a lie. She had been there and she had run away in terror, escaping into the night. She finished her second piece of cake, her stomach clenching as another bitter dose of loathing wound its way through her veins. To distract herself, she began rummaging through her pack for no particular reason. The reason for this was soon discovered, however: she was a herbalist, why not add some herbs to the stew? Suddenly excited, she began pulling out small bundles of herbs, lining them up neatly before her. Glancing over at the cauldron, she thought for a moment, then picked out four and went to crouch by Phaedrus. Silently, she sprinkled some into the stew: rosemary, oregano, thyme and a few hard bay leaves. She looked over a Phaedrus with a smile on her face, glad to have made some sort of contribution to the meal. Edited by Nevneni, May 14 2014, 12:43 PM.
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| Phaedrus | May 20 2014, 08:04 PM Post #11 |
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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.
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It was all-too-obvious the subject of their conversations had struck a nerve, left the words ringing hollow and empty as Nevneni spoke of her hometown. He hadn't meant to be intrusive, of course, rather as a gesture of conversation, and paused in peeling a carrot, eyes darting up to the woman. The change of tone suggested some... personal involvement, some ill experience. Awful. A splendid euphemism. As burning to death is a touch uncomfortable. “...Yes,” he responded quietly, shortly. His hands worked of their own accord—away went strips of orange, curling from the knife, leaving his fingers slippery, far-away. So much had changed since he'd awoken, staggered back to the cities of the desert, his mind chafed raw, turned mad, churning with fits of memory, flashes here and there, crawling horror at the state of it all... the way his blood grew cold upon hearing of Andromalius, the foul magics that tore up the land, smashed it under a cruel heel. He knew the scorn he'd face, then, the horror of his own Craft. Idly, the necromancer turned the carrot over in his hands, nodding along to Nevneni's words. A brief flare of anger kindled in him at the reminder of Aniketos' raid; perhaps because he felt them to be his own people—the closest thing to a nationality he had, a... home. Soto was not his home, his mind had reminded him traitorously, on many occasions; indeed, he felt no confidence that he was born in Ashoka, either. Truly, he could have been from anywhere, and never know—hope of finding family dwindled lower and lower as he realized just how much time had passed since his betrayal and awakening; Death had no clock, no hour, so it had been impossible to tell if he'd spent an eternity there or an excruciating heartbeat. That was one of his deepest fears—to find himself truly alone, to find that all he knew had long-crumbled to Thaenon, far beyond his grasp. To be left with a rotten heartful of memories, acquainted only with thralls of Death and worse masters. “You're a good person,” he said suddenly, dropping his eyes back to the makeshift cutting board. “And I have met a distinct shortage of good people. Healing is a noble calling.” A tight smile came to his lips, though no less genuine—it was no fault of her own, rather his own misgivings, a faint malcontent with his Craft. The necromancer forced himself to look up at Nevneni. Indeed, healing the sick rather than using them as stepstones to the Gates. What would it be like, to make poultices instead of nightshade? To save the living while they're still anchored instead of tearing their souls from the rivers? But she wasn't looking at him, instead rummaging in her pack. Curiously, the necromancer watched as she brought out a few bundles of herbs and arranged them, inhaling their familiar scent. He smiled back as she sprinkled them into the stew. “Excellent,” was his breezy comment, resuming the work of cutting the vegetable in his hands. “Have you ever used cacao in your stews? I met a woman from Angkar who swore by it, but I've yet to take her advice. It seems—“ His words were cut off by a sudden twang; a line of black appeared on his cheek, eyes wide, an arrow buried deeply into the tree behind him. Its fletching quivered, stilled. Phaedrus froze, his guts at his throat, fingers still splayed stupidly over the carrot. A moment later, bootsteps crunched through the snow, and the branches shivered to reveal an ugly man, clad all in furs and animal teeth, a hunter's bow trained on them both. A thick-lipped leer crawled across the stranger's face. “Whass two bints like you doin' in Blackfoot woods, eh?” the ranger hissed, in a voice thick with filed teeth and spittle. He spat solidly between them, freezing as it hit the snow, and ground it in with a ratty boot, black eyes glinting hungrily. “Oh aye, bless me, only one of yeh's a woman.” A dirty chuckle broke the dreadful silence that followed him, so tense the air felt like to break. |
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| Nevneni | Jun 3 2014, 04:38 PM Post #12 |
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Asperges me hysopo, et mundabor: lavabis me, et super nivem dealbabor.
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Nevneni pursed her lips in response to his compliment, holding down churning memories that seared at her throat. She wanted to say what had never been said: Yes, but I killed him. She was silent, remembering the darkened forest and the blood soaking hotly through the back of her dress. She remembered her own breath and how it continued, going in and out, in and out, on and on while Aravin was cooling and dead on the forest floor. The tide of thought was gradually sucked away and finally, after that moment of sparse silence, she said, "Yes, but you only just met me." The stew was a useful distraction. Anything, even bone-settings and amputations, would be a useful distraction right now. She carefully peeled the leaves into the stew, brow furrowed as she considered the implications of using cacao in a stew. She'd only ever tried the stuff once or twice, when it came by way of one of those peddlers she'd thought of earlier. She remembered that even less than the cinnamon, she couldn't even remember if there was anything medicinal about the stuff. She opened her mouth to talk, breathing in through her nose, and something whizzed right past her ear. Nevneni jumped away with a yelp, clutching her ear, half expecting it to be in tatters. It wasn't. She stared frantically at Phaedrus, but he was intact, albeit with an arrow quivering in the tree trunk next to him. Heavy footsteps clumped through the snow. Nevneni turned slowly to see the man emerge, his bowstring drawn, his thick face carved with a smile. She stared at him, wide-eyed, and realised self-consciously that one hand was still held up before her, holding a half-stripped rosemary stem. His laughter reminded her of old water in a dirty bucket being sloshed around and spilling out the sides. She winced at this, and then asked softly, waveringly, "Can we help you?" |
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| Phaedrus | Jun 10 2014, 03:21 PM Post #13 |
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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.
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Phaedrus felt terribly aware of his breathing, of the tautness of the string, the awful weight of Nevneni's life beside him—she didn't look a fighter, or a mage, for that matter; but he couldn't spare a look at her, absorbing the sight of the arrowhead and barbarian like a slowly unfolding nightmare. Devils below. He felt pathetically useless, clutching nothing but a dagger and carrot, crouched and frozen to the ground. “I—” his motion to speak was cut off by a threatening jerk of the man's chin, the bow's sight wavering down to sit right between his eyes. Phaedrus swallowed the words, feeling his blood chill, cold anger creeping down to the tips of his fingers, enervating them with the flow of magic. “Hard times,” the man growled on, circling closer. “Don' see travelers so much. Don' see game, neither.” A cracked smile opened up his lips like a knife wound, eyes narrowing as he saw the necromancer dip his head, eyes fixed on the ground. “Reckon you're both.” Phaedrus finished mouthing the spell for a ward, hand clenched viciously around the dagger. A ripple marred the air—that was all. If Nevneni was so inclined, she might have sensed the protective barrier now encircling them both, at least enough to stop an arrow the man looked so intent on loosing. “Might be yeh ken help me in other ways,” the cannibal jeered, snow crackling underfoot. His eyes roved over Nevneni. “Cold out, a nice bint like you could warm me up...” “Coin could buy many more nice bints, and meat besides,” Phaedrus countered, hoping to draw the man's filthy stare off the half-elf. “We're worth more alive than dead, if you let us go.” The ranger snarled, eyes flicking over to the necromancer, his scowl turning up into a sour grin. “Aye?” He jeered, scabbard bouncing at his hip as he stepped forward. His rotten teeth gleamed in the half-light, sharpened to points. “Chatty one, we are. Might be I'll kill yeh 'n rob yeh blind, no one'd know the better. Dead hands be more givin', 'n all.” A wet chuckle stirred his bristled throat. His stomach plummeted. Phaedrus hoped the woman had the sense to run—cursed that their brief acquaintanceship had been so gruesomely interrupted. By some filthy clansman, no less. He dropped the carrot, and it went rolling across the damp ground, stilling by his feet. His yellow eyes scanned the man, the weapon at his hip, the bow trained right on them. I tried to be civil, truly. The necromancer dove to the left, seizing the pot—as expected, the man loosed an arrow, and it ricocheted off the ward, sending a ripple of impact down it; Phaedrus' fingers clenched around the handle and he hurled it with a yell, hoping the healer would listen. “Run! Get out of here!” The barbarian swore, and dodged the pot of boiling stew—it flew up in a spray, and he danced around it, a black curse boiling off his lips. “Feck yeh!” Yellow teeth bared, he nocked another arrow, misfiring wildly—for two freezing hands had risen from the ground, pressing viciously into his eyes. A wounded howl left the barbarian as dark blood bubbled from his sockets, pouring down his cheeks. The bow fell with a clatter, and the man clawed, trying to wrench them from his face—his palms blistered from the cold, his wail unbroken, gruesome. Phaedrus' eyes rolled forward, the world refocusing to the bloody chaos before him. One of his hands was curled to a claw, raised in a summoning gesture; his eyes were flint, breath smoking from his mouth. Upon second thought, another hand tore from the ground, ripping the man's blade from his scabbard with the rasp of steel—it flew solidly into the necromancer's palm, hilt-first. He sheathed his meager dagger and turned, hoping the healer had gone; if not, he made to seize her hand, his flesh Death's cold, and bolt through the trees towards the road. |
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| Nevneni | Jul 9 2014, 02:07 PM Post #14 |
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Asperges me hysopo, et mundabor: lavabis me, et super nivem dealbabor.
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Nevneni did not like the way this man talked. On the outside, she winced, but stayed still and pale. On the inside, she was swept up by a wave of unwanted thought. His words were familiar. She'd heard them on so many dark and hated nights when Aravin rambled off his drink. Her ears roared with everything she remembered him saying, until it was like the deafening crash of waves that pounded over her head, sucked her under: "It's been two weeks, sometimes you just have to force 'em. Men have needs" and "Gods, what I would do with a younger lady" and "If I could just get a nice bit of cunny, not this stretched-out old sack" and so many more. Nevneni's eyes were glazed. The situation played out before her without her ever really seeing it. She had nothing to give that man, she thought vaguely. No money, just herbs and crumbs. She probably wasn't even a good bit of cunny, she realised with sourness coiling in her stomach. Dead or alive, he probably couldn't have much from her, and she was practically already dead anyways, or so she thought at the moment. Phaedrus moved. Nevneni's eyes flickered to follow him. She blinked, open her mouth, but his shouted words brought her back to her senses: “Run! Get out of here!” Without hesitation, she turned and ran. She had left the cake there, still hovering above the blanket, and all her things. What about the soup they had been making? Gone. She had been looking forward to it too. Something good had been happening, and then this. Her feet ached and she stumbled over knotted roots and lumps in the dirt. Somehow, there were branches everywhere, tearing at her face and her clothes. She slipped once in a slick of cold mud and felt her ankle twist in a way it shouldn't, but no pain registered in her mind, so she struggled up and ran on. Was it always this hard to run away? Carefully, Nevneni's mind classified each instance of running away she had performed in her life. First there was the first time she had helped her mother with midwifing and she had run off in terror of the miracle of life. Second were the times she'd fled Aravin's drunken ramblings, and this felt like very much the same activity in many ways. She'd run away after that night on her birthday too: she'd run away from Aravin and home and everything to do with what had happened, only to learn that physical distance was not at helpful when the mind was still wrapped in scars. Fourth: she had run away from Vorkael when Beinv had made her. Couldn't she have stayed and died? Fifth: she had run away from the refugee camp when she probably should have stayed and died. On and on the list tumbled through her head as she struggled on, her breath ripping from her hot lungs. Did walking into the ocean count as running away? Maybe as a metaphor. Running away after she had killed Aravin definitely counted, then she had run off and abandoned Euphorbia after everything good in her life had disintegrated. There seemed to be so much fleeing in her life that she had hardly been able to remember the times she did not run, few though they were. She didn't think that running away was almost as noble as staying when the trouble stayed with her whether or not she stayed still. Nevneni's foot hit a protruding tree root and she pitched forward, unable to stop her fall. She hit the ground, hard, and her lungs clenched, forcing her breath out of her. She laid there, clutching her frozen chest, unable to even whimper in pain. There was someone crashing through the trees, someone running. She hoped it was Phaedrus, though she realised also that it probably didn't matter, not when she didn't have much to give to a man who would take anything and everything from her. |
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| Phaedrus | Jul 13 2014, 12:34 AM Post #15 |
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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.
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Damn it all. Brush cracked and snapped under his heavy footfalls. The sword bounced along absurdly, held askew in his hand. He felt more likely to impale himself on it than put it to proper use—but it would be worse in the hands of a clansman, surely, and to leave it lying around... his eyes darted for the nearest brambles, and he flung it. The shadowed woods swallowed it in their thickets, and he ran on, a scowl tearing across his face. Snow shivered off twigs, grasping and snatching at his cloak, belt, every damned thing. Should he really have thrown that? The man's screams trailed after him, and he didn't know if the rustles in the underbrush were startled birds or hidden enemies. Phaedrus' breath came tight in his throat, hands chilled to ice, breath smoking wildly around his face. Where had the healer gone? “Nevneni?” The necromancer started hesitantly, slowing and swinging around. Everything was a smear of black and white, mad splashes of evergreens and churned mud. Nothing answered, spare for a slithering sound—he spun to see a chunk of snow slide off a bough, hitting the ground, and swallowed the ball of nerves in his throat. Not a man... Just in case, he kept his hands at the ready for casting, hopelessly useless, all things considered. He was used to the tangled streets of cities, long, twisted roads, endless spans of desert... the forest was a choking, maddening thicket, dead and silent in the grasp of winter. “...Nevneni?” Again—but he feared to raise his voice too loudly and risk attracting poor company; cursing, the necromancer set off again, boots crunching through the woods, fearing that he'd find her sprawled, the sense of Death bleeding through his consciousness like ink. “Nev—” He'd formed the word as he shoved past a withered tree, stopping at the sight of a dirty, unmoving bundle. The necromancer half-expected to see a score of arrows bristling from her back, blood pooling over the mud... but no. Phaedrus stopped before her, hands upon his knees, bent in concern. “Gods below,” the necromancer breathed, scanning the woman for any marks of blood, injury—he saw the root and feared the worst, stomach twisting. “Are you alright? Have you broken your ankle...?” Hesitantly, he moved to touch her shoulder, offering a hand if she needed it. Still, he could not afford to focus all her attentions upon the half-elf just yet—the necromancer turned his head, staring in the direction from whence they'd came; it looked the same as all else, every blighted log and root and thicket an endless repetition. “That man is no threat now. But there might be others. Come, get up.” He trained his ears for any snap or shiver of sound, eyes narrowed at the forest. Accursed clansmen. He'd heard stories of small brigands, thieves, werewolves—even rumors of cannibals living in the depths of Erth'netora, some barbaric tribe or another... but so close to the main road? Come to think of it, he was not entirely sure he'd sprinted in the right direction; even worse, the clouds peeping through the boughs had turned a steely grey, blotting the sunlight and sending down drifts of snow. A flake spun and alighted upon his eyelashes, melting; he blinked rapidly, scowling at the change of weather. Splendid. |
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| Nevneni | Jul 24 2014, 03:55 PM Post #16 |
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Asperges me hysopo, et mundabor: lavabis me, et super nivem dealbabor.
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A stroke of orange appeared in the washed-out woods. Nevneni let out a tiny sigh of relief to know that it was Phaedrus, despite all her fatalistic thinking. She sat up, her breath still stuttering, trying in that motion to make it look like she had just fallen. With her will too live suddenly flooding back into her, she didn't want him to know that she'd been lying around hopelessly like a dead fish. She twisted her ankles around and said, "No, I haven't. I just fell." He helped her up and she stood, still bent over with the pain in her lungs. She stared around at the trees suspiciously, trying to make out any menacing figures. "More?" She had assumed that the man was operating on his own, but that didn't mean there couldn't be a whole group of these people. Her mouth pulled down in an expression of panting despair. "But what do we do? Keep running? Where?" She couldn't fight either. She'd left her staff at the clearing and her knife, rarely used, was in her pack, wish was also left in the clearing. She doubted they could get help, since there had hardly been anyone on the road and if they did find someone, they could be the man's accomplices and they'd attack too. There was no way to know. To her distress, the clouds decided to sift down their load at that moment. She saw the snowflakes passing before Phaedrus' face, then he stared up and scowled. If they got lost, away from their possessions and from their weapons, they would be in the freezing cold and potentially snowed into place, without food or blankets or comfort or safety. The last settlement she'd seen along the road was a small house at least half-a-day's walk back, though she had no idea what laid ahead. Probably nothing. At least they always had fire. Maybe they could set the entire forest on fire. Then at least there'd be no snow. Nevneni stared at Phaedrus, the darkness of mingled suspicion and fear swilling around inside her. "What did you do to him anyways?" Then, after a moment's thought, "If we got attacked, could you do it again? I don't have any way of fighting if we do." |
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| Phaedrus | Oct 5 2014, 06:54 PM Post #17 |
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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.
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As she stood unharmed, the necromancer felt some of the tension leave, at least. Had she slipped and broken her ankle… Devils. "Oh, good." A sigh of relief. His eyes then narrowed, lips thinned in thought, gaze skirting the trees. "I hope not. Still, I've been told that barbaric clans live in the Erth'netora. Some sharpen their teeth, like that savage. Likely there are others." Contempt soured his voice, curdled that word. Again he regarded the poor girl, her eyes wide and sunken into sleepless pits, her twisted mouth and fearful stare. It gave him pause, made the necromancer bite his lip and falter. Indeed, what would they do? Somehow he felt responsible for the healer, lost and ill-fated as she was. He saw himself in that dirt-smeared face, in the brokenness of her manner, wandering into exhaustion. He'd been a lost creature -- was a lost creature still. Now he had a roof over his head and a bed to sleep in, but the restless fright had never left. It had crawled out of Ashoka and into his veins, slept in his bones and whispered deathly things into his mind. "…We should find the main road," Phaedrus began slowly, looking around. Snow fell, eerily silent in that half-stirring world. He kept his voice hushed and low. "Find a town or house… we shall get out of this." He hoped his voice sounded confident as opposed to delusional arrogance, words coming firmly. He could simply teleport, walk in Death until he felt a familiar tug, but her… The dilemma loomed before them, towering further as the flakes danced through the grey clearing. They needed fire, and food, and shelter… The necromancer crossed his arms, shoving his hands under his pits to keep them warm, and leaned his weight on one leg, mulling over their options in sour silence. His lurid eyes flicked over to Nevneni, one brow arched. No need to frighten her more with the truth of it. "I stunned him with magic," Phaedrus said euphemistically, his tone betraying nothing. "And disarmed him." I clawed out his eyes. A sword through the gut was too merciful for a raper and beast, admittedly. The sorcerer nodded, chewing the inside of his cheek. "Certainly. We'll need our packs... but he might be close to them." Blind and screaming in a pool of blood. Breath misted as Phaedrus blew out a troubled sigh, pondering the situation. "…I can get them, if you find a place to stay hidden." Edited by Phaedrus, Oct 5 2014, 06:58 PM.
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| Nevneni | Nov 19 2014, 03:41 PM Post #18 |
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Asperges me hysopo, et mundabor: lavabis me, et super nivem dealbabor.
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Nevneni nodded, but she felt doubtful. When she had been on the road, she had not seen any buildings up ahead, at least so far as she remembered. Perhaps they had been there and her mind, weak and deluded, had missed it. But that didn't usually happen to her: as much as she wanted to imagine the world away, she was not one to fall into hallucination. "Will he still be stunned?" she asked him doubtfully. She thought over the confused moments at which she set out running, and thought she recalled a tortured scream ringing out through the trees. She quavered, then, as if the cold had finally frozen her, she stood up straighter, her eyes turned up to Phaedrus in a rare moment of contact, her jaw jutting out defiantly. "Or whatever you did to him. It doesn't matter. He started it. Someone told me once that when a person does such wrongs, you can't be blamed for doing what you have to do." Even as she said it, she felt the trembling of untruth in her chest; she knew in her mind that this was probably right, but even now, as she remembered the man's foul laughter, she could not make it settle into her chest. Still, she was firm, even if it was only a show: "The thing is, do you need me to help? There's plenty of places to hide. It's a forest. I can't do much, but I'm fast and I don't usually trip and fall, not when I expect to be running. If you want me to just run in and take the bags while you do...whatever it is you need to do, then I can do that. Or..." She felt an itch crawl under her skin but she went on anyways, "...Or I can be a distraction, if he's not really stunned any more." Her eyes flickered away from his, and she looked at her hands, which were red and sore with the cold. It was far too easy to imagine herself as a piece of meat, a small lump of temptation. It occurred to her that she too often attributed her course in life to that, as if it was her fault for being carved in a way that made men do as they do. She dropped the thought: there were other things to be doing now. |
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| Phaedrus | Jan 10 2015, 11:15 PM Post #19 |
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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.
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Something came over the healer -- she straightened like a wilted plant drawing in water, suddenly met his eye. Should he tell her? Something told him not, perhaps -- she looked like she'd gone through enough in a day. Somehow he wanted to shield her from the truth of it, if only to keep their frail acquaintanceship from crumbling. She had the look of a rabbit ready to bolt earlier, but now he wasn't so sure. The necromancer twisted his fingers, inhaling deeply. Someone told me once that when a person does such wrongs, you can't be blamed for doing what you have to do. "Yes.” Something hard crossed his eyes. He noted the sudden change in her, wondered if she held those words with any conviction or if they warbled in that sunken chest, ready to be swept away. Again he considered how she had come to this— cold and alone, staggering until death took her. Phaedrus examined his fingernails, picking at a clod of dirt beneath them. He tilted his head at Nevneni, regarding her through languid eyelids. Perhaps she did deserve the truth. They had to go back for the bags—surely she would see. “He is blind, but not immobile. Wretched fool. He could have taken our coin and left, or supped if he wanted food— but now?” A pitiless scoff left him. “In Ashoka, they say this: when a man lifts a hand against you, you cut his off.” Clansmen had little use for cripples. If his fellows did not cook his bones, then he would spend his final moments groping in darkness till the beasts of the forest got him. A fittingly terrible death for a terrible man. He felt less grief over him than he would for a ruined doily or a smashed teacup. Silence fell as Nevneni offered her help, looking like a startled deer in her way, a creature perpetually offering herself for the bloodstone. He watched her, wondered, thought. And what? What if he’d not been in this forest, this very instant? Who knew what untold horrors the man would have done, if she did not freeze to death, if their paths struck at all — shook his head, prying the offending dirt from his manicure. Unlike Nevneni’s, his hands were not red. Cold, perhaps, but they showed no signs of human affliction. A sigh tapered from his lips. “I hope it shall not come to that. …Here.” He fussed a moment with his belt, then unsheathed a plain dagger. The blade glinted in the grey light, curved in the manner of Eldaharan blades, and the necromancer extended it hilt-first. “Take this. It’s best if we stay together, I think. Once we get close to the bags, hide, and I shall take care of whoever might be waiting.” A scowl curdled his features. “If there are too many… well. I can distract them; you grab our things and run.” The necromancer put a hand upon his hip, head craned towards the mess of tracks they’d left behind. The mud had been churned in places, and snowflakes fluttered wildly through the air, beginning to blanket the wounded path. He instinctively disliked the silence — began wondering, with a niggling fear, what sort of things slinked between the boughs, following their trail. This was not the desert, with its rolling dunes and open air— overhead, branches tangled like claws, black trunks pressed together like a gathering audience. What choice did they have? Phaedrus turned his head to meet Nevneni's eye, hand slipping off to rest on the top of his spelled dagger. His fingers sought its hilt, clenching it for assurance. “Ready?” Edited by Phaedrus, Jan 10 2015, 11:19 PM.
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| Nevneni | Mar 2 2015, 07:26 PM Post #20 |
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Asperges me hysopo, et mundabor: lavabis me, et super nivem dealbabor.
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A change had come over Phaedrus: he was almost nonchalant in viewing what they had to do, his voice white and pitiless and cold. Perhaps it was rather that some veil had been whipped off him, stripping him of all his softness and frilly concern for her and showing the hard, pale creature beneath. Nevneni shivered at what she saw him, and shivered more at the cold air and mud, and then shivered at the situation that confronted them. "Yes, cut it off," she mumbled, remembering – but oh, this was the same thing all over again, she was practically there already, straddling a highwayman, a rapist, plunging a knife into a heaving breast, gasps, cries scraping her ears, the impact of the knife, she could feel it in her arms, feel it– She blinked and saw the glint of light on a dagger that had been offered to her. From a distance, Phaedrus told her her to take it, so she did, laying it across her reddened palms like it was a relic that she was afraid to break. He told her what to do. Frantically, she saw it all happening already: they ran in and the man threw Phaedrus to the ground and she had to run up and kill him; they ran in and the man was by the bags and she had to run up and kill him; they ran in and there were a dozen men and one slit Phaedrus' throat and she had to kill them; she ran in, Phaedrus wasn't there, it was nighttime, in the summer, the crickets were singing, he was waiting, she had to kill him. She blinked again. Phaedrus' voice rang through her mind like the red toll of a bell: "Ready?" She blinked again. She was in the forest, the ground was frozen and muddy, the woods were silent. She gripped the handle of the knife in her burning hand, she brandished it like she had her hunting knife on various fateful nights, it was ready, ready. She was scared, but calm. The grey daylight was flat and too bright; the crinkled bark of the trees was a hundred different colours. She looked at Phaedrus' golden eyes, barely able to think of them as belonging to a person. She could die soon. He could die. Someone would die. "Yes," she said. |
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