Blanched

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Zelknolf
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Blanched

Post by Zelknolf »

As it turns out, playing a character who evades talk about herself makes it so that not a whole lot of development gets to happen in the chat window. So I figure that if I'm going to be writing up bits of history and internal monologue, I'd might as well post them.

I give a fair warning that such posts brim with meta. They will be full of things that Persephone would never talk about IC. So imagine all of these posts contained in a great big "spoiler" box.

****************************************************************

Persephone shuffled quietly into the back room of the herbalist's shop. She didn't want to be especially loud. Her teacher was getting tired of her squeamishness. Persephone peeked in to find the old woman working sitting in the dusty room, walls lined with stacked glass jars, each filled with parchment-wrapped herbs and labeled painstakingly by weight -- notation she'd just learned to read. Two beams of sunlight came in through the paned window, pointed conveniently at the spot of table where the old lady worked on carefully on preparing an emulsion of... bloodroot? Bloodroot. One of the children must have eaten something silly.

Persephone cleared her throat quietly.

"Yes, Persephone?"

"I... think I need help."

"I sincerely doubt that, Persephone." The herbalist looked over her shoulder and over her ragged reading spectacles. "But I suppose I'll hear your complaint."

Persephone shifted uncomfortably, holding one of her arms with the other and looking away, "Well... Julia is here."

"A sad story, that. Well within your abilities, all the same." The old woman was straining to sound more relaxed than she was. "But you'll make me walk you through it, or you wouldn't be here. What do you know about her?"

"Well... we found her in a puddle. Passed out after drinking bad water. She'd only eaten roots and berries for two tendays. Developed a flux in her lung from that..." her voice dropped, "and... she was attacked by an orc."

"Yes, quite sad. But we put together a plan for her lungs a tenday ago. So why is she here?"

"She missed her monthly..."

"Unsurprising." The old lady's voice took a patronizing edge, "So what could cause that?"

"Well... the lung fever is still-"

"Wrong answer. You know better."

Persephone sighed "It could be ill humor... she could be malnourished... she could be..." She paused overlong, and the old woman snapped.

"Pregnant is not a dirty word, Persephone." The old woman reached to the wall for her cane, prying herself to her feet with a cluster of groans from joints and furniture that couldn't be distinguished from one another. "Now you can dispel that notion from your pretty little head or I can take one of the other four who wanted your apprenticeship."

She took a deep breath while Persephone shrunk from the woman's anger. "It sounds to me like what you need to check is obvious. It sounds to me like you could easily check for two -- either finding one or ruling them both out and dubbing the problem malnourishment -- with it."

"That's what I need help with..." her voice was barely above a whisper.

"Why?" It was more a demand than a question.

"Because I... I can't..." Persephone could feel herself reddening.

"Good gods, Persephone. Midwifery was the first thing you read. By your own request, I might add. You have all of the needed knowledge."

"I... don't want to..."

The woman snatched up her cane and pointed it at Persephone, looking almost as though she was going to strike her with it. She let out an irritated breath. "Then you lie damn it. You go in there and smile confidently. You explain exactly what you need to do and why, and you make a joke about not saying anything that would make you answer with a thumbs up."

She put her cane back down with an audible thump, walking toward where Julia waited. "Wash up. I'm going to cover for this... distraction."

She heard the old lady speaking charmingly to Julia between the taps of her cane, "I'm sorry about the wait. I moved the soap and forgot to tell Persephone. She's been back there trying to figure out my age-addled brain."

"... oh, no no. The years have taken my healing hands away from me. I'm a wrinkly old reference text these days."

There was light laughter, and small talk that Persephone couldn't identify over the sound of her hands in the wash basin.
Zelknolf
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Re: Blanched

Post by Zelknolf »

“So I’ve been meaning to ask. How do you feel about this whole Moonmaiden thing?”

Persephone was taken aback. She knew better than to show it – being less than confident would ruin her plans; she needed to at least look as much. If people failed to organize, there would be another girl dead, and this one would probably end up in the wall. He would feel responsible. At least four more would, too, but they would cope by trying to forget. They already were.

This inquisitive man wouldn’t cope. He would lose even more confidence. Fall farther. Cleave a few more bits of humanity from himself as if cutting mold from a brick of cheddar that was still good, if one was sufficiently hungry. She’d hoped to salvage what was left. He was too thoughtful to leave alone; one of the few who genuinely could live up to so-distant ideals, if he could be convinced to try. Not because he’d follow them blithely. He would ask why, and asking would find answers.

That’s why she bought him that flask. Perhaps the logic was not so consistent, but she wasn’t exactly making an appeal to reason. He was certainly surprised. As if he hadn’t been given a gift in—

She wasn’t talking. What was the question? How does she feel?

Like shit.

That’s the wrong answer. But the lie needed to be good; if he hadn’t been taught formally, he had certainly learned how to read people. But she had wasted too much time to give a dismissive answer. It needed to be contemplative. But she could think of… nothing. So she could lie, and keep him distant and ruin those bits of fancy, or tell the truth, and risk his pity.

“It… is miserable in ways I do not have words for,” her answer tasted like a sip of bad milk. A sip of brandy cured that – also awful, but at least a different awful. She took a moment to curse herself; she was expecting this very question later, and promised herself that she’d craft a clever response.

“Why is that?”

At least her suspicions were right. The bits capable of compassion were not yet gone. It was too late, though. Anything but a truthful answer would be ‘I don’t need your pity’ by the time it reached his ears.

She sighed, barely mustering the volume to be heard. “It is because I am tasked with promoting happiness in others, while being permitted none of my own.”

She was not surprised when he asked for examples.

“For one, the man of my dreams is married to a bard of mediocre talent in a frontier town a thousand miles away.”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t look to the past for your happiness. You can only affect the present.”

Was he asking her to…

No, that’s absurd. They’d drive each other mad; surely he knew that. Best to shift the topic.

“And now I’m tasked with healing someone who probably can’t be. And probably won’t let me try.”

“You know how to make Elleia feel better? Listen to her talk about herself.”

Persephone laughed shortly, responding for once without contemplating first. “Don’t think I don’t see that about your strategy.”

“But we’re talking about you.”

Bastard. She was about to continue when an odd woman walked through the Oak’s grassy courtyard, sitting at one of the tables. Near enough to overhear. Writing… something. Fortunately, he took the same cue that she did, and they pined away some time with small talk before he took his leave to the road toward Baldur’s Gate. She took a brief moment to hope that she had more influence than that wretched city.

A distant hope, to be sure.
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Re: Blanched

Post by Killthorne »

:mrgreen:


Nice.

~Killy~
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Zelknolf
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Re: Blanched

Post by Zelknolf »

Persephone looked about confused. She couldn’t recall how she’d gotten where she was or where she’d come from. There were eleven others, and all were barely covered with scraps improvised from scavenged bits of cloth, some of them blood stained.

She was barely covered, too. Hers… used to be a potato sack? It was in rotten shape, to be sure. Her back was entirely too warm. And itchy. Sunburn? Probably.

There was an odd assortment of adults. One wore an impressive moustache, which dangled a small distance away from his face and to the length of his chin, seeming to hold its position in memory of the coif that lay limply unfastened over his breastplate. Persephone could tell there was a picture on his tabard. A lion? A dragon? It was too bright.

He was the one doing the most of the talking. Of cults and rescues and “The Vaunted,” whatever that meant. The largest among the other children seemed to have a realization, which he felt the need to announce:

“I’m hungry.”

It broke the moustache’s concentration. And the priest’s. He was talking to a priest.

Persephone took the moment to scan the other adults. Unremarkable, mostly. Most in red and yellow robes, some with little false auras made from some combination of cloth and ribbing behind their heads. A middle-aged exotic-looking woman in what looked like a very light fighting kit seemed to be paying special attention to her. It was unnerving, but she did her best not to show it. She was probably failing.

The focus would be temporary, as she was distracted by the sound of restarted conversation and the echo of a lute’s body bouncing off of an odd-looking hin’s rear as she scurried off. She looked where the creature used to be, as if the empty space might make some sense of who it was.

“I am sorry, father. There was no where else to take them.” That pulled Persephone’s attention back to the conversation. Her eyes reminded her that it was too bright for that.

“They will be a significant burden.”

“We can help with the financial aspect.”

“Yes… but where will they...” the priest paused, and then shook his head, “I suppose there are no other options. Did you find any sign of their parents?”

“None. And the children don’t seem to know who they are.”

The priest looked to the children, a look of sorrow and defeat mixed into his expression.

“There are some… unique enough that simply asking might help.” He meant Persephone. It was almost as unnerving as the stare.

The percussion of rump and bouncing lute echoed from the door, the hin having returned with snacks. She passed out morsels with much vigor; they had the look of things that should be served warm, but were not warm now. They tasted like butter-wet bread and unseasoned meat, and it seemed that taking a bite of it was cause for a hug from the hin – it looked like everyone was getting such treatment.

The hin smiled the satisfied smile of one who’d just done a wonderful deed. It was probably true; the moustache mentioned rescue. The hin was probably smiling about the sandwiches.

One of the acolytes came to gather the children up, Persephone among them. They were lead to a back room where they were shown to a handful of stripped-down bunks. The acolyte did his best to hide his unhappiness with his task as he spoke to them all.

“It looks like you all are going to be staying with us for a little while. We weren’t ready for you all, but if we all work together, things will get much less scary quickly.” He shuffled through the herd of confused children to a cabinet in the back, from which he fetched linens. “Now we don’t have enough bunks for twelve of you, but we do have six bunks and the good grace to have even numbers of boys and girls.”

The priests would promise that it would only be a matter of time until they could expand enough to give them more bunks. It was, technically. They’d spend a year in the temple, and four more in a makeshift orphanage, where the bunks were wide enough to seem less cruel to share. They would eventually find apprenticeships and move out. Until then, Persephone slept with her back to the girl who would later take the man of her dreams from her and have no realization that she did.
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Re: Blanched

Post by Zelknolf »

The night had grown long and turned to morning once more, and again Persephone had not slept. People would probably notice this time. She looked toward the doorway to the next room where Aalyah rested. There was nothing to do but wait.

And suffer the cruelties of an idle mind.

She turned her attention to her book, pulling it onto her lap and nearly spilling the loose sheets of paper from it. A bit of shuffling produced many scribbles and many notes. Most of them were about people, but she managed to retrieve a few that had something resembling poetry on them. She took up her pen and started to ink the first bound page in the book. Writing as if she meant it to be presented, but expecting wholly that it would never be read.
1

She spends a life living out in the cold
With no warmth from which to tell it is so
Beyond the tales and that one is so told
Does not know that life has pushed her so low

And frigid winds can make the hearts fall numb
And numbing hearts bleed her resolve away
But pride will not allow her to succumb
And heaven only keeps her death at bay

Then presents a warmth to thaw the fingers
Just so much that she may use them to feel
Still the chill provokes and taunts and lingers
Holding at bay any last hope to heal

Finally aware and seeing her breath
She sees she's always been freezing to death


2

You sigh and place your hand on top of mine
And speak to me using your gentle tone
You tell me that the things will all be fine
And that all that I need to be shown

It is words like that that grant me some hope
And makes me wish to find them to be true
It would allow a girl so sad to cope
For I would be in your protective view

But you are nothing but a simple rake
And I can see the things behind your eyes
And always your words will sound all too fake
Because the chivalry is made of lies

And I resolve that I will still deceive
And let a smile be all that you perceive


3

Your dress can shine with the brightest of hues
You use your kiss to turn beasts into men
But it is plain to see all of your ruse
Even though you think it beyond my ken

But I can see how souls as yours are hewn
Cut down so low by brutal strikes of fate
But you do claim the healing of the moon
Can see in time you through this viscous straight

But I am not so strong as one as you
And I will still demand to not be shared
You ask me why I do not share your skew
And ask me though it wounds the parts it bares

And with the choice to love a cheat or lie
I think I would prefer to simply die
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Re: Blanched

Post by NESchampion »

:cry:
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Re: Blanched

Post by Zelknolf »

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Re: Blanched

Post by Zelknolf »

They'd been having a hell of a time getting through the Moonwood. Three of them.

There were others, yes. They were the ones who had always said that if she ever needed help, they would surely be "there." They were not there. The two who were there were the ones who never felt the need to say.

Sticks popped underfoot as they made their progress-- none of them trackers but all of them trying to follow hunters through their own wood. They were leaving deep footprints behind. They were as subtle as painting tits on a dining room table.

The hunt had been going on a month now; it was easy to feel haughty at that. The Beastlord's thugs crawling out of every nook and cranny for a month, and she'd bested them all. Bested them all without her armor—damned dwarves, feeling the need to punish her for buying armor. The furry little creature gave her potions for mithril. Still not welcome in 'their lands.' The lands they couldn't hold themselves.

That's tangent. Need to focus.

The armor was a problem, though. She had a rusty chain shirt with sheared rings on the side. Surplus from the legion.

There was the sound of others, bringing her thoughts back to the forest. Dawn now. That part worked well.

They were in a crook in the hills. Only one way to run out—expected—but they occupied that exit… unexpected. The hills were lined with unwashed shirtless huntsmen, sitting among the trees as if it were a picnic. Inside the crook, two werewolves. Three men and a crate.

The biggest man lifted his arms. His body was a litter of scars and grisly trophies, wearing maille of ribs and vertebrae, wearing pauldrons of skulls, wearing stretched elf skin to cover the necessities, with jagged bits of steel lashed to his hands in a sad facsimile of claws. But he was a cousin now, hosting a dinner party and slightly too happy to be entertaining guests.

"Welcome, welcome! We have a treat for you, today, Moonmaiden!" That grated her, again. Not ordained. Not a priestess. Not the worldly representation of the goddess. Didn't want this. Didn't choose this.

"We have a-"

"Where's Jillian?" Persephone interrupted. She was more angry about being called 'Moonmaiden' than about the missing champion.

'Claws' and knuckles knocked on the crate, but he was a terrible liar, even when he didn't speak. "It's a test, you see. If you pass, we give you Jillian back and you can leave. If you fail, we take her and you."

Persephone gripped her mace tightly, meriting a squeak from the oft-replaced linen grip, a hundred times soaked in sweat and oil. The solid silver head must have been menacing to them, its head shaped in a mean representation of the crescent moon. The werewolves were hesitating.

But they were wolves by day. They were willful creatures.

They were going to die.

Persephone broke from the two to confront one of the wolves, and it braced as though expecting the holy wrath of an archon on its head. But when the ungainly strike of a girl with a stick came, it became bold. Evoked fire came soon after, thrown from both sides. She'd warded everyone, but it wasn't near enough. Aelynthi was soon burnt and bleeding badly, and Olaf not looking much better.

She broke from the werewolf, expecting to have claws in her back for the gesture. Fortunate that none came. Fortunate that the Moonmaiden was still willing to grant healing. Persephone had been very… needy… this day.

She spent an instant regaining her bearings and saw why no claws came. The beast was fleeing, but it was bruised, missing wide patches of fur, one eye rapidly swelling shut. It stopped to dig, and Persephone used the moment to her advantage, turning her mace and digging the point into the creature, the wedge breaking into the wolf perfectly, where spine meets skull, and leaving it limp on the ground.

In the beast's hand was the handle of something it was digging up. Persephone gave an obligatory glance toward the fight – they were both still standing – before gripping the handle and pulling at it until Jillian's mace came free. Why in the hells would they dig that up?

She dispelled that thought and rushed back with the champion's mace in hand, moving to flank the remaining werewolf, but it was already near dead, and fell quickly.

Persephone limped slightly, trying to disguise it, as she progressed to her cheerful cousin and his dinner party. It was coming along swimmingly, and the girl – not Jillian, obviously – who was in the crate popped out with a pose to say 'ta da!'

That was fine. The cousin was next.

"You failed the test!" he said. Excited that he managed to create an unconvincing decoy? Animals are never smart. She might have swatted him on the nose with a slipper and sent him to hide in the corner, but then he'd piddle on the rug. "We're going to take you now, too!"

There was a gnomish voice behind her, saying to say the word to join and he would. No. No we can't do that. All three of them were dead if he did. Those two would be able to escape if it was one on one.

She might've said something to that effect.

The cousin turned to look at the spectators again, much as if he were on stage and offering service to adoring fans, and as soon as he faced Persephone again, Jillian's mace struck him in the face, odd sparks jumping out from the injury and a blue-violet glow coming from its surface, a wispy trail following behind.

He stumbled back out of range from a second swing as Persephone lifted her shield, edging forward slowly. She'd studied under Rani and Alyra. She should know the technique. The cousin's shape remained decidedly human, that was good, but his attacks revealed that he was more threat than the wolves regardless.

He quickly put holes in Persephone's leg, and she kept her shield up. The meaningful attacks that he'd meant did not reach her, sent skittering off of shield and into the ground, or into the air. He was getting too excited. Too much into it. His attacks were all powerful, digging up wide streaks of forest floor every time he touched, and leaving horrible wounds when he connected, but he was soon an animal in a man's guise. Predictable. Stupid. Confused.

She found a hole in his defense soon, and his same attack to provide it came again and again. Each time the mace crashed onto his armor, sending splinters of trophy skittering across the ground and leaving bleeding bruises and blisters beneath. He was soon stumbling and drunk on injury, and a final swing of the mace came upward between his arms, splitting his chin open and laying him onto his back.

Persephone, painfully, put a boot on his chest, leaning forward in as much of a gesture as her slight frame could make. She did her best to muster her rage and shouted at the man. "Where is she!?"

Cousin spit blood, still laughing as a victor. "All of the power of your goddess, but none of the wisdom to use it."

"No riddles! Where is she!?"

"You killed her."

An obtuse metaphor. He killed her, he and his minions. The same grump of every man who has ever held a hostage.

But that was the wrong smirk. The wrong laugh.

Persephone looked back to where the wolves had fallen. Why in the hells did that one dig up her mace?

That was Cousin's opportunity to rise. The foot on his chest was meaningless. It simply wasn't attached to a heavy enough person, and Persephone's reflex was to swing her mace, breaking a wide piece of skull off as she did, and sending the animal to the ground for good.

The picnickers started gathering their things and leaving, chatting amongst themselves as one would of a play just seen. There was a lake nearby, and Persephone dragged Cousin to it, shoving his shattered body in. It rolled down the slope until it dropped off, and hit the water with a messy sploosh.

The mace-digging wolf was gone. Someone had gathered the body and dragged it away. Twenty paces later, someone came to pick up the dragged half, and ten paces later, the trail was invisible.

The three made meals and poultices of wolfsbane, and staggered weakly through the woods, but they knew that they would not find what was sought. There was a cave, where Jillian was probably turned. It was a horrible sight, an unbearable stench, and bearing no sign of the woman ruined there.

They soon had to accept Cousin's victory and go home to recover from the poison.
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Re: Blanched

Post by Zelknolf »

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Re: Blanched

Post by NESchampion »

((Sometimes a picture is all that is needed. :mrgreen:))
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Re: Blanched

Post by Zelknolf »

She hobbled through the dark. Tired, perhaps.

Awkward.

She bumped a chair. Probably a chair.

With a shake of her head she tried to force herself to focus. She’d been left to care for the 'less-critical' of the injured, which proved to be too numerous to allow regular sleep, and proved a dubious categorization. The priests and the ‘adventurers’ had gone off to do something about the dragons, but it wasn’t entirely clear what, exactly. They were spouting some nonsense about some kind of ‘killer star.’ It all sounded the same to her, and they’d done a rotten job of doing anything about the flyb—she withdrew her hand sharply from what felt like a badly-burnt leg, standing in silence while listening for the patient’s sounds.

Blissfully, nothing… no, wait… not blissfully. That should’ve hurt enough to wake him. That leg was probably going to have to come off. She bit back a swear, making mental note, and continuing feeling through the dark—slowly, careful to touch only the sides of beds. A weak whisper, but a familiar voice, called “Persephone”

She found the hand that belonged to that voice and leaned in to listen, waiting for her sister’s voice, but there was only the uneasy breathing of unconsciousness. With eyes closed tight she tried again to will forth healing, but nothing came. It was still too damn irregular. Or she was too damn young. Or she wasn’t sleeping enough. Or whatever was driving her to the art didn’t care any more. Or some combination.

She carefully verified that the dressing on her sister’s head was still dry, trying to disturb as little as possible, and returned to plodding through the injured, listening to each as she passed. For a moment, there was spite enough to hope those ‘adventurers’ failed. The sort wouldn’t be around to start this sort of trouble in the first place, she reasoned.
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Re: Blanched

Post by Zelknolf »

The town had been murmuring for some time; Lady Ruqel had passed through with an entourage of just two followers. They did not stop in the town; they did not exchange words with anyone. People on the edge of town spoke of enormous magic weaved before they left, and then nothing for what seemed eternity.

And then some distant echoes of what may have been words of some speech long past.

And then the clouds split open over the mountains, and blue fire fell down from it as though the gods poured it from a pitcher, seeming only a fluttering streak to the spectators in civilization.

And then, again, silence. Just as the first few came to suggest that the giants had won, the same three figures turned the rocky ground, and descended the final hill into town. The dark woman carrying a wagon's worth of supplies on her back and dragging a winter wolf by the tail. The Lady carrying what appeared to be a bundle of enormous frosty white beards, and heavily splattered with the blood of taller creatures.

They marched into the town, and the Lady stepped in front of the fountain, and dropped her collection of beards and spoke loudly, seeking the attention of those who would grant it.

"People of Nashkel, your giants are dead, but I am not here for glory." she began her speech, waiting for the echo to carry before continuing.

"Each death was a tragedy, and I beseech all who occupy the pass after them to accept peace when called to.

"One of your messengers came to Selûne's temple and asked us for help, speaking of the hardships shouldered by the common people. His message said more, but that can wait. It is not the first time that Selûne has sent Her faithful to your aid, nor do I expect it will be the last. We have also expelled the Umberlaut from your ports, and your ships sail with navigators instead of extortionists on board. We keep the lycanthropes off of your northern border, that the Beastlord's curse may visit you less.

"But I am in a strange position here, for it is not only messengers and words of giants that we receive in the south.

"We receive refugees from the south.

"We receive the hungry and rejected, those who these lands have condemned to starve for disability. Feeding such a person is not good business.

"We receive those escaped from foul structures meant to train 'brides,' slated to be sold to the highest bidder. Kidnapping and rape is, apparently, good business.

"We receive those beaten, shamed, and banished for the circumstances of their birth-- as though a child may choose if their parents are elf or orc. The meaning of this to trade is one I cannot even fathom.

"But we take them in because Selûne loves everyone who Her light touches. For those I just spoke of, this is obvious. This is common knowledge even.

"But I did not say that Selûne loves those She approves of, or those She agrees with. I said everyone who Her light touches.

"You who eats plenty and steps over the starving man: Selûne loves you.

"You who beats and violates a displaced child: Selûne loves you.

"You who scorns those who have done nothing but be born: Selûne loves you."

Her words trailed off, seeming to let the pause carry the weight of her last lines.

"Your messenger's second half was of a bounty. Five thousand gold coins. Any man could become a land owner with five thousand gold. Any man could never work another day and still live with an assurance that he will never go hungry again for five thousand gold. This was not enough. Of course it was not enough. It beseeches that the greedy man come and be the hero, and greed is evidence of weakness. It is the idea that one can provide for no one but oneself and wear it as a badge and displayed with pride.

"And here is where I am truly confused-- faced with the complete failure of greed to solve a problem, you've appealed to the greedier. Ten. Thousand. Gold. This was still not enough to stir any heroes. Of course it was not. Bloodying the altar of Mammon will never bring peace or relief.

"And this is why I speak today. I will not be taking your gold. Your town is free to spend it how you wish. I make a request, but it is without force or threat-- I ask that you reconsider the next time you come upon another who is hungry or bare; I ask that you offer kindness to the next elf you meet; I ask that you place the wellbeing of others beside your own.

"I ask that you rise above the market-shaped prison you've built for yourselves: be strong enough to be one and provide for many."


The three conferred quietly a few moments more, resolving to leave the wagon goods in the care of the Amnian guard captain before leaving northward.
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Re: Blanched

Post by Zelknolf »

The pyre popped and flickered, a contrast to the moonlit sky, violet eyes looked up from beneath a creased brow as the smoke made metaphor for the soul-- long departed-- being carried back to Bast. But Teresa's thoughts were drifting. It was a curious, persistent, disquiet. An awareness that this should be painful. She was watching a friend turn to ash; a vibrant and passionate person, one who more than once reminded her that the gods of Brightwater and Argentil demand the same compassion, was no more. No more insofar as any of the living can care to understand it. But there was only numbness.

Teresa had fought this, to be sure, but it was a repeated battle, and always a losing one.

As a child, she insisted that she would make a wizard of herself, and then an apothecary, but neither was to be. Selûne's hand was ever there, a barrier and a forceful friend, demanding that she cultivate a different sort of spell, demanding that she assist the downtrodden by blessing, demanding that she be the teaching of an ancient and unknowable goddess. She could still recall vividly being trained for wizardry, and misfortunes stacked to never have her wield the simplest cantrip; could recall scholarship that instead made her divine magic judicious and precise.

But then by the disappearance of... what was her name... gods, Selûne lost her previous champion, and the new one couldn't even remember her name. There was a savage run through the Moonwood, to be sure. The Beastlord lost his champion in the melee, beaten until unrecognizable; Teresa knew the path it was on, but surely if she could just rescue the previous champion, she wouldn't be stalked by the responsibility. But it was too late when she started, and the fight merely proved competence, and so came a relic weapon, and the responsibility and title of it; there was no path but fighting the Lady of Loss until death, and then fighting Her again until oblivion.

This pattern seemed familiar. She had recalled the first time she dressed for summer and saw others bundled for winter; the first time she ordered a wine and insisted she'd been given juice; the first time she placed her hand on a stove and felt nothing. She would never again know a cool breeze, a crisp drink, a warm embrace, and the response was obvious-- to become very close to many, but it was this fight that brought her here, to numbess. They all died or left, each loss peeling back a finger that so jealously gripped the last shreds of her humanity. Perhaps she had finally lost that grip, finally become a creature too alien for any connection, finally become the creature that the Lady of Silver would have the world see.

The recollections were time consuming; a tearless and mechanical collection of ashes to follow, and their scattering into the ocean's waves. She spoke the prayers expected: names, places, and details, in the tongue of the gods, that none may be confused who is to be fetched from the fugue and who is to be brought to the comfort of Brightwater. It was a slow walk back to the Spires, with the too-familiar feel of damp, but surely neither cold nor warm, boots; she eventually sat on one of Ruqel's cathedra, eyes briefly cast to the empty one to her left, and took to pen and paper. There were letters of regret to send and estates to resolve.
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Ithildur
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Re: Blanched

Post by Ithildur »

:|

Enjoyed the read... the initial numbness of loss and grief is well portrayed.

I hope she gets a chance to press through that stage to the other side.

Or perhaps a bitter descent ... into the dark, numb embrace of a certain nihilistic goddess! Wouldn't that be something... :shock:
Formerly: Aglaril Shaelara, Faerun's unlikeliest Bladesinger
Current main: Ky - something

It’s not the critic who counts...The credit belongs to the man who actually is in the arena, who strives violently, who errs and comes up short again and again...who if he wins, knows the triumph of high achievement, but who if he fails, fails while daring greatly.-T. Roosevelt
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