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thanidiel · 6 years ago

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Revival

“I want to make some sort of peace before Battle. Please bring yourself and the Cards. Bread and drink to be offered.”

[A Dream settles upon Sunstrider Isle the very night before Battle. A Dream of Witches and Cards and Fate that clutches those who had beseeched to its breast.]

Plainfaced and without fantasy; just like Thanidiel. In the dreamscapes of this bred soldier is no wistfulness for places beyond what is beneath her feet, and before her eyes.

It is the same Isle that her corporal self sleeps upon. Albeit; in place of the sprawling campgrounds of the Alliance that her cavalry had penetrated with the Sunguard behind them, there is existential nothingness, with the faintest tendrils of foreboding seeping into this plane. It is like water breaking, slow and steady, through a home just abandoned. So encapsulating this scenario is of the warrior's perception of her waking world, the Duskward does not even seem to come to a realisation (yet) of where she treads.

Within her camp, Elleynah stands, almost real— she is in winter garb, solid, and soft by parts. She waits; she is still. Around her, there is more shadows than light— an early twilight to shiver within the everstill-strangeness of the Dream.

In her strained somber, the soldier brightens (somewhat) at the familiar form of Elleynah with the slightest widening of her eyes and relaxation of her jaw. Steady and resolute like always, she makes right for her in her heavy, panther-like, stride.

"I didn't think you'd actually come."

"I come when called." The voice that emerges is flat, the hands shifting to reveal; the deck of Cards, stolen from nowhere, existing for the sake of existence.

"You have need; you have the thought. I speak for fate. Ask what you will, and I shall answer."

The Oracle shifts; there is a shudder in the Dreamscape, as the creature beneath the friend-face seemed to reveal itself. Hunger is there, but not predation; the shimmering fades and the girl is once more, her eyes shining, two lights within the hood.

Thanidiel, though familiar with the Cards, has yet to witness them truly until this moment. Thus, what is earned, at first, is the predatory prick-back of her ears in what is instinctive offensive... then she processes... and thinks... and the tense cartilage begins to perk back up and relax where it will.

She approaches, but not as confident as before, when she thought herself approaching friend than eldritch entity. Still, she is not hesitant; merely adjusting her amiableness. She looks around, however, though there is truly nothing for her dreameye to focus on. Willing as her approach is, her words do not come quite so easily.

But, eventually, it all flows out with uncharacteristic honesty, and expansiveness.

"I have experienced a lifetime of what is Mine dying before my eyes, because I failed to protect such things proper.

Now, calamity consumes my life again.

I tried to part ways from Mine, but it would not sever from me so easily. Now I fear a turn of the wheel more than anything else, and the consequences that would echo in the lives of thousands beyond me and Mine should... grief take me again.

I want to know what the Cards see in the health of Bricini Lightwing in the coming weeks. Is she safer with me, or has she placed herself in danger, as I feared, by remaining at my side?"

"Worthy."

Even as the verdict is given, the Dream twists; darkness falls and rises around them, color sapped away and replaced with greyness and wither. Without moving— or, perhaps, with everything moving— the Cards and her hands quickening. They arc in strange and alien shapes, impossible for living hands to craft, and yet— they seem to whirl in both hands and all around at once, flooding the sky, wrapping around the pair like walls closing in, and yet they remain within the woman's grasp.

"Tell me when to stop."

Thanidiel, ever animal-like, and perhaps moreso within the safety of her own dreams, curls her lips in another snarl as the atmosphere shifts and twists around them.

But there is still security there, and knowledge to trust.

"Stop."

Elleynah seems to shatter as the word was uttered; the Dream was ripped asunder and torn to its base parts as the Cards grew, contorted, exploded, and became.

And as it became her reaction to this Dream, and these Cards, and that Vision no longer rung with guarded and cautious spirit.

Used to the sloughing of her own skin like an unwanted coat to take on others — She leaps into it in the way that a panther leaps across a stream that has so suddenly bubbled into her vision.

Five faces; five striking signs, that filled the world, that stretched and reached and consumed, crashing upon witch and soldier, until the world was not as it was before but instead…

Thanidiel is again a child; she is in her leathers, her face and hair threaded with dirt and leaves. She runs through a camp; it is not her camp. She races to the center, where a bonfire blazes, its smoke rising a pillar against the blue and bald sky. Yes, she is that child of past times. Yes, she is running through yet another camp, to her enemy, the brightest-of-all-things.

It is not her home; these are not her kin. Yet it is familiar. Around her, a thousand soldiers; a thousand arms and armor. She has killed some in their colours; others have been her allies. Each of soldiers elder, and wise. And... she pauses. Ever observational, ever perceptive, her dream-child-eye locks onto the masses of soldiers to catch every detail and allow her tuned memory to flare over, and over a...

...the Wheel, however, draws her in.

Within the flames, a Wheel is burning, turning, rising— broken.

Enemy.

Brightest-Of-All-Things.

Sustenance of Life; the Beginning of Consciousness and its End.

“Each turn came through great effort and skill, you were trained to be as you are. Broken to fit. Apprenticed to the forms of shattering that make strong. You struggle to let it stay dead. You have broken the wheel, but see-- it yet moves. It is more than just the remains of what was. You fuel it.”

Elleynah is nowhere to be seen, but there is black ash on the ground, and the woodland beyond the tents echoes with laughter.

Familiar, intimate laughter.

Thanidiel’s ears flick with the ache of wanting to grasp onto every beat of laughter that begins to drum through the woods, and she shifts here, and there. Animal. Not wishing to speak, failing to see its usefulness in her ancient ways of beyond-civilisation, her senses attempt to hone on something, anything, that shifts within this Dreamscape for the answer to continue its unfurling.

The laughter, that laughter.

The laughter pulls and twists the flame, and the fires roar, leaping forth to grasp and twist. From hand, to hand, Thanidiel passes. From one role to another. So easily she traverses where, and how, and who, this Vision rips her to.

It surges around, through, and into. It is explosive; it rings through her, and draws her in and suddenly she is again in the Blood and Black, and the wheel is at her back.

Unknowing of whether she would receive an answer, or be skinned yet again, and brought to a new life, her hand reaches out to the shadow of her and the cursed Wheel.

Its shadow, their shadow, shows her a body pinned to its spokes; it shows a world turned to flame. A world she knows. The shattered Silvermoon, the forest aflame. Screams and weeping.

From wildness to contained civilisation, and with it, came a sliver of the Character she had forged with the Blood Phoenix. Here, she is not content in primordial ways. The ways of Society and Government and Knights and Puppeteers have staked a new nature for this one.

Not calm, not resolved. Her hand reaches out, unsure of whether it ought to commit to its taloned curl of a fist, or open up its palm. In the meantime, it caresses the ever-present flames.

“The wheel was broken; it can be remade. Will you remake it, by choosing that was?”

The screams grow.

“War has come, and you have the chance to change what is, and was, and will be.”

The cries die down and the wheel shifts; its edge broken and the sky appears once more.

"I don't know what the world needs from me," plucked quiet from her lips right before the Wheel begins its roar yet again.

It begins to lean back, and with it, draws Thanidiel down with it.

Elleynah is drawn forth; she moves so well between these Cards, between the portends. She is swept into sunlit sheets. Her body is bare, as is that of the tawny woman next to her, whose dark hair spills over white linen. And Thanidiel is cursory to this nudity that unravels before her — so at home with the machinations of the world at itself than she is in the day-to-day of having to don skins, and masks, and clothing, and etiquette, and language — none of that was home.

Bricini smiles.

The Light returns.

Everything is warm.

“You chose this. This was what you picked, when all else was ash. When you know your history.”

It is not Bricini speaking; it is the sunlight that fills the room.

“And it chose you in return, even when you doubted. Even when you could not trust, you were given it.”

Like rain, the light drops down and showers them in white and glowing brilliance, and even Thanidiel can find laughter. And yes, she does, indeed, allow a laugh to flow with the energy rolling through her; how else could she not? All of her laughter had always been for that one, and everyone else would find the door to such a domain of Thanidiel's slammed in their face with nose broken and bleeding.

The walls fade and become pillars. The world outside written in light and sunstorm as well. The forest is gilded. The Dreamscape is quieter, now — Gods be blessed — and she is home with the forest, its weather, and the solitude of companionship.

Here, she is primordial in a different way — where there is no box of living kind's woes, and complexity, emptied into the world. Thus, her speech dies as quickly as it was drummed up.

Did she need to speak?

At all?

No, no she didn't.

This is home, afterall.

Everything meaningless, useless, and not truly her, had been left outside where the light did not shine upon them. Everything, thus far, had been a prolonged business trip that had never ended, and had never stopped consuming, and had never stopped demanding.

Now, everything is good.

It remains as Bricini pulls her closer, lips over cheeks and jaw, whispering terrible things that lend to laughter and grimaces.

“You get this. You don’t lose it,” Bricini says in her own voice, “Because, fuck you, that’s why.”

The sheets fall and they are dancing then, barefoot in a kitchen. Night swims in through a window, and there is song outside; something scratchy, from a radio. It’s terrible: raucous and goblin.

Thanidiel’s feet will not work; she keeps tripping, and pulling Bricini down with her to the floor. The mender groans, and hauls the fighter to her feet.

“Not so fast.”

It replays. It replays. It replays. Each time, she is pulled back to her feet. And, true, she trips and clumsies over, and over, and over, and over, again. Of course she would. She couldn’t calm entirely, yet. The answer isn't finished yet; she isn't assured of the safety the other would find in her.

There is no dull complacency and necessity to this new scenario around her. She is not habitually slinging on one new coat after another and acting as though she were in her element. No, there is something more natural now in the guidance that has curled its fingers around the spirit of her. This is nothing forced or obligated of her to perform and strike a role for.

The final scene is simple; the training field, where once bread was broken. Where once they spoke of simple things and domesticity, the quiet of forgotten places encompassing. Thanidiel sits, and Elleynah is there.

She was with her companion of all companions, and now she is with another. And there is no begrudging of this difference between Elleynah and Bricini; this is what she chose. Simplicity, and comfort, and home.

The girl is young and small; her hands freshly bloody, palms a basin of cuts. She looks up with two green eyes, and they are no longer young, and the two women with two ‘lost’ eyes between them meet gazes.

The soldier’s eyes, when met, is at the half-lid of ease, and its resolve is no longer fraught with fear and threat odoring the air. It is something more thunderously her and keen.

“You are not as lost as you think.

You are growing things in the cracks, where the wheel was broken. When you broke it, so too did the foundations of your inability to cope shatter. You are going to get better. You may not be better yet, but you will. Your will is strong, but your stubbornness is even more yet.

You cannot fear going forward — you cannot fear that you might lean on those who offer you their strength, while you rebuild. That’s what they are there for. Right now, the rawness is so deep you can still see where the blood oozes from the wound, but it’s scabbing. You do not wish to follow the patterns that are laid behind you, a legacy of such.

And so, you won’t.”

She listens, and she listens intently to the summation of the Cards' reading

The earth shimmers and grows with weeds and grasses; they sit for aeons as the world ages around them. And she does not blink as the world rapidly twists and shifts around her like an ever-spinning Wheel. She didn't want to shut her eyes or ignore it all as she once did, where the world was a vast sea of candles flaring in and snuffing out of existence.

Elleynah’s hands slid out, and this time… it was the young woman’s voice.

“You broke one wheel. You did it. Now, you have to make the new one.”

She smiles, and squeezes Thanidiel’s hands. In response, still knowing this was not entirely her friend, the Phoenix Guard could not help herself but to stroke her thumb down the length of the smaller girl's palm in a rarely expressed fondness.

It is enough — the Dream seems to shatter as the golden light did, save…

...in the moments between waking and not, there are the first lights of false dawn, and they make the shape of a circle across the floor; whole, and bright, and new. And that Light, and the light beyond that, calls to her...

[The first Dreamwalker wakes sweet and radiant.

Another Dreamwalker is ripped from a bleeding place in fear.

One Dreamwalker is shattered into the next life.

The last Dreamwalker is adjourned for his own good.]

First of all, huge shout-out for @jessipalooza as my roleplaying partner and as the owner of the character that has spurred my recent writings for Thanidiel as of late. I’m very glad to have the consistence of your presence and I hope there is only more opportunity to write together in the next year.

Secondly, proclaiming my love here for @stormandozone as one of the fabulous people I’ve had the joy of writing with in my time here with the Sunguard, who honored not only me, but @retributionpriest and @thepilgrimofwar, of tarot readings for our (horrible) characters. Like Jess, her character has been here for a magnificent swath of my own development with Thanidiel here in TSG. In fact, taking a couple of weeks, it’s been an entire year since my character’s last vision-reading with Elleynah and the drastic change between what was supposed to be my unredeemable hero failure and now someone with a decent fucking chance is breathtaking to absorb in its entirety. This collaborative was absolutely amazing to participate in.

Similarly, the aforementioned Lirelle and Sederis have blessed me with a whirlwind storm of not only friendship, but so much creative energy as ourselves and between each other; that I am at a lost if all of the writing we have done and will do for @thesunguardmg ‘s Phoenix Wars will suffice for all that should see light.

Thank you all.

Lirelle’s Vision: Hidden. Sederis’ Vision: The Hanged Man

#thanidiel #bricini #elleynah #the sunguard #phoenix wars #HOLY FUCK I AM SO IN LOVE WITH MEL #YALL DONT EVEN KNOW #lirelle #sederis #writing

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moonunveiled · 6 years ago

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rise

“Rise, Emberward Moonveil, Dawnmender of the Sunguard.” The Oracle’s voice belied her age. It rang in the stillness.

The snow painted forest was a stark backdrop for such a moment. Little stirred. The wind whipped fat snowflakes against his cheeks. They soaked into his hair. Ice-topped snow crunched beneath his boots as he moved to stand before her.

There was no crowd.

There would be no revelry.

“Thank you Oracle.”

There was little more to say.

Cold wind threatened to freeze the wet trailing down his face, and the trek back to his tent is made without sound.

#lyrenn moonveil #elleynah #the sunguard #lyrenn #writing

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rishnea · 7 years ago

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Elleynah for @stormandozone @curiouslich <3

#World of Warcraft #blood elf #the sunguard #elleynah #rishneaart

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curiouslich · 7 years ago

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No one is Forgotten

“Embershade...Daygrove...Flamewhisper...Dawnshield….Hawkheart….Brightblade.” The words on his lips had become a mantra. The return to Kris was a blur, truth be told Itrius couldn’t even fathom how he ended up back in the bed at the Sleeping Lynx Inn.

“Embershade...Daygrove...Flamewhisper...Dawnshield….Hawkheart….Brightblade… Sunshatter... “ his name on the list bought a reprieve from his devouring thoughts, but just for a moment.

“But you aren’t dead, you are here in Kris, in a bed, safe, warm. You are alive..” Swinging his fist down on the mattress he grit his teeth suppressing another scream. “Do not disgrace their name, Ours doesn’t belong there. They are heros, you are a coward. You left Allamar. You left them. You led everyone straight into hell, and you were the ONLY one to leave!”

Swinging his hand out he slammed it into the wooden wall next to the bed. The thud of an arm hitting something it couldn’t dream of changing echoed out. The ache of pain spread radiated, but that didn’t stop him. Again, and again, and again the thud rang out. “

“I am not the leader you were brother… I failed our family. I wish I was with Sunstorm against the Eternal Dawn. If they killed me my men might still be alive…” Clenching his teeth he sucked in another breath. “Irigir… Help me. What in the Sun’s name can I do? I can’t go back by myself… The Crimons won't follow me without Eclipse. And I am already out of my jurisdiction.. the Phoenix Guard won't come…”

Wetness gathering at the edges of his lashes Itrius bit his cheek. Bringing a hand to rest on the palm shaped scar seared into his skin he closed his eyes. “Sun guide me….”

Knock… Knock… Knock

Itrius couldn’t help but to stifle his growl. Was now really a good time to disturb him? Despite the mused questions he remained silent. He had no words for anyone. He didn’t want the world to witness his failure quite yet.

After a brief pause there came a second round of knocks. Just go away already! Fingertips digging at the scar as the hint of copper flicked at his tongue.

The unknown guest must have gotten the message as there was no third round. Instead the sound of soft scratching filled the room. Sitting up the paladin squinted at the space below the door. Then with a serendipitous push the folded parchment slid onto the floor.

Eyes shot wide open at the invasion Itrius lept to the floor. “Light above…” Practically falling to his feet he dove for the letter. Greedy hands pawing over the parchment to see the answer to his prayers and problems. All summed up with the familiar signature.

“Elleynah Stormsummer”

Throwing the chair out of the way Itrius tossed the letter onto the bed. There would be time for that later, now was not for idle conversation. Bringing the candle closer to the parchment he ripped a quill from its rest. Stilling his racing heart he dipped the quill away and raced the edge along the paper. Creating what could barely be acknowledged as a return letter.

Elleynah,

Your letter could not have come at a better moment. I found myself back in Kris after a nightmare return to Allamar. They are gone Elleynah, my men, the crimsons. The casualty level of the mission was nearly all. I need help, I need your Sunguard to help, someone, anyone to help. Their is a faint hope they still live, I pray to the Sun they are. If I don’t act with beyond haste they won't be though. Please deliver this to Lord Truefeather personally. You are a leader in your order. He has to listen to you…

Please, for everything I hold dear I need you.

Itrius.

Moving the first letter aside to dry the shaken man relaxed the hold on his lungs.. “Sun, please guide me.” He had spoken with the Truefeathers often. The lords of the house came by Goldsea often. They were proud of it. Breathing again Itrius summoned all the nobelity he could muster as he penned his second missive.

Archon Lord Telchis Truefeather.

My name is Itrius Sunshatter, Investigative Captain of the Phoenix Guard and eldest son of the late matron of Goldsea. I am writing this most dire letter in a great time of need. These past few months I have been on assignment in the Southern tip of Quel’thalas along the Amani border. I have witnessed horrifying oddities that have plagued this land and its people. Working alongside the local militia I had hoped to placate any threats and minimize possible incidents.

The forces at work though, are far more insidious than I could have fathomed. Entire cities have been laid waste at the feet of some dark magics. This land is caught in a war between the mindless undead, the savagery of the Amani, and now this new element of terror. People are dying, good, honest people that have done nothing but struggle to live their lives. I find the resources at my disposal inadequate to remedy the situation.

I write you not as on envoy of the Phoenix Guard, but as a Son of the Dawnspire and Lord of Goldsea. Send aid to Kris. Help me show the people of this land they are not forgotten, that they are as we are, citizens of Quel’thalas.

Itrius Sunshatter

~~~~

This is it, this is the end of the story and the call to action. One year of work 60 pages wrote and its ends here.

I want to thank my lovely wife @stormandozone for standing by me, for pushing me, and for inspiring me.

@sakialyn for supporting and helping me build this world

@felthier is being tagged for mentions.

Now its all up to @thesunguardmg to help me write the next chapter, and stop the Return of the Nightmare

#itrius' mystery #Itrius #Telchis!#Elleynah #the Sunguard #Phoenix Guard #The Cirmson Sun #Ruins of Allamar #The Nightmare Returns

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pydoodles · 7 years ago

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A Zallenyah doodle for @stormandozone and @curiouslich that i needed to post

#blood elf #sindorei #world of warcraft #zalin #elleynah

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shadowrabbits · 8 years ago

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Final commission from the last batch. A tarot card design for @stormandozone. <3

Commission Info, queue and ko-fi | Twitter : aelphie

#world of warcraft #blood elf #tarot card #the fool #sindorei #moon guard #elleynah #commission #painting #illustration #design #my art

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kai-2124 · 8 years ago

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Commission for @stormandozone Her lovely character Elleynah, thanks for commissioning me~

#WoW #Warcraft #World of Warcraft #stormandozone #elleynah stormsummer #elleynah #BlenArt #Blencem #commission

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monster-pirate · 8 years ago

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This letter shows up tied with a red ribbon and in the mailbox of Razail Dusksinger with no post mark on the outside.

To Elleynah Stormsummer,

I write to you because I wish to have a conversation about joining the guard. I have many questions and from the words of a mister Razail Dusksinger, you would be the perfect person to answer them. I would write a few of those questions down, but I fear they would take up the entire page and then some. I hope that you will be able to meet with me soon sometime. I’m sorry for the way that this letter reached you, but please take no offense.

I can be reached in the flats nearest the Farstrider’s Square in the Everblaze rooms.

I will be very relieved to hear from you,

Breenaii Everblaze

@razxion @stormandozone

#Breenaii #Razail #Elleynah

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pywriting · 7 years ago

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Tide of Fate VIII

Taliorinth rested along some rocks that felt comfortable enough, a cliff that was hardly considered such presiding over some of the wide fields of Embertree. In a way, she knew it was perhaps a bit dangerous to be resting this close to the forest, all things considered, but it was a very relaxing spot. It was quiet and it allowed her time to think.

And think she did.

So much had happened in the past days.

Many talks with Quineven, blaming him for what had happened or saying anything she could to rid herself of her fear of the punishment that was to come. Even Gabriel had come to visit, trying to urge her to talk more, to joke with her, to do anything, despite her anger towards him.

In a way, she couldn’t blame either of them truly. She knew they had valid enough reasons for going there, and a part of her appreciated to finally be able to be away from the stifling presence of her husband-to-be.

Yes… she knew she shouldn’t be thinking of him in such a way, but she could scarcely help herself in these private moments. She knew she didn’t like him. She didn’t love him. Not the way she loved Quineven or Novaera or Shalenor. She dreaded his touch, tolerated it out of necessity to achieve peace with her family… to be able to make them as happy as they made her.

That’s what she’d told herself time and time again.

She distracted her thoughts somewhat as she ran her hand across her smooth skirts, a fine dress still worn, just as her sisters would have wanted her to be in. Her hair was pulled back, done properly and brushed through instead of letting it become some untamed mess, despite the fact it was tugged and pulled by the strong winds that would flow by and swoop through her curls.

No, she was a proper lady right now. A proper Rosespear.

Suddenly, a calm voice wove in through the sounds of nature around her, speaking with a quiet tone. Just enough to be heard.

"It's a peaceful pretty place, though it's right on the edge of where we're not yet to tread."

Taliorinth straightened up suddenly, turning about despite the calm nature of the tone. There was only one that had that voice, and it was one that deserved her respect and attention. Immediately, she pulled herself up, turning and looking to the woman that now rested nearby. Bright fiery curls around her brows and green eyes looking to her filled with the magic that made Tali’s skin raise in gooseflesh.

“Ah- Oracle,” she said quickly, offering a bow to the other woman.

The Oracle canted her head. "Usually you call me another title." There was a very gentle chiding in the tone, something caught between the words and the expression that did not meet.

A moment of fear gripped Taliorinth’s heart, wondering if by some chance she’d offended the other woman in some manner by calling her the right name that felt right. Yet, she didn’t have the chance to correct herself, instead hearing that same voice speak again.

"You wanted to talk to me, I saw you after the Pathfinder meeting."

It was true. She had wanted to speak to the Oracle, and remembering the night Gabriel had taken her to the parlor for the meeting with the rest of the Pathfinders, she felt a rush of frustration in her veins. A mix of fear to bother such a powerful woman and the inability to speak as freely as she had before.

She had the itch to ask the cards of a reading since she had gotten back, some way to know that things might be alright, but she didn’t know how to ask for such a thing anymore, it felt. Like she hadn’t the right for it…

But now, the Oracle was here before her, waiting expectantly for what it was she had wanted to ask. Just as she had done time and time before now. It was almost as if she was being offered her first drink of water after running through Tanaris during the hottest season. A chance she did not hesitate to take upon herself.

"Ah... I... didn't have a gift or anything for you." Such was a worry, not having something to return the favor of reading into the future for such. She wanted to get a good draw of fortunes, and as such, she knew in some strange way if she paid with gifts and respect, perhaps her future would turn out better than without. After all, she’d seen such with the Oracles other readings.

The Oracle’s lips pursed slightly. “I don’t need gifts. I don’t ask for anything in return for my readings.” Yet, even as she hadn’t truly asked yet for the reading, it was as if she knew- no, she definitely knew the future. She knew why she had come here and what Taliorinth was to ask, and her fingers moved to the pack that held those mystical cards.

“I’m sorry,” Taliorinth said quietly, her eyes dropping down to the side for a moment as she thought of the best explanation for forcing her out here. “I shouldn’t have made you come here to do it. I…” She trailed off, a flash of a thought that perhaps the Oracle would not wish to hear such petty excuses running rampant through her mind.

“You did not make me do anything,” the Oracle said simply.

There was a wash of relief through Taliorinth as she looked back up, watching as the painted papers slipped away from their case, holding the fate of which she wished to know. The closer she got to asking her question, the more she felt her blood start to rush. Like the feeling of those times she watched the ship come closer and closer to a target; the anticipation of something exciting and unexpected ahead which thrilled her to her core.

Something she wanted.

Something she needed.

Like every time when she was about to ask for what it was she wanted from the Oracle, there was that fresh wave of nervousness running through her. She fidgeted a bit, her fingers brushing along her skirts as she kept her eyes on the cards.

“I… want a reading.” She asked finally.

The Oracle merely nodded, and with a soft sound, plopped down onto the ridge, letting the grass raise around her and tickle at her skin. She pulled off her half-cloak and laid it down before her. The deck then placed on the smoothed out fabric as she said, “Of course.”

She canted her head yet again, not once motioning for Taliorinth to sit or anything, she simply clasped her hands. “Place your hand on the deck, then speak your question.”

The calm nature of the woman, so quick to just accept her request, made Taliorinth blink. Slowly, she mimicked the motions, sitting down in the grass in a slow manner. Slowly, almost with a timid nature, she reached out and placed her fingertips along the deck.

No thought was given to the question now, knowing the words she wanted to ask. Just as she’d done before, she asked the cards with genuine belief in their power, “I want to know if I have chose the right choice, please.”

The Oracle took in a breath, and like that, her eyes flattened and seemed to look through everything. “A worthy question.” She said, yet her words felt… different by some degree.

Taliorinth withdrew her fingers quickly, letting the woman take up the paper and begin her shuffling. The woman watched the Oracle’s work many times before, and even now, it seemed to enchant her.

With movements like a construct, she began to love the cards, their forms swirling and spinning... lingering too long in the air... leaving colors in their wake. The world around seemed to slow-- bird song receded, color dimmer. They were caught between paper and ink, between moment and next. Everything hinged upon the words on Taliorinth's lips.

Talirointh did not hear the words spoken, but there was a meaning clear in that moment as the cards were shuffled. To tell her when to stop and draw the cards that would tell her the future. She waited, watching the magic begin to be woven, then drawing up her voice when it felt right to tell her simply, “Stop.”

Everything changed from that point.

The Oracle moved, and the world melted; the colors of Embertree pooled around, beneath them, the world beneath the hues now skeletal and dark. There was power between the cards and Taliorinth; sticky like spiders webs, it seemed to tug and turn as the cards were laid out, sending sensation through the bones of fingers and arm.

When the Oracle spoke, she was written with coldness, diffidence, something carved and something unliving over the warm woman who must be beneath, surely. "You have come to a reunion." She was simple in her words, but as they echoed they flooded Taliorinth, the world was set to rights; strange rights.

The world was flooded with roses; they crept up their laps, choked the world around them in crimson and pink, vines with thorns. The sky was clear and blue and cold, and frost gathered on their lips.

"You have been brought before the childhood you knew, and seen it to be something both what you remembered, and more-- something exactly as known, and unaccepted. You know what is within, but you veil eyes to it, remember what gifts are given and never the garden that grew it."

She passed her hands over the next card. "You are caught in the jaws. You are held with gentleness, with hope. You are woo'd with patience, you are held with love, but those fetters remain no matter how much silk they are made of. Your strength is meaningless here, and you are forced to remember, each time you move."

The vines grew tighter around them both, flowers blooming over their hearts, their thighs, tangling in hair. "Something is coming. It begins now, and you are in the twine of it, the string wrapping tight. You are filled with restlessness, yet remain still. You are run, but do not run on your own feet. You are rooted in evening shadows, and night creeps."

Around them, the roses began to stiffen, become brittle loose petals in a rain of sour vegetation.

"Do not be lulled by the luxury that is offered; do not accept gifts when hands are hidden behind backs. Learn to read without the help of other eyes. They cannot help you where you have walked. You have left the harbors of shallow seas and now you are cloistered in walls where storms cannot cry or carry you."

The roses stiffened around, and though hard they were brittle; Taliorinth reached out to the vision, almost about to touch the stiff petals till suddenly they would crumble. The roses would be destroyed around her, nothing left to look upon.

"You have been left alone now. Your choices are yours. You make yourself alone and left only with contemplation. Look inward, look deeper than the surface. You have made no mistakes, because there are none; you can choose your path, but the path also chooses. Walk the primrose passages, or leave them to die, but you have come to the moment where there are no others who can answer but you."

Darkness engulfed her, and she felt the cool whisper reached her ears, the last remaining part of the vision that was shown to her.

They all want something, the ones you love. What want belongs to you?

Just like that, a rush of life came around her, bringing her back to the moment where Taliorinth sat on a cliffside, right before the Oracle and the three painted cards she laid out for her.

The words still rang in her ears, and she realized that her hands had curled into fists, knuckles white for the amount of pressure she clung to her skirts.

Already the Oracle was back, looking more exhausted than before. Taliorinth knew that the cards took their toll on her, and she didn’t dare ask for another question answered. Not right now. Not when she’d already asked such a thing.

Taliorinth would just watch as she would slowly pull the cards back, then put them away once more. The reading done with and her purpose fulfilled for this time.

“Thank you, Oracle.” She wanted to ask more, to talk about what the visions had shown her, but she knew better and did not keep her.

“If that’s all, then… I think i’ll be on my way.”

Taliorinth, in a way, did not want her to go. Not yet. She wanted to keep hearing the calm, weaving voice of the Oracle. Yet, she did not. Instead, she merely stood with the Oracle, returned the little polite bow and watched as she turned.

Yet, that was not the end.

As if possessed by something else, she abruptly asked, “Oracle… would you notice if I disappeared completely? If this was the last you’d see me?”

The Oracle blinked, looking back to Taliorinth. She didn’t get a chance to speak, instead, Taliorinth saying in a rushed manner, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to ask that… I just… I don’t know why that came to mind.”

She hesitated a moment, feeling as if there was something more she should say, till finally she realized what it was. She reached up, pulling at the thick metal studs in her ears. Large emeralds that were certainly worth a fair share. They were kept for a price she’d have to pay eventually, and if that price was now a gift, then she’d gladly give it.

It felt right, like what she was meant to do this whole time.

Taliorinth moved forward quickly, grabbing hold of the Oracles rough hands, setting the two emeralds held in place by the gold setting. She curled her fingers around them, forcing her to hold them then. “Please… take this as thanks, Ma’am.”

Her gaze was averted downwards to the hands, and she felt a tenseness in the other woman’s touch. Eventually, though, there were those calm words from the Oracle, stating, “Very well. Thank you, Taliori.”

“Have a good evening,” the Oracle said as she drew away, looking to Taliorinth as she backed away, tucking the gems away.

Finally, Taliorinth rose her eyes, looking to the retreating back of the Oracle brushing through tall grasses of Embertree. The wind swept at her hair, causing a few stray strands to run across her vision. She shivered, feeling that last echo of the visions still around her and the way the cold clung to her skin still despite the warmth of the sun she basked in.

Taliorinth softly spoke up, finally saying, “Goodbye, Oracle.”

Tide of Fate Story Index Here

@sakialyn @jessipalooza @stormandozone

#Tide of Fate #Taliorinth Rosespear #Taliorinth #Elleynah Stormsummer #Elleynah

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jessipalooza · 7 years ago

Text

Hair of a Virgin; Eye of a Whore

It was in the later hour of the day that Karsteth found himself in The Leaning Mast, a shit hole of a tavern in Booty Bay. The floors were sticky with gods only knew what, the chairs and tables were lopsided, the art on the walls were stained and awful knock-offs of paintings...but the drinks were damned good, and if a fight was to turn up, nobody would give a shit. Bouncers and guards were merely a formality, meant to keep ruffians and pirates from stealing from the house. They did not care if the patrons stole from each other. With Booker at his feet, he sat in the corner, masked in shadow and with a mug of whiskey in his hand, the leather wrist cuffs stained with blood. Hanging from the belt around his waist was a small pouch also stained with blood. But nobody gave it question in The Leaning Mast. Just like nobody gave a second thought to the gnarled scar of a hand over his face, poorly hidden by the eyepatch he always wore. It was amidst the loud chatter and chaos from the other patrons that the Captain of the White Widow relaxed with his mutt of a worg. He was thankful that he had informed Vinny that he would return to the ship before midnight. It gave him time to relax without the goblin chirping in his ear about gold. The men had been thriving, but not as much as they had before. He complained that they complained and all Karsteth could do was tell him to be fucking patient. He was almost done, after all.

Elleynah balked at the door of the tavern, her freckled features drawing into a disgusted frown. She quickly schooled the expression away, patting the layered of her vest and tunic, making sure it was secure-- and the deck of cards beneath were as well.

It had been a long time-- a year if not longer-- since she'd served in a shithole of a bar in Booty Bay. Since her promotion, Elleynah had forsworn any work that was not going to reflect well on the Guard or herself, as a leader of the menders. Gone were the days of tight blouses and slit skirts, forever. She had hoped never to have to return to a place like this for anything save a war or a rescue... But loyalty was a bladed virtue, and it bit deep and with nothing promised in return. She had been summoned by an old friend to the dank little space. Elleynah remembered at least, how to dress so she wouldn't get many looks; the right level of hand-me-down, fitted fabric that had seen better days, a scarf holding her orange curls tight to her head save in the back where they spilled to the nape of her neck. Her vest and tunic and leggings were all things from the old days, quickly rehemmed and fitted to her new frame, in faded burgundy, amber and sage. Taking a breath of the at least sea-salt cleaned air before entering the murk, the mender attempted to let the years of propriety slide off. She stepped through the doorway, through the dark and grimy hall and into the tavern itself. The Leaning Mast was never a place she worked when she worked here, for its... reputation. Bell had insisted that her sister avoid the place. Perhaps that was why she'd sent notice to Bell that she'd be going there tonight-- just once. Just for a friend.

Her eyes wandered the place very quickly-- not lingering on any male face (that was always a danger, when you weren't on the clock-- no one cared if you got hurt if you were off shift). Instead she looked to the bar and the servers, and found the woman she was looking for. Shariya was tressed in the frothy faded dress of a barmaid, her lank blonde hair pulled away from a face that while normally made up to look flawless, was now smudged. Leaning at the edge of the bar, the woman was all exhaustion and drunkenness, despite being on her shift. Elleynah didn't hesitate-- perhaps another of her faults. She walked to the bar and whispered to the woman as she neared, placing a hand on the stained-lace at Shariya's elbow. "Shar--" The other elf blinked, automatically recoiling at the touch. Her features only unknit when she recognized Elleynah's freckled face. "Oh, Elley." She sighed, eyes closing with the effort it took to focus. "Ohh thank you for coming, I didn't know--" Elleynah let her hand drop, and looked around. "Why are you here and not the The Linewalker's?" That had been their place, it was one of the nicer Inns, and was always bright and clean-- an officer’s pub, where coin was made even if you got your ass grabbed by men who thought they were entitled everything by rank. "I just-- It’s such a long and sad story... little Elley, gods, imagine you going so high." Shariya leaned forward, lifting a hand as though to cup the younger elf's cheek. "Always was better than Bell and me."

The mender leaned away from the hand, lips pursed. "You said you needed a reading, are you off your shift?" Elley's eyes slid around the bar itself, not daring to venture further or invite attentions their way. She did not want to be here longer than needed.

Shariya shook her head, about to speak when the bartender-- a gruff orc-- slammed a pair of tankards down next to her. He rumbled out an order inaudible to Elleynah, but Shariya must have understood. Forcing herself to unsteady feet, the woman took up the drinks. "No, I'm here til dawn, I don't--" She looked at the smoky bar. "If you get a table, I can sit down when my break comes... I need that reading, Elleynah, you're the only one who can tell me true if--" She shook her head, and jolted forward. "I'll be back!" Elleynah felt her gut clench. This was not what she had hoped for at all. Worrying her lip, she selected a table near the bar, under one of the few lights that seemed to be in working order. Working her vest pocket open, she ran her fingers nervously over the deck, pulling it from the silk to smooth between her fingers. It spoke to her discomfort, that she would use the cards to soothe herself.

Chatter. Loud chatter and shouting. Conversations about gold and blood and tits and drinks. It all filtered into the air, making a white noise that cut nearly everything from Karsteth's ears or mind. The perfect way to relax. However, one thing was able to reach him, always able to reach him, above it all: a growl. A low growl scratched its way up from Booker at his feet. Mid-sip of whiskey, Karsteth stopped and glanced downwards. The giant, black mutt was facing towards the door, and so towards the door, the pirate looked. He was about to abandon the task when he saw a flash of bright red. Even with one eye, he could see the light that flickered and how it bounced off of the curls of the Stormsummer girl. A dark look overtook his face, but he paused before it got too far. Raising his free hand to rub at the five'o'clock shadow along his jaw, he spared a glance down towards the bloody sack at his side. The irony did not escape him, and it drew forth a low, harsh breath of a laugh. When he saw the cards, he saw an opening. "Booker," was all he said, his voice a low rasp in his throat. He finished his whiskey in one pull and stood. With little care of the sticky floor, the drunkards around him, he moved forward. Those that were in his path, drunk or not, cautioned away - by either luck or will. Each step was slow and purposeful, silent thanks to the loudness of the rest of the tavern. It gave him the surprise he needed. Ignoring the look on on Shariya's face at having a man with a scarred face abou tot interrupt their reunion, he placed a rough, callused hand on Elleynah's shoulder. It was firm, powerful, and his tone of voice spoke the same intention: Do not move. Do not scream. Do not be stupid. "Are those cards, girl?"

Settled at her table, Elleynah had pressed the deck to her chest a moment; she could feel her heart in her chest beating just a pace fast, as though she was coming down from jogging; she was nervous here, despite all her history with taverns. The pressure of the paper against her sternum was a comfort; she could feel... something. It was the magic of her bloodline, the pump of it through veins and through the filaments that connected her to the cards. With one hand he kept them there while she worried at the silk. Shariya approached, having dropped the drinks down, and Elleynah looked up to meet her eyes, when-- Horror and sudden panic washed through Shariya's face, making her cosmetics stand out harsh against a fear-pale face. A hand fell on Elleynah's shoulder, and it held her in place against her chair. Along her spine, the hairs stood on end up to the nape of her neck, and the magic comfort of the cards became a screamed warning only she could hear. If she had been someone else, outrage might have come before fear, but she had grown up in the apocalypse of a people, in a city overrun by the dead and worse, the living. She was stock still and quiet, the prey-wary sixth sense reminding her that this was a predator. Elleynah cleared her throat of the fear that constricted it. "Y-yes sir." She couldn't help the stammer and hated her voice for it, and the hotness in her cheeks that was all shame, the only thing that was powerful enough to rise against the bloodless fear that had turned her pale. "Fortune cards." She almost emphasized they weren't for gambling, but she did not want to say more than she had to. Say what he wanted to hear, and then run. Always what Bell told her to do.

A glance was spared to Shariya with his one good eye and he nodded once, looking to the side. It was a silent speech, but one a barmaid would know well: Get the fuck out of here. Already, he had started to walk towards the other woman's chair. If she did not move away from fear, she would move away from having no room of her own. Karsteth sat across from Elleynah, the chair creaking under his weight. Booker came to a rest at his feet again, baring her teeth briefly to the Stormsummer girl, but silently so. In reward, a heavy had swung down to ruffle the coarse fur between her ears. But the pirate's attention remained on Elleynah. "Tell fortunes, do ye?"

Loyalty was bladed, given without the promise of any sort of return; Shariya proved this, when with a frightened glance to Elleynah, she dropped her eyes and wandered back into the tavern, heading to the bar where the orc behind the counter slammed a meaty palm down and pushed drinks forward. This left Elleynah with... the man from the tavern. The one who had scared her half to death the last time she'd been down in Booty Bay; the one whom Gabriel had warned her off. "I do." She took the deck away from her vest and fanned the cards expertly; some skills did not diminish in fear, and thankfully this was one. She met his single visible eye without wavering, but she was young enough her own gaze was as legible as a book. He'll kill you as easy as anything. Gabriel's warning was in her ears. Fear lanced her body. "Do you want me to tell your fortune, sir?" She tried a small smile, fake and hollow, to see if it would thaw the panic that made her stiff and still.

He stared Elleynah down with no need to ask if she remembered him or not. The question was a nonissue. He could tell enough by the slight tremor of her voice - so slight, but there nonetheless. He did not bother to look at the cards as she fanned them out. He raised a hand and snapped his fingers, calling over his shoulder in a raspy order: "Whiskey." He waited in silence after that. He did not answer her question, nor did he pose one of his own. He merely stared, and the weight of his one eye was monumental. He allowed her this silence to look over the scar should she so choose. And should there be any unease, he relished it. Only once he received another mug of whiskey did he speak. "Know another bitch that reads cards. D'ya believe in what yers say?"

The silence stretched. She would not look at the scar. Despite the time, the seconds ticking down, the hairs would not settle on the back of her neck. He was familiar, for more than the drink-- for more than the time she spent on his first mate's lap. There was something in that green, tainted gaze that was clawing at memories, something she almost remembered from a dream... or a-- Shariya returned, eyes averted, with a glass of whiskey; the cup was marginally clean, but there were smudges around the rim that caught the light. Elleynah did not regret her choice of seat-- everywhere else was cast in shadows, and here, despite the baldness it showed her the danger, at least she could see it. Clearing her throat, attempting to reign in the panic that threaded her, Elleynah spoke carefully and succinctly. "I do." The next words spilled out. "Do you believe in the cards, Captain?" There was no use pretending she didn't remember his title. She did not know how they had circled back to each other in the scheme of fate, but it was a cruel twist.

His lips pulled into a smirk - small, but there. He took a pull from the mug of whiskey and rather than answer her question, he waved her forward. "Give me a fuckin' reading," he said casually. Beneath him, there was a low growl, barely heard over the chatter of The Leaning Mast's patronage. Another pat of Booker's head was all Karsteth offered before he leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. "Y'need a question, aye?"

If the flat stare had been unsettling, the smirk made something inside her wither. It was threatening in a way the touch had not been, and she fought the urge to bolt. Not that she would get far, the hound;s growl reminding her precisely of how tenuous the situation had become for her. Heart hammering, skin cold and clammy, she nodded assent to his request-- demand-- and started to pull the magics of the cards into her. There was always a moment of hesitation, when she reached into the weave to let the parts of her that were young and unwise fall away. It was frightening, to suspend herself-- the part of her that was Elleynah-- while the magic slid into place like a mask, covering and separating her from the words she spoke, the visions she saw. There was a fear-- what if she never came back? What if she was adrift in that nothing, the threads of fate, for eternity? Now, the hesitation tasted like copper and fear as she forced the mask to come over her features, the magic sliding through veins. Between breaths, it settled on her-- one moment, the girl was stiff with fear, and the next, she was... still. The tension left her frame, leaving her motionless but calm, all trace of emotion fading from freckled features. Her eyes closed, and opened, and within them was... nothing. Empty green eyes met his gaze, vacant and distant. With mechanical precision, she gathered the fanned cards and laid them in a neat-- unnaturally neat-- stack. With a voice as flat as her face, and low enough to nearly be drowned by the clamor of the bar, the Oracle spoke. "What is your question of the cards."

There the two were, surrounded by people. She could turn and tell the person next to her that she was seated with a murderer, a pirate. But she would only be telling yet another murderer, another pirate. She could scream for help, but nobody would listen even if they could hear over their own loud conversations and songs. She could run, but she would need to push through the crowd and she would need to outrun Booker...and Karsteth. He watched her as she changed, his head tilting slightly as her eyes became vacant. Finally, he looked away, towards his mug and then towards the cards. He took a long sip of whiskey and then asked in that low gravelly voice: "Will I get what I want?"

There was no movement in the woman, save for her hands-- it was so very different from the old witch in the forest; where Dasia had simmered, swaying with her power, words dripping with potential, the girl before him was flat and featureless; just like one of her cards. Lifting the deck, she spoke in that same tone. "A worthy question." The petition offered, she now started to weave. Moving with rhythmic precision, the Oracle's hands moved mechanically. The cards flashed quickly through her fingers, almost too fast for the eye to follow. It might have been merely interesting in sunlight, but in the murk of smoke and low light, in the swaying of shadows, it was almost... hypnotic. There was magic threaded between the motions, something barely felt, an old power that was felt, not seen. As the cards twisted, showing myriad colorful faces, the woman seemed to still even further, like the sensation of a held breath. "Tell me... when to stop."

Karsteth watched as Elleynah's hands worked over the cards. His one eye traced over her movements and then studied her face, watching the vacancy in her expression, in her gaze. He took his time, took another pull of his whiskey...and then finally spoke. "Stop."

They were in a tavern, surrounded by the lowest of the low; she was at a table with one of those whose deeds and history might make some here pale, or stand with the worst-- it was all evilness, in the smoke and noise. The Oracle seemed to shift, even as he spoke the word; it was like there was two of her, one overlaying the other-- the mask, all calm perception and flat, and beneath… the girl he had scared, hiding in the shadow of the self that wasn’t. The first card hit the table, and it was like a thunderclap; just between them two. The world around stilled; sound died in a single instant, like a grinding of the gears of the world that missed a cog, and beyond their table was nothing but flatness. Even the dog who had been at his feet was gone; he was alone with the woman, and the cards laid out. Six cards-- one more than the witch of the woods, but then again, this seemed something as far removed from Dasia as Karsteth himself had been from the cowardly, simple Booker.

Now though, he was without anything. He was simply Karsteth, man without mother, killer of his father, murderer and thief. And in front of him, the woman-within-woman and the cards that seemed to lift, glow of their own power. They rose, and began to spin-- growing faster and faster while he was rooted to his seat, powerless. Erupting with crimson light, they seemed to unmake whatever their light touched. They whirled, the faces-- the figments of the paint and paper revolving around him, caging him. They turned potential into something visible, touchable, real. The first of the cards pulled from the wildly careening halo, and like a bolt of lightning it struck him, right in the chest; one moment he was in his chair in a world of nothing, and then, he was-- Stormy seas, a ship in the distance. He was at the helm of his Widow, but it was not his. Not now. At his side, Booker leaned over the gunwale; he looked young and strong, no grey at his temples yet, a hunger in his eyes.

Yet, when he turned to Karsteth, where his mouth should have been was a maw of shark teeth, cutting up from the soft flesh of his mouth, and blood ran down Booker’s chin and throat to his chest, where a gaping wound cut across. It was not one wound; no, Karsteth had been thorough, and took his ascendancy by force of cruelty. “Always want what is not yours; a creed we shared in seas dark.” Around them, the waves seemed to grow higher and higher, the storm clotting and darkening the sky. Booker stepped forward, his head hung at an unnatural angle. “Always meant for nooses, we, but no-- you would always want for a blade, wouldn’t you?” Booker’s voice is made of the crash of bodies into distant waters, the gurgle of his death rattle. “Can’t keep happy, can’t be satisfied-- that’s what the witch did to you too, made you outside how you is inside.” The frozen vision seemed to warp, and Karsteth could once more move. He lunged forward, bow in hand, and struck down at the human. Just as he had before, his face held shock when he collapsed. “Don’t say… you weren’t warned… bastard.” The glaive of Karsteth’s bow slammed down again, and the man seemed to explode into light; bloody, vermilion light, that lanced through the world, through human and elf and ocean alike until there was nothing but red.

For a moment, it was like he could see them; the threads of magic, the tavern, the girl. Time had stilled; he was still there. But the magic flooded into him red and blinding and the vision of reality broke. The world seemed to right, and he was no longer at sea. Karsteth was in his father’s lighthouse; in the signal room, where the pillar of magical light would shine, but it was dimmed. It was in disrepair; around him, the chairs had moldered down to nothing but debris, windows cracked or shattered, piled of leaves and other trash catching in corners. Outside, the storm from the ship seemed to still rage, casting long shafts of pale light into the room and the rest left in inky dark. From the shadows, three figures rose; as though from the piles of detritus, they walked from the darkness. Two women, and in the center, a man. He recognized them; he had played his part in their ending, and the familiarity of features was evident… even in death. His mother reached for him, jawless and rotten, half bones and rot but overlaying her was the woman as she was, when he ended her short and useless life. Accusation burned in those eyes, her silent judgement unheard. The woman to the other side hummed softly, offkey, a sailor’s shanty but she too spoke no words. It was only the man in the center who spoke, and his voice was soft. “You’re going into a ruin. You’re running and fighting but it’s going to burn for awhile longer.”

As one, the three figured turned their heads; not even a second later, lightning struck the side of the lighthouse with a crack like the end of the world; when the light faded, the three figures were gone… but below, the night turned to orange. The lighthouse was on fire, and the rain and smoke began to fill the tower room. Karsteth would look for escape, but as he neared the broken windows, they seemed to grow whole-- barring his exit. The door vanished entirely, and then the flames began to eat at the floor. They licked at the beacon, and it shuddered to life, filling the room with light-- blinding, crimson light and he could hear the flames and then-- He was in the familiar cursed woods. All was night; the storm rumbled behind him. He was running and the shadows of the trees seemed to shift to follow, grabbing at him with spindly fingers, catching and slowing him. He heard laughter-- hawk cries-- crow caws-- in the air but saw no shadows of wings… instead, saw scales in the dark places between the trees that vanished before he neared. He was running to and from-- he saw what from, but it was not until he saw the scarlet glow of flames that he knew his aim. He fled to the circle of light, where the trees ended abruptly. Across the flames, he could see her-- Dasia, the witch woman. She swayed in an ancient dance, her dusky flesh painted in whorls and symbols alien to him and nothing else. The light caught at her; the long, free hair, the swelling of her belly, the bloody feathers beneath her feet. She sang, soft and barely audible over the crackle of flames, but it was unsettling and eerie.

Where she walked, he could see; the threads of reality seemed to coalesce behind her, and he saw the tavern, the girl, the mug of whiskey. Dasia smiled to herself, as though she could not see him. Instead, he saw, she danced with a bone-- his mother’s jaw. She sang to it, weaving softly through the smoke. As she moved, the feather beneath her feet shifted; he could see the other offerings there too. This was the preparation he was paying for; it waited only for him to return with the last of his deed and spoils. He smiled-- for the first time-- and the woman stopped, confusion and wonderment on her features. “An’na maehik...? Aeyanti--?” She reached through the flames, but she shifted a foot-- feathers fell into the fire-- and it began to roar, growing into a column of flames, all vermillion and searing. Karsteth surged through the flame, trying to grab at the witch to make this stop, but instead, as he emerged from the fire, he was… on a ruined path. Around him the woods of the Ghostlands were overgrown and clawing to reclaim the road, but he was there now and the recoiled. In the distance, he could see the glint of something-- and he moved towards it, walking at first, his boots thudding on the stone, and then he ran, and then he bolted, sprinting as fast as he could. In the woodlands he felt eyes on him-- so many, single eyes just staring, but they dared not stir from their darkness. At his hip, the bag of spoils was full. He had all he needed. Karsteth ran, and as he ran, the bag seemed to empty on its own, and he was leaping, and he was flying and his sight became endless and he was seeing all-- those whose eyes were stolen, those whom he had hunted, those who hunted him, and he felt the malice and fear there.

Forcing himself towards that feeling like a loosed arrow, he spun towards his enemy, through the forest of Eversong, and deeper, and then-- He flew through the red run, and this was becoming familiar, this feeling of being unmade, and-- He was once more on the White Widow, at the helm. He was where he belonged. His eyes-- both-- scanned the horizon. The helm seemed to erupt beneath him, as he took a step back, but he was confident in this. Karsteth smiled to himself as the deck formed beneath him, splinters and bones and gold and steel, a throne. He sank into it-- made from the eyes of whores and holy men, the amber of witches and amethyst. Beneath him, the crew were rendered faceless, obedient and fearful, and he was their god-- unstoppable, with his vision thousandfold, with his witch. In the hole through the ship, he saw all his precious treasures; gold in his quarters piled, crusted over the walls and floor like barnacles, sliding up the swell of thighs and breasts of the women who rested in silks on his berth, their bodies pliant and waiting, chains of that same gold wrapped around their throats. Below them, more gold clotted the veins of his ship, and then, the weapons of his crew glinted with hunger-- he could see the maps of Azeroth, and with a narrowing of his eye he could see the paths of the ships, the wealth they could vomit up at his feet. He was smiling, a satisfaction rising in him, when a familiar and cool voice clipped through the rising smugness of the vision.

“Be wary of anything that offers something, for nothing.” Karsteth looked back to the helm, and at the wheel, was the thin quel’dorei-- Quineven. The man turned, and he stared back with his own replacement eye. It swirled with a cosmos, severe and stark against his pale features. “You’re going to regret the greed. You can have a taste, but the weight of that want is going to bring you… down.” He waved a hand to the deck beneath them, and Karsteth looked at his ship. The hole he had torn in her heart was filling now, crimson waters rising and flooding each level of the ship. The captain of the vessel tried to rise, but the chair had become host to that golden barnacle infection, and it crept over his calves, over his groin and arms. When he opened his mouth to speak, it rushed between his lips, and he tasted the tang of metal before the ship sank beneath the waves, crushed and drowned in vermillion. When he opened his eyes, he was once more in the tavern. He reached for the bitch in front of him, the witch still motionless, ready to throttle the life from her, and his hands passed right through Elleynah, past her chair. The tavern was still frozen, and now too it was dark with the red light.

At his back, he felt a single point of pure, steely cold. It erupted through his chest, and he saw the sword burst through his sternum, and not even his blood could turn it red, it shone clean and sharp, glinting in the light. The thick scent of ichor and copper filled his nose as he gurgled on his last breath. There was a single, quiet whisper in his ear. Fair and forgiving. The world went that red, and it consumed him. It was everywhere, like the pain that enveloped him, and Karsteth was falling, falling… He was in the tavern, and the witch sat before him, her features flat, the shadows in her eyes shifting with the magics. Beneath her fingers, he could see the cards. Knight of Cups, reversed. The Tower. Queen of Pentacles. Six of Wands. The Devil. And then… The Ace of Swords, reversed.

It was unsettling to say the least. One moment he was there, the next he was not. The woman in front of him - the girl was there, then she was not.

Then she was Sid, his work shown on the former captain. Karsteth looked over the gruesome cut, the way he was split and the unnatural form of his movement. He could still feel the weight of his own bow as he swung it down, the resistance of flesh against blade as he cut through. He could still hear that bitch gasping for breath between pained sobs as she bled out on the floor. But he was a man of reason. This was not real. This was not real. And so, even as he felt a spark of fury ignite in him at the dead man's words, he did not shout back. And then the ship was gone. Sid was not Sid. Sid was his mother, his father--.... Karsteth looked at the three and shook his head as they reached out. 'Ruin' they said. Piss on them. Piss on all of them. They had no idea. They were dead. And then they were gone. He was out of breath from running, panting with sweat dripping down his face. This was not real, but he felt the moisture, tasted the salt, and smelled the smoke from the fire that she danced around. He saw her. Dasia. Not of his own will, he felt his loins tighten and his mind surge with rage. He had no control over this and he did not like a loss of control. Spit on Sid. Spit on his bitch of a mother and his coward of a father. Spit on the witch herself. Spit on the eyes. Spit-- He felt the ship erupt beneath him. The loss of control was gone. He felt completely in control. The ship was steady beneath his feat. The throne of gold was heavy, sturdy, and built for him and him alone. No seat had ever felt as good as that throne did then. He felt the smoothness of gold beneath his hands--

--but then his hands could not move. His feet could not move. His legs, his arms-- he was being swallowed. He was being restrained. He was being-- His eyes opened wide and he looked down at the pristine sword protruding through his chest. He was about to shout, about to curse, and then he heard the voice of a woman. Something familiar. Someone familiar. And then he was in the tavern. No throne. No sword. No ship. No father, no mother. No Dasia. No Sid. Only himself, the bitch at his feet, and the bitch across from him. And the cards laid out before him. He steadied himself from the vision, catching his breath, and trying to do it subtly. His palms were clammy and Booker, sensing something was amiss, growled a bit louder. Beneath the table, she bared her fangs at the witch across from her master. But he gave no sign to attack and so she held. His gaze lingered on the final two cards. The Devil on his throne and the Ace of Swords. Looking to Elleynah, he spat out a low and dangerous question: "What the fuck was that?"

The flatness remained; whatever had taken the space within the girl's skin remained, and with empty gaze, it spoke. "You seek to gain, to ruin others and rise yourself. You have bones and bodies and eyes laid at your feet, and they lift you towards the goals you seek. You were content to feast, but then the hunt came for you. You have run, and clawed, and kept your feet but the tangling roots and the clawing shadows come closer. In seeking salvation from your hunt, in turning the tides against the predators to hunt in return, you have left yourself few doors, few ways safe to walk. Be careful, Karsteth Dusktide of the White Widow, who shows an unberbelly only to strike; you will taste what you want, and in knowing you have won, you will fall. Take warning here-- a victory precedes the end. Be wary." The Oracle remained, because Elleynah was lost-- caught in the vision of her own magics, she was slow returning to her flesh. Fear, thick as the smoke in the bar barred her return. Instead, the featureless facade of the cards blinked once, and a smile turned the lips. "You have been marked by witches, and witches know you. The weaves of fate clash over your name; the mother of your sons awaits your return, and she will give you the answers you need, and offer the final prize for all your efforts..."

He listened to the words that were spoken by the puppet of the cards with a grit of his teeth. The vague nature of them infuriated him, especially after having been jerked around in his own mind, as far as he was concerned. When he heard his full name and his ship, his jaw clenched, his temples pulsed, and he looked like fire ready to burst into something more wild. A victory precedes the end. Be wary. As she smiled, he felt fury rise in his belly. She spoke of witches and fate and Dasia, he knew that well enough. And though she spoke of him getting what he wanted, he felt mocked. He did not like to be mocked. And in order to get what he wanted, he knew what that meant. "You sealed your own fucking fate then," he all but growled. Knocking back the remainder of the whiskey, he slammed the mug down - to not other patron's surprise or care - and stood. In an instant, Booker was on her paws and growling as the captain rounded the table. He harshly grabbed Elleynah's arm and whether she was still in a daze or not, he dragged her as a child would a rag doll. Out of the chair and out of the bar, caring not if the heavy door slammed against her as he pulled her with him.

Before he moved, her hands were gathering the cards. It was fate-- premonition? That they were all gathered and pressed to her chest before the storm broke around them. Even still, pressed to her heart as they were, she was hapless to stop the pirate's moves-- even if she had been herself, he was stronger and faster. Elleynah watched from behind her own eyes, stapped in the space between. It was with horror that the doll that she had become was yanked bodily from the chair; Her feet moved with surety, between the patrons. Though he pulled her callously through the wildness and the riot of the Leaning Mast, whatever magics were in her made the progress oddly... smooth. Where he tugged, she followed, her feet landing precisely where they needed to be so as not to fall-- and with the space of a hair, she managed to slide past the door without it crashing on her frame. It was only when the bracing scent of the sea air hit her that she felt herself slam back into her form; and her knees nearly buckled with the sensations of fear and panic. A scream clawed at her throat. Inside the murky tavern, Shariya watched as the girl was dragged away, guilt and shame clawing her her belly. Reaching for a mug, she turned to deliver it, excuses tumbling around in her mind. A scarred and calloused hand closed around her wrist, with enough force to make her gasp. "Where'd she go." Baelisian's voice was low and dangerous, the sinuous roil of ink on her bared arms leading to a face thick with anger and disgust.

Into the dark, Karsteth dragged Elleynah. If she fell, he jerked her back up without a care. His strength was raw and animalistic, his stride deliberate and primal in its anger. He was so fast that Booker had to trot at his side, her claws clicking against the rickety, wooden dock-like pathways of Booty Bay. They passed the drunkards, laughing or puking over the edge of the docks, half-digested food splashing into the disgusting water below. Nobody paid them mind. Even the 'guards' cast looks briefly, but couldn't be bothered to intervene. A lover's quarrel perhaps. Or a debt owed. Either way, not their business, not their problem. Through the shark's mouth and into the tunnel that lead the way out of the 'city' did he lead, already starting to brandish a knife as he went. Once they were out of Booty Bay and surrounded by the sounds of the jungle, he swung Elleynah around until he back slammed hard against the rough bark of a palm tree. What anger he had at the vision was now beginning to boil over, having something - someone - to point it towards. A hand grabbed her hair roughly, calloused fingers wrapping into copper curls and jerking her to stay in place. "Marked by witches, am I, bitch?"

Now the girl staggered, her voice stolen by fear-- this was when she should fight, should run, but no one around her could help-- it had been so long since she had to think of life and death in so small a way, so personal, and the Spectre would be so disgusted, Bell would be so angry at her for letting this happen-- She tried, just once to yank away, but it was was futile enough he didn't even notice. He just pulled her along, and the sounds that shuddered and fought in her chest were rendered mute. No one could help her; these were pirated just the same as he was, this was not her world any more and she had forgotten the simplest of rules. In the tunnel of the Shark, she tried to look for anything-- any last-minute help, something, but if she lashed out now, she felt he would murder her where she stood. He'll kill you as easy as anything. Gabriel's warning, offered early, forgotten for only one moment and now-- Elleynah's only hope was to send for help. At her side, she concealed reaching for her commstone with a fake-stumble, turning it on. The last person she had messaged was Bell-- maybe the woman would be able to hear the sounds of the city die, the rise of the insects of the jungle. Closing her fingers around the comm, she held it tight-- it was her last, and only hope, as she was too weak and stupid to have prevented this. Her back slammed against the palm and a pained gasp broke from her lips, and with it, the silence was broken from her. "Yes, you've been-- there were deals, and a witch, the cards showed you what you asked for--" A cry broke from her as he yanked hard at the curls, her scarf unraveling at the rough treatment and sliding off her brow to the jungle floor. Meeting his eyes, fear and desperation flooded her freckled features. "I gave you the truth, not what you wanted to hear."

"You didn't give me fuckin' truth, you gave me something fuckin' else," he said, slamming her head back against the tree once more, his grip stern and never-faltering. He could hold the helm through a storm, he could most certainly hold a young girl against her own futile struggling. He had done it before. Many times. "What the fuck did I see? I know you fuckin' know." Again, he slammed her back. "What did you fuckin' make me see, bitch!?"

Elleynah closed her eyes as her skull slammed against the palm bark, stars going off in her vision like fireflies. "Th-that's the magic! That's the cards-- they-- they show the truth, in their own way--" She gripped the commstone, raising her voice as though on the verge of tears. It wasn't an act. "Please, let me go back to the city, I g-gave you the reading you asked for-- you saw what you needed to see, you got your warnings!" Panic was beginning to bubble over inside her, and if he didn't let go of her soon, she was going to make the mistake of trying to escape-- despite knowing his dog was waiting for her with bared teeth, despite knowing there was a blade held close to her throat.

Karsteth's grip tightened and he leaned in. The stench of whiskey was sharp from his breath, permeating the air between them. "That's not what I fuckin' wanted," he said, his voice a low growl - one that matched Booker as her snarling became more prominent. "Yer a fuckin' witch. Can't see that in yer fuckin' cards?" Brandishing his knife, he reached upwards and placed the cool blade against Elleynah's freckled cheek. He pressed hard enough to draw blood if she continued to struggle - and then a harsh jerk of her hair, enough to rip some out of their roots. He tugged downwards and then cut, a clump of bright orange hair left in his hand - and the knife was back at her throat. As he stuffed the hair into his pocket, he tilted his head to the side. "Ye talk about fate and witches and what ye want t'hear, what ye don't want t'hear. If it's really fuckin' fate, then it fuckin' hate you, bitch." Booker growled a bit louder and then barked once, the sound vicious and wet with frothed saliva. But Karsteth paid her no mind, his anger still narrowed at Elleynah. "Hair of a fuckin' virgin. In The Leaning Mast. How fuckin' perfect is that." With a harsh laugh and his hand free, save for a stray curl clinging to a dirty nail, he balled his hand into a fist and swung it into the young woman's gut.

She struggled, until the cold pressure of the knife cut her cheek; it was a small pain, but it shot through her, turning the threat in his voice and the cruelty in his words into something palpable and real. Panic blinded her; Elleynah’s breathing grew shallow as his hand twisted-- sharp pain slicing through her scalp and face, a small cry breaking from her lips-- And the hair came away in his hands, the brightness of it shorn from her, and something inside her quailed. There had been warning-- she knew, not to let this-- he shouldn't be allowed to-- The punch landed hard in her belly and Elleynah doubled over in pain, acid racing up her throat with the strike and she heaved on the emptiness in her stomach. Her limp fingers dropped the commstone to the rotting undergrowth. Tears fell from her tight shut eyes, and she waited, waited for the next blow to land. There was a single moment, in the jungle, where the insects sounds dulled; half a heartbeat of quiet. It was followed by two booms-- two shots from a rifle. The rounds thudded into the hound's flank; one near her throat, the other in the soft part of her belly. They were aimed to take the beast out of combat as quickly as possible. Bell lifted the gun to pepper one in the back of the pirate, but she'd loaded quickly-- the gun jammed, power not igniting. With a curse, Baelisian dropped the rifle in favor of her sword and lunged from the vegetation, straight towards Karsteth's back.

Booker snapped again, lunged, and took the two shots. The power of the rifle was enough to send the mutt back and tumbling into the dirt with a splatter of blood following her. With a high-pitched yelp, her growling continued, but quieter and slightly strangled. It at least pulled Karsteth's attentions to the side. He almost looked surprised at the familiar sight. He recognized the harsh features, the black hair, the tattooed arms. He smirked and swung his fist against Elleynah's face with a low grumble of, "Fuckin' fate. Your boy ain't here too, is he? Slinkin' around in the shadows like a fuckin' dickless bitch?" In an instant, he threw his knife forward and the blade sung as it whipped through the air towards Baelisian. Quickly thereafter, he swung his bow from his back and held it at the ready. And arrow was notched and in the blink of an eye, it flew after the knife, towards its prey.

Baelisian had sized up the man when she saw him in the tavern; he was lean muscle and hate, stank of his sins, hollow-hearted and mean. With Gabriel, it might have been a fairer fight-- or alone, she might have had the thought and the wherewithal to stay clean, stay concise, fight with her mind and not her rage. But his fist slammed into Elleynah's cheek and she went down, cradling her cheek and eye, and everything in Baelisian vision narrowed to red. The dagger grazed her temple, the sting sending her forward; it informed her enough of his aim that she was nearly vertical in the air when it went flying. Sword held against the length of her arm, she launched herself at him, trying to force him away from the woman and the palm tree by any means necessary, throwing her arm in a slash towards his belly.

The dagger flew by, the arrow followed it, and then in an instant, Baelisian was upon him. He had no idea why she was there, but he did not mind. He could only laugh, low and cruel like the Devil himself. How fortuitous. Why had he even bothered asking the cards? Cruel joke or no, he knew exactly what he was looking for and that he would get it. He would get it this day. With a trained shift and twist, the bow become glaive and he brought it up along his arm to block the sword. She was fighting with rage, something he knew and knew well. And he knew how it could blind. Ah, the irony. Pressing in hard, he his words were a hiss through gritted teeth. "That shit of a boy not enough for ye? Gotchyerself this bitch too? S'that how it is?"

There was nothing that made it through the roar in her ears; it was anger, and it was panic. Everything was going wrong and she was vicious with her rage-- it moved her, but not her sister. It wasn't a thought; her body moved of its own, and she was closing the distance again between her and the mongrel who was the target of that rage. Baell brought the blade up again, attempting a slash at his side; it might hit, but her own defenses were shoddy and half-forgotten in the anger that fuelled her. Behind, at the root of the palm, Elleynah's head swam. After the vision, after everything, she could barely mend the parts of her thoughts that broke along the edges. There was loudness just beyond her, and she scooted away from it lamely, trying to make sense of all that was going on.

With a blade as massive as that of his bow glaive, Karsteth's movements did not have to be precise to crash into Baelisian's, but they were anyway. Where her anger made her vicious but shoddy, his own made him more dangerous, more even. He had learned to harness what drove him. With a shower of sparks as steel met steel, he swung his way down harder and pushed back what ground she had tried to claim for her own. "C'mon, bitch, ye can do better than that," he taunted, emphasizing that last word as he crashed his bow glaive downwards for an opening, drew back the first of his free hand, and let it fly towards her face.

She had been born a fighter, but her years were her enemy here; she had fewer than her own Captain, for all they had been cruel to Baelisian as well, but where others might have honed anger into coldness, hers was still heat-- too much fire in the bloodline, too much animal. Baelisian barely held out against the parry, her foot sliding in the rain-and-rot slick leaflitter, and she caught Karsteth's fist in her temple. It made her fall back a step, but where anger made her decisions poorer, it sped her, and she lifted her blade to block his own incoming attack-- or would try.

Karsteth took the dagger to his arm and it drew blood with a vicious hiss between clenched teeth. He looked down, the flesh between his rolled-up shirt sleeve and leather wrist cuff prickling with red. Behind him, Booker was making her way to her feet and at the smell of her master's blood, she growled obediently. He looked to Baelisian and in an instant, the bow glaive was against the dagger, against her arm, and then he dropped, swinging a powerful leg beneath her to sweep her off of her feet.

Elleynah hobbled away from the combat, her head throbbing, belly churning like she might vomit at any moment. It was-- this was wrong, something felt wrong in the weave. This wasn't supposed to happen; that thought repeated over and over in her mind. This was not the way the threads unraveled, it was-- She shook the useless imaginings away, and with a calming breath, steadied her thoughts. It had not been so long ago she had turned herself to steel under Esme's eyes-- not so long since she fought for her rank. This was not the end of her. Placing hands over her belly, she let the green magics flow from the earth around her, fecund jungle rife with energies just waiting to be used. It rushed into her, stealing the ache from belly and brow, and Elleynah scrambled to her feet. Baelisian, facing against the calmer pirate, fared less well than her sister. She snarled, teeth bared like a hissing cat, and tried to press her advantage-- only to have her momentum play into Karsteth's hands. His calf connected with Bell's knees and she went down. Back hitting the mud with a thud, she grabbed for the leaflitter with her free hand and threw a handful up into Karsteth's one good eyes, pushing backwards to put space between them now that she was prone.

Karsteth turned, but too late. Dirt flew into his vision, causing it to burn and feel sharp. He growled, not unlike the bitch nearby, and then swung his bow glaive down with a vicious attempt at cutting Baelisian's legs - one or both - as she tried to scamper away. Crawling on top of her, using his weight to his advantage, he shoved the bow glaive down against her neck with little care if it cut her or not. Holding it with one hand, he swung down with the other. Over. And over. And over. And over. He was brutal in his assault and kept punching until his knuckles were bloody, blisters in his future. Bone against bone, flesh against flesh, blood against blood. And then, he pressed down. When the cunt finally stopped moving, he leaned down with a whiskey-scented scoff. "Supposed to be a whore. You'll fuckin' do." And then his fingers plunged. They pressed into Baelisian's eye socket, pushing against the lid, surrounding the eye within. If blood spurted, he cared not. Her screams caused him no pause. Booker's growling caused him no pause. He had a task - a bloody one - and he would see it done. He pushed, reached, grabbed, and then yanked. He yanked until the slick and slippery green eye was free and in his blood and dirt-stained grip.

She's been caught up in the attempt to get distance-- she wasn't thinking, she was acting on instinct and it was the undoing of her. The glaive caught at her thighs when he slashed downward, and Bell barked out her pain-- but it wasn't anything compared with what was to come. The attack slowed her enough that he had his moment. The pirate dropped, weight enough to pin her. Baelisian kicked, thrashed-- the glaive cut against her neck, even as his punches rained down. She blindly groped for her blade as his fist smashes against her face, fingers coming away with nothing but leaves. She fought until she saw stars, until blackness swam in her vision, but her head was ringing and she could only focus on breathing through a broken and bloody nose, the whistle of air through it and her swollen, bust lips haggard. It was enough to make her go slack, panting hard, rattled as she tried to find her opening, find her strength to fight him through the aches and pain. She couldn't understand what he said through the ringing, but she knew what was coming when his calloused, dirty hands got near her eye. A feral, angry scream erupted from her and it soon became one of genuine agony. Baelisian thrashed, to the last-- even when the filaments snapped between eye and socket, she was fighting. There was a slick sound of boots sliding on mud and leaves, and despite the prize already taken, Elleynah's frame slammed against the man's side. She was not a fighter by nature, but she was solid with the muscles of years in a military and all of her was flung at the center of Karsteth's mass, anything to get him away from Bell.

It was a slick thing, a fresh eye. As difficult to hold as a small bit of soap. Still gritting against the dirt in his own eye, he felt the hard hit of Elleynah against him. He tumbled to the side, clutched the eye in one hand and kept hold of his bow in the other. He didn't bother with a pouch - there was no time. He stuffed the bloody eye right in his pocket and then rubbed to try and rid his sight of the dust that made such a haze. Viciously and blindly, he swung out with his glaive to keep both of the bitches at bay. But behind them, the third bitch growled. Booker was on all fours once more, though limping on her hind leg. Blood matted the dark, coarse fur, and she looked angry. Slow, but angry - and nonetheless dangerous.

The night was thick with the lengthening shadows, and Elleynah missed the fly of his glaive; she caught the slash in her upper arm, but she wasn't staying to fight. Whatever Bell had done was slowing him enough for her to think, and move, and use the skills she'd won hard at the Spectre's heel. As soon as the man was off of her sister, Elleynah was scrambling back, mimicking (without knowing it) Bell's actions-- another handful of grime and leaf litter was lobbed at his eyes. This time, though, it was filled with magic; her anger threaded the leaves and the dirt, and as soon as it contacted Karsteth's skin the debris would attempt to root itself-- green tendrils pobing at his pores, attempting to slide into his nose, if any reached the eyepatch they squirmed beneath it as well. A growing charm, made into annoyance. She did not look back to see if her dirty trick landed-- instead, she clawed her way towards her sister and tugged up at her arm. "Get up get up for fucks sake get up!" Elleynah's voice was shrill and high, panic leeching into it. Once the dark-haired woman was on her feet, Elleynah pulled her along-- there was no fight, there was only getting away.

With a vicious curse and a scream of, "YOU FUCKIN' BITCH!!", Karsteth wildly wiped at his eye and nose with his free hand. It was a throb of panic in his chest that the tendrils would do as he just did and go for his eye, so he ripped them away from any possible hole they might have made. He scratched, tore, and ripped, neverminding if he clawed at himself and drew blood. He heard both of the bitches start to scamper off, but so did he hear Booker start growling, snapping and snarling. Even wounded, she stood in the way, in the center of the path - though, she would be slow should they dash in their blood-covered retreat. Wildly wiping at his face, he then grabbed for his glaive, grabbed for a bow, and in the general direction of where he heard the two, he let the arrow fly.

Baelisian was panting hard through clenched teeth, brow to neck nothing but tense muscle and grit. Her face was a sore of pain, all of it, from fist and... She couldn't think-- gods, her fucking eye. Anger and senseless hate brimmed in her skin as she tried to imagine the ways she would kill that man, but all it did was made her feet unsure as she was torn in directions. In a last act of anger, Bell groped at her thigh, reaching for the dagger there-- she held it up to her chest aggressively, ready to fight despite the fact her world was darker by half. Booker’s growls caught her ears, and she bared teeth as they neared. The thing was still alive, for fucks sake. Something had to die tonight. She would have lunged for the dog, but Elleynah tugged her along with strength that belied her cowering earlier, all purpose for now. "No, no come on--" Elleynah summoned more of her panicked magics, knowing it would tax her later but at that moment she wanted to get away. Muttering a spell beneath her breath, she mimicked the other casting she had used against the pirate himself but on a greater scale; it was a druid’s calling, not hers, but she'd learned from them she served with-- more greenery rose to meet her fingers, all vibrant and powerful, almost more than she could grasp. With a hiss, she spun the magics like thread between her fingers, letting it build. Once there was enough of it, she cast it towards the pirate’s bitch, and Elleynah could spare no more time or thought; she had to run.

"Booker!! Go!!" Karsteth shouted, wiping madly at his face, even as the greenery faded and all that was left was dirt and paranoia. He notched another arrow and with a squint against the haze, he shot it towards what he could make out of the two women as they hastened their retreat. Booker yelped and snarled as the greenery wrapped around her, tightening her wounds already made by Baelisian. Though she tried to be loyal and heed her master's command, she kept halting to gnaw at the vines that the younger Stormsummer had summoned to her call.

The first arrow whizzed by as the spell was launched-- it soared past Elleynah's extended hand. She had snatched it back, panic still threading her, but her focus was forward. If fear would slow her, she would have none of it-- she was already laden with a sister who was lurching more than running and her own, other hobbles. It was the ache of the magic use made her steps leaden, not fear-- she was no druid, no Greenseer or Dor'wynn to whom nature bent like bower-leaves; she was just a witch, and the charms of life-giving, the blessings that grew, were taxing still. She could hum healing into tea leaves, but it was an effort of days, of sunlight and rain. Magic as aggression was alien to her. She was nearly to the edge of the palms when Karsteth's next arrow was loosed; The second shot flew truer than the first. It pierced the jungle-moist air and slammed into Elleynah's thigh. A cry erupted from her at the pain that blossomed, and something inside her grated hard against the spell-exhaustion. Something stirred, below the surface of her magics, old and calm. It morphed panic to something harder, more cold-- and she almost hesitated, hand drifting towards the shaft that sprouted from her leg. Baelisian's pained grunt brought her back, and the thing beneath slid once more into the dark of subconscious. Shoving her arm around Bell's shoulders, Elleynah spared no more time-- she ran, leaving blood and green in her wake.

Though Booker tried to follow the two women, she stopped eventually to gnaw at the vines that continued to sprout, until they withered and died from the sheer distance from their maker. She had drawn more blood, matted in her teeth with her own black fur. The bitch limped her way back towards Karsteth, whom drew himself up to his feet, angry and seething. He rubbed the dirt from his eyes and it caked on his skin, moist from sweat and the humidity of Stranglethorn. Blood trailed into the jungle , the dirt was scuffed from their tussle, and he was breathing hard with anger at having prey escape. Taking a deep breath, his low and hoarse voice boomed throughout the area, weaving its dangerous way through the tall trees and thick vines. "RUN AS FAR AS YE FUCKIN' CAN!! RUN AN' DON'T YE DARE FUCKIN' LOOK BACK, 'CAUSE I'LL FUCKIN' BE THERE!!" Would he truly be there? No. More than likely not. But as he heaves a breath, he felt more accomplished. The two would run and run far, and his mark had been put on them. An arrow into one, and the other would not see again out of her own eye. The eye.... He shrugged and swung his bow over his shoulder, into its usual and comfortable place. With a bloody and dirt-covered hand, he reached into his pocket and felt for the slick eyeball, the trail of nerves after it still warm. Plucking it out and giving it a careless toss (to which Booker barked slightly), he then dropped it into the small pouch at his side, where the other eye sat. His other hand made its way to his other pocket and when he felt the curls of copper hair still in place, his anger started to subside. A cruel smirk slid up onto his lips and he looked after where the two women had escaped. "AND THANK YE - VERY FUCKIN' KINDLY!!" he shouted back, for no one's benefit but his own. With a bark of a laugh, he looked down to Booker and tilted his head to the side. "C'mon, y'fuckin' bitch. We got a delivery to make."

#my writing #roleplays #the sunguard #gore #?#violence #karsteth #elleynah #baelisian #dasia's shopping list

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caeliri · 8 years ago

Text

Creature Comforts

Midnight rolled over the infirmary, but it was not quiet.

In the darkness, wounded soldiers moaned, their pain a haunting, mournful cry; no one teetered on the edge of annihilation, but that did not mean they were content in their cots, or entirely comfortable.

Her tenure here was wasteful; there was no need for her to be in bed, and the very notion rankled her. Anxiety festered beneath her flesh, racing from fingertips to toetips, and though her mind was still muddled by her collision with the stone pillars of the infirmary, it was unquiet. Mired in fretful thoughts - of the soldiers she had sentenced to a fate worse than death, of the corpses she’d helped Shahin bury, their final rites spoken with stolen, halting phrases that she understood more in sentiment than form, of the Wildfire, of the Ranger-Captain, of the Archon, the High Confessor - Caeliri kicked and thrashed at the sheets on her cot, unable find comfort or relief. Her mind galloped from one grim image to another, from corpses rent asunder, to fel flames virulent and violent, to blood and gore bloodied arrow shafts, and Caeliri’s still tingling fingers flexed, seeking the soothing flames that quelled the dark thoughts that threatened to overtake her.

Her fingertips found cold sheets on the far side of the bed, with no warmth or comfort to give. Grace was not here - she reformed, still, in the manor hearth, miles away.

Alone.

Just as Caeliri was.

Another thought to send her reeling, to send her up and out of her cot. She was confined to the infirmary, and while that meant she should have been in bed, it was never strictly stated. Curling socked toes against the cold stones below, Caeliri took several hurried steps away from her cot, force marching through the whirling room around her, uncaring of the way the floor wavered beneath her feet. The High Confessor’s druidic sleep has sheared time off her healing, had pressed her brain towards wellness, but head wounds were lingering, their effects unseen, save in the erratic actions of the afflicted.

Across the room, in the cloying dark, there was a faint glow that caught the corner of her eye, and it halted her from launching across the room in a frantic flurry of pacing steps. She blinked, waiting for the world to settle, for the shadowed shapes to find familiar forms, and found Elleynah, still asleep, with Cub slung over her soft, quilt-covered body.

Caeliri turned, dream-like, and wandered across to the Oracle’s cot, her approach alerting Cub. His hackles raised, bright eyes opening and runes flaring to life as his throat rumbled a warning.

“It’s only me,” Caeliri murmured, holding her wounded hand to him, to let him sniff.

Cub’s growling quieted, his nose twitching as he breathed in her saccharine scent, and the Cub drew his sandpaper tongue over her bandages in greeting. Caeliri couldn’t quite lift her fingers, the feeling still gone from them, but she planted her hand on his head in a ghost of a scruff, and gave him the lightest of shoves.

“Move over.”

The Cub grunted in return, leaning back, but not moving.

“Scccooooooootttttttt,” Caeliri hissed, her voice low as she moved her good hand beneath Cub’s chest, hoisting him up slightly.

With a grunt and a grumble, Cub shifted and rose at last, his fluffy paws removed from the space Caeliri was seeking to settle into.

Gently, Caeliri laid herself beside Elleynah, front to front, her head high enough on the pillow for Elleynah’s face to settle against her clavicle, with Caeliri’s chin atop her head. The younger mender scooted, until they were positioned comfortably, until she could slip a hand beneath Elleynah’s neck and cradle the elder mender’s head against her. Her lips found Elleynah’s forehead, breath swimming through a sea of cinder-swept curls in swirls of warmth.

With the other mender now in place, Cub flopped back down again, atop the both of them, their bodies pinned beneath his weight.

“You’re getting fat,” Caeliri muttered against Elleynah’s forehead, her comment directed at the Cub. He grunted in return, attention turned to his fluffy tail, tongue roving over fur and blanket as he smoothed down his fur.

Elleynah murmured wordlessly against Caeliri’s neck, a response, perhaps, or just sleep babble - but the mender’s brow furrowed, deep, and Caeliri felt the muscles of Elleynah’s freckled neck go taut with tension. A nightmare, no doubt; the phantom of a fractured mind. They suffered, both, from ghosts of their own making, spectres that they shared in Azsuna, before the hearth in Caeliri’s home, their hearts laid bare and their fears taking forms they could make sense of. Elleynah did not sleep much, for fear of -- all she had to fear, and neither did Caeliri. Even now, the younger mender could not find rest, but where the elder was forced to slumber, she could give her, at least, some relief.

The fingers of her working hand flexed against Elleynah’s skull, softly scraping over skin and creeping through cinder-colored coils of hair, and Caeliri cuddled just a little closer to the Oracle, her embrace tightened enough for comfort to suffuse her friend’s sleep. Caeliri let her eyes flutter shut, a stolen song thrumming in her throat, the hymn hummed so soft it was more vibration than note. Once, she’d heard the phoenix somber song sung in the smothering dark, when sorrows swallowed her whole; a melancholy lullaby meant for Grace’s own sorrow, not hers.

But now, the stolen song was hummed with new purpose, rumbling through the subtle swell of Caeliri’s shallow chest until Elleynah’s brow smoothed out and her frown fell to a flat, peaceful line across her freckled face. Between them, the melody drowned out the distance moan of ailing soldiers, and the murmur of the midnight menders, who saw to their tasks dutifully. It quelled the keening thoughts that crashed and roared in Caeliri’s mind, the rhythm of Elleynah’s breath and the warmth of her body beating back the shadows that slithered over her mind, enough to allow her some reprieve.

It was not sleep, was not the rest she was meant to partake in, but it was enough.

@stormandozone

#my writing #caeliri #elleynah #mender friends #fluff #because #yea

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thanidiel · 6 years ago

Text

Wake Up

[Consider a reading of Look Around, Revival, and Around and Around for context to this story from most to least recent relevance.]

With the recent defeat (and the consequences that echoed beyond this defeat), a forgetful spirit has settled into Thanidiel’s breast. Once again, she has shifted into a conflictful creature, one that has disregarded the warmth of hearth, for the chill beyond it.

She had slept, finally, after settling all that had still required attention, had been demanded of her, for the time-being. And, upon waking, the wordless Duskward had clothed herself in warm civilian-wear, and made her exit from the apartment without a care if Bricini was there, would follow, was speaking to her, or whatever-have-you of the other's presence.

Now, she treads through the eerie quiet of Silvermoon, through the backstreets of the Royal Exchange's sprawling district where stone and marble gives way to soil and snow underneath the feet. All of it: empty, bare. Sometimes, there is someone present - a child, an elder. Most of everyone risen to arms, and the refugee masses regulated to other districts of the City. For now.

Cigar smoke follows her like a thunderstorm.

(“Not so fast.”)

An over exaggerated "BRRRRRR”, cuts through the ambient sound of snow compressed underneath boot, and the steady inhale-and-exhale of smoke. And with this, Thanidiel’s ears do not perk with her common thrill, they stiffen, rather, at the sound of the other.

Her brow had already been bitten with Burden's axetooth, and at this, the gash only grows more severe. As though it were a strike of happenstance than purpose, the forgotten-other seemingly materialises from an alleyway beats after the Phoenix Guard’s passing. In an instant, she is walking beside Thanidiel, chokes on the acrid cloud billowing from the fighter, and then Bricini switches to the other side of Thanidiel.

Her partner glances to the side, then the other side, and then over their shoulders. Still, the pad of her feet slows from its heavy trod to something light, then to a pause entirely. Obligingly, she offers the Dawnmender her adjacent hand.

"You're walking like you're trying to get away from someone. Who's following you?"

"You, for one," comes out easily in riposte. Its tone snares on a growl, a hostility, unheard since the younger months of their relationship. Her next words assert a dismissal in their nature, incongruent with the tender manifest of them, “I thought you'd want to rest now that we're in a city.”

Bricini shakes her head, puffing out a visible bit of air. "I don't rest," she half-lies. "Besides, did you really think I wouldn't want to follow you to see what your quiet ass has been up to?"

(“You get this. You don’t lose it.”)

Thanidiel looks around them, cutting the hot bitter of her cigar with sharp air. Eventually, she envelops Bricini's hand entirely in her's to drag them both to the City's wall nearby, and press her own shoulders against the frigid stone. "Walking. Is there something special about that?”

Behaving as though she had always had a choice (she didn’t) in the matter, the other follows right along with a raised eyebrow accenting her features. "When you're acting the way you are, yes. You haven't talked to me since you got back."

“I did, didn't I?”

"No."

“No?”

"You haven't. You've said words. You haven't talked."

“I wasn't aware there was a difference 'tween those two. Did I not nail it right where you wanted it?” Thanidiel drawls that sarcastically off of her tongue.

Unimpressed, Bricini stares squarely into the soldier’s face. "Telling me shit about stars doesn't count. Usually you like boasting about yourself after a battle, win or lose. You crush skulls, and want to talk about it. You haven't said shit, Thanidiel."

The Commander’s impulse is to meet Bricini’s gaze ounce-for-ounce. Her hand releases from her partner’s to grasp, and tug, onto one side of her belt. The other takes its time from where it had perched the arched heel of its palm against her own hip, to raise up her cigar and take a ‘luxurious’ drag, "I don't need to say shit. You can do math. Less than two-hundred walked away with me. We went in with over two-thousand.”

"What else."

“What else do you want?” An explosion of smoke fills in the space between their faces.

(“Not so fast.”)

The Dawnmender reaches out to grab Thanidiel's shoulders, pressing her weight into it and locking the fighter against the wall. Bricini is uncaring to the reaction it spurs within the Commander: her deadened muscles twisting and quivering in a want to snarl back to the other.

The City around them remains frozen and silent, all the while, and, somehow, it is unclear on whether this is due to the winter that falls over their heads, or the Winter raging here.

"Talk to me. What the fuck happened?"

At this, Thanidiel is slow in her response once more. She tosses her head to the side, directing her gaze away from Bricini's eyes and into the bright streets. In spite of this, this is no marker of her hesitation to conflict against her partner. Her voice is unwavering, and still harsh in its flashing bite. Still— she looks away, as red (blood) blooms, and pricks, and splotches, at her vision from the rolling tresses of black hair.

"Nothing happened when we needed it to, no matter how many lives we threw at it. So they all died. And I pulled out what was left of the armies.”

Bricini remains focused entirely upon Thanidiel, and squints hard; listening, and listening strong. She tilts her head to the side. "They all died. Your armies or everyone?" She glances to the side and around, as though the answers would suddenly appear within the fog and smoke around them, "....where are the other commanders?"

“Dead. Gone. Surrounded.”

"All of them?"

“They all went down before I vacated the field.”

The Doctor’s grip on Thanidiel's shoulders loosen slightly. And in spite of this little ‘mercy’, it only serves to fix an aspect of suspicion, and guardedness, onto the Phoenix Guard’s features - even when it is merely jaw and tattoo presented to the other.

Bricini’s brows furrow, and she slowly offers one nod. "That makes sense, then. You were close to some of them up there, weren't you?" And instead of answering the question posed by her, the soldier eventually pushes out: "I can't do it without them," in an echo of last night's sentiment.

This garners genuine surprise. The medic’s brows raise and she pulls back an inch or so. "You're admitting that out loud?"

(“You get this. You don’t lose it.”)

“I'm admitting it to you.”

"Names. Who specifically died? Who were the others on the field with you?"

“Why are you playing so fucking ignorant, Bri? You know who's been with me this whole ass time, since before the Archon even called us to arms. Just get off of me.”

"I'm not playing ignorant, Thanidiel. You don't fucking talk to me. I know you've been bothered, but I don't know who's been traveling completely in packs. I've been focusing on my fucking work.”

(“Not so fast.”)

Bricini 's grip tightens into Thanidiel’s body where it had been pushing forward, expecting the other to accept her demand, and she slams her back against the wall. Snapping, “Now get your head out of your ass and talk to me. I'm asking you a legitimate question, because I give a fucking shit. What were their names?"

Reflective to the ways of anger and violence like water and oil, the fighter surges right back, like quickfire, to loom breast-to-breast over the Dawnmender. Where she had been cold (so cold), suddenly, rage gouts out from between the furnace hatches in a scalding lash,

"Lirelle, and Sederis, are fucking dead."

In response, the Doctor does not hesitate to push, yet again, and thrash the ex-Knight hard against the stone behind them. It becomes apparent, then, that Bricini was very, keenly, honest when she spoke about having served before. And Thanidiel 's face flushes with heat, the frustration that has welled up apparent, even through the gold of her skin. The cigar rolls into the snow underneath their feet.

“So you lost two of your friends? Your comrades? And you decide to shut down and be a brat? Don't you dare shove me in any way, you are going to deal with this."

The soldier's hands go to curl deep into belt and woolen coat, gripping and rolling the material harshly between her fingers, while there is nothing to do with her energy. For, truly, Thanidiel’s anger never came without retribution towards its source-matter. Or, almost never. There is something sacred, and instinctive, here, that prevents the slightest consideration of acting towards Bricini from flaring within her mind. And that is paradoxical to the soldier’s rhythm.

"It's not that they died. You don't know what I'm feeling.”

“Then. Talk. To. Me. Explain what you're feeling. Fucking scream it, I don't give a shit.”

“Why does this matter to you? I can't have a few days to my own fucking feelings? I'm fucking upset, Bri. I'm grieving, for them, and everyone else before them. I walked away from everyone and let them die. Again. Like I always do when shit goes south. I always do. This isn't the first massacre I've been something of a sole survivour from, and it's not the first time I've let people who were supposed to be my friends, or more than that, die as I did it. I'm pissed at myself, and I'm pissed that I'm not in the ground and the others in my place right now. And to top it all off: there's no one else to lean on besides you and Ithanar. And you two aren't enough for us to win this.”

"You're not grieving, you're shutting down. If you were grieving, you'd be hitting something, screaming. I'm not asking you to go to the church on your knees and cry to the Light, but I know you, and I know you're not grieving. Not really. Deal with it and talk. Don't just bottle it up inside. You're not a fucking Blood Knight anymore. It won't fly."

(“You get this. You don’t lose it.”) Thanidiel squints at Bricini and lets a crisp, "Fuck you," roll out of her mouth. "I am talking. I am fucking talking, and I'm explaining how I'm feeling. Don't street-diagnose what this is."

"Fuck me? Fuck you. You're talking after I'm making you talk."

“I wasn't ready to talk to you. I told you— I'm telling you, this isn't the first time this kind of thing has happened to me. You can't expect me to digest it all so easily and sit down with you over it. I'm so pissed I've done this again, Bri.

This is my legacy; all of my merit.

The going gets tough, and I walk away so everyone else can be speared like pigs. You want to know what I'm thinking about and feeling? I'm thinking that I watched my father die like one of your shitty goblin 'movie' projections, then I turned around and I walked away. And that I did the same thing with someone who should, by all means, be my fucking spouse today. I'm thinking about all of the other instances of this.

I'm thinking that everyone's looking up to me and expecting better of me now and here, and all I did was watch Lirelle die, watch Sederis march off to die, and then I turned right around - and walked away.”

(“Not so fast.”)

The action is spontaneous, and sudden, and prickling with all of the Doctor’s own frustrations: Bricini slaps Thanidiel across the face and it lands soundly with impact.

"You're being fucking stupid. You retreated. That is also a strategy. You didn't 'walk away', you retreated because there was no other option. Stop with the pity and start with the grieving. You did what you had to do. And so did they."

Here, there would normally be an instantaneous reaction; an escalation of aggression. Instead, stunned and startled, the warrior pauses. Then, as the other finishes, a growl rips from Thanidiel's throat and the soldier's hand swings out. Grasping, no, wrenching onto Bricini's wrist, the motion is made to reverse their positions with a swing of the other’s body into the wall. With so little activity in the wind, the impact rings so much more severe than it was through the quiet.

"Don't hit me, you fucking cunt. You don't know, and you don't understand. I know I did the strategic thing. I don't care; I just don't care. Let me be stupid, okay? Let me be fucking stupid. You know I can't allow myself that anywhere else but here, and you're not even giving me that.

Bricini takes the grapple, as though expecting this roughness with no indicator of pain delivered, and raises her chin. She doesn't look bothered. She looks just as annoyed as she had been before. Leaning forward, getting in Thanidiel's face, she snorts. "I'm getting you to act instead of walking quietly around Silvermoon, thinking about Light knows what. You wanna hit me? Hit me. Do it. Yell. Let it out. But don't shut down. We can't afford that. Not now."

(“You get this. You don’t lose it.”)

Thanidiel doesn't hit Bricini. She doesn't yell— in fact, her voice has not risen in a true shout this entire time, yes, it had been loud in her way, but it had not boomed, nor split, or strained her voice in volume nor energy— either. She rises to the occasion, however; and lets it out. As she had been ever since the Dawnmender had begun her insistent prodding.

Butting into Bricini's face, just as brazen, and annoyed, and frustrated: "This. Doesn't. Help. Bri." A moment, for that to seep in, then: "You yelling at me doesn't make me any better at my job, when we need to get back to it. It doesn't make any of this go away. You're such a bitch. You can't fucking deal with me not fucking you for a single gods damned day, and so you follow me to scold me like some waycast whore.”

"I can't deal with you being a limp fucking noodle. You bottle yourself up, shut down, explode? Is that it? I don't care about you fucking me, so stop trying to claim it's about that. You know me better by this point. You're deflecting. I may be a bitch, but at least I'm not a cold bitch.

“It's been one whole day, Bri— less than a day, even. You're fucking impossible.”

"We don't have longer than a day, Thanidiel. Not for you to have your breakthrough. Fucking deal with what happened. Grieve. And do so quickly."

Thanidiel just... breathes. After that. A harsh, distinct, noise pushed out from her chest. She looks exhausted. Truly worn of body and spirit. Normally, such strain is ever-present on the ex-Knight, but it is carried well in her primal form of regality; the way queens carry crow’s feet and jaguars carry scarmarks. Now— she looks wounded, in a way.

"What the fuck do you want to me do after you supposedly help me get my fucking act together, Bri? What are you expecting from me? That I'll march us all out and be back under Archon's Command by the next dawn? We're going to be here for awhile. It takes time to rebuild an army. And I have three.”

(“Not so fast.”)

In the midst of these words, she can feel the way that the other’s hands unclench from her shoulders. Bricini grabs hold of Thanidiel's face, her hands surprisingly soft as she cradles the Phoenix Guard's face, bringing her close and dear. There is urgency in her motions, an irritation, but an affection. It could, perhaps, be explained as a sort of love; this willingness to engage with the closing-off fighter, and rip her out of the rabbit’s hole.

It is not something misunderstood or breezed over by her partner. Thanidiel pauses at this; this softness expressed from the other at the end of it all. Her brows furrow. The rigidity to her ears die. She listens closer than she had done in the moments before. Even in the midst of her emotions, she had always been listening. After this touch given to her, however, she listens better; less obstinate for the sake of obstinance.

"I expect you to get your shit together, understand that retreats happen, that death happens, and move on, so that you can truly grieve however you want to after we win this fucking war, or leave."

The soldier breathes out a bit of the weight on her shoulders once again. "I asked Elleynah about you," she begins— or, tries to.

There's an awkward silence that fills in the crevices after that, like ice trickling into, and breaking through, rock.

Then she wills herself to push on.

"I was worried about you getting hurt by being with me, and her magicks said the exact opposite. You were the only person I was worried about going in.

So I let down my guard. And I trusted them. And I didn't sound for the retreat when I knew it was unwinnable, because I figured it'd all turn out fine and we'd figure it out as we go. Because me and them have always beat the odds. And that didn't happen, and they died. So I'm blindsided and I feel like a fucking idiot, because I wasn't strategic. Not like usual.

And I need you to give me a fucking break because I know everything you're telling me.”

The other's hands slide down from Thanidiel's face, running them to her shoulders. Leaning forward, Bricini brings her lips to the woman's cheek. And with that, the Phoenix Guard relinquishes the tense grip around the medic’s wrist.

"Then listen to it." With another kiss, she releases her. "Finish your walk if you want. Think. I'm heading back for now. I won't follow you, if you want the time."

In return, Thanidiel raises that same hand, bracketing the side of Bricini's jaw. A muted exhale pushes out from her at the feeling of the Dawnmender’s own placed over her palm.

"You think I don't listen to you just because you piss me off? You're mine." She doesn't finish the sentiment, but she doesn’t have to, either. It was there, in the choice.

"I think you don't listen to me because you're a stubborn bitch."

“...I want to finish my walk.”

"Go. Walk. You know where I'll be."

(“You get this. You don’t lose it.”)

(“You chose this.”)

It takes time for the Commander to wear out herself - to where her insides no longer twist and she no longer fears the etch of old memories, over the present stonework. She doesn’t return to the building of Bricini’s their apartment until the hours have cut through the tenacity of her mountainblood, and the chill finally gnaws at her bones through wool and blood as the sun dies. But, still, she returns.

The hallway echoes in its setting darkness.

(“This was what you picked, when all else was ash.”)

There is a comfort, beyond comfort, that settles onto her shoulders and relaxes the tension in her breath. This is home, afterall. Or sanctuary. Somewhere in which to perch. She didn’t realise how weary of a miasma had been suffused in her with recent days. Ready to rest, she picks up her stride.

(“When you know your history.”)

Every step is a proclamation. Of choice, and return. A reminder of what is circular. Where walks purpose; there is a dearth - or, once, was a dearth. She no longer feels that familiar, old, Eye. There is only the new wheat, here. Like so many times, and so many walks, before - she grasps onto the knob.

(“And it chose you in return.”)

The door is unlocked and, seemingly, has been for some time. Of course. The other had always done so when she expected Thanidiel - trusting in the eventual presence. Uncaring of the possibility of otherwise. Answering this faith, she twists.

(“Even when you doubted.”)

The way is opened. From this World to something isolated from it. Already, what they had left months ago, ‘cleaned’ and delegated to a lesser home, contains flurried evidence of the pair. There is no need to confirm Bricini’s presence, nor permission. So she steps through; through this barrier.

(“Even when you could not trust.”)

She knows where to find her, like a limb. All it takes, always, is a sweep of her eyes to the right; where the streetlight of the Exchange filters in from the windows. And, ah, there is the other. The blanket had been pulled from the bed, wrapped around her. There’s another text in her hand and splayed over herself, with a pen and notepaper sprawling in formulas in the other. There is no need to mince words, so she doesn’t.

“Hey.”

(“You were given it.”)

“Hey,” echoes right back.

Bricini doesn’t turn her chin up; she only gives the ex-Knight a cursory glance from under her brow, in a flashing glint of her glow. Then it’s right back to her work. Comfortable, and plainly so. Thanidiel observes the way her legs shift underneath fabric, making space to be occupied. She glances over her shoulder.

(“You do not wish to follow the patterns that are laid behind you, a legacy of such.”)

She’s done this too many times. Bottle up. Shut down. Explode. Walk it out. Swing right back down this hallway. It’s… oh-so fucking old, and boring. How many times had she wished to run away from her history, and fall into the same, ancient, rhythm; a dull rodent that didn’t want to think outside of the Wheel.

The hallway echoes in its setting darkness.

The windowlight opposite of that blares.

She grips onto that circular, old, thing.

(“Then listen.”)

Thanidiel closes that door right behind her.

@jessipalooza @retributionpriest @thepilgrimofwar @captainswingbeard @stormandozone @thesunguardmg

#writing #the sunguard #phoenix wars #thanidiel #bricini #elleynah #lirelle #sederis #ithanar

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