[O] Strangled by their own rope. [Welcoming] - Printable Version +- HELOVIA || The Way to the Sun (http://helovia.com) +-- Forum: Out of Character (http://helovia.com/forumdisplay.php?fid=1) +--- Forum: Archives (http://helovia.com/forumdisplay.php?fid=11) +--- Thread: [O] Strangled by their own rope. [Welcoming] (/showthread.php?tid=26174) |
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Strangled by their own rope. [Welcoming] - Beloved - 01-11-2017
@Weaver RE: Strangled by their own rope. [Welcoming] - Weaver - 01-12-2017 Mountains, when you have wings, are not a particularly treacherous thing. She has this ability to cheat, you see. Though to be fair, she’s not afraid of plummeting off a mountain even without her wings. She’s foolish, yes, but she’s pretty sure this place didn’t take her magic. Even if it did take her raven. Because by now, she is very sure he’s gone. Raven never left her side, spending the better portion of his days perched on her back or fluttering nearby being obnoxious, as Ravens are wont to do. She won’t admit she that misses him, but she misses him. They are largely quite on their trek, the pale mare seeming to know the path well, though Weaver keeps pace. She prices herself on being elegant and graceful, even as they trudge and leap through and over mud. Even on paths that are unfamiliar to her own feet. She spent her childhood wending her way through pine forests and mountain paths. Her feet are sure, her steps steady. Everyone once in a while, Weaver asks where they are as the scenery changes, trying to learn the lay of the land as she goes, hoping the strange mare will answer. Weaver notices how the mare cringes as the sun grows brighter, those amber eyes peering sideways, trying to figure out this strange mare who referred to herself in the third-person. Please, don’t let them all be like this. She’ll be high tailing it out. The mare seems to giggle at her own thoughts, and Weaver doesn’t answer, not entirely sure she wants to know the answer. Not that she’s afraid, but rather she wonders if she’d even understand whatever words came slipping from those pale lips. Eventually, Beloved points toward a rather impossible to find rift in the mountain side. Well well. She liked the entrance, though still, she grins slightly, that mischievous grin of hers that’s probably lost on Beloved. “So I’ll just fly in?” She ruffles the black feathers tucked against her side, the soft light of the north just catching the hint of blue. They continue forward, passing what once looked like proud and impressive sentinels. “What happened there?” she asks, tossing her head at the things that now stood rusted and weak and unimpressive. Her mane settles back haphazardly on both sides of her neck, that same sort of wild careless beauty that her mother had. But no one here would compare her to her mother. “Do the important ones have names?” She doesn’t stop the questions as they come, rather trying to gain whatever information she can. Were these places like the kingdoms in Beqanna, ruled by Kings and Queens? Were they traditional, led by men with women left to breed (this she doubts, if only because Beloved really doesn’t strike her as that type). But then again, what did Weaver possibly know? She keeps following, grateful for the drink at least. It has, in truth, been quite some time since she’s had water or food, so she dips her head toward the waters that are, mercifully, not frozen in this wasteland of a place. To be fair, it is no wasteland. It’s is cold and wintery, despite where they left being relatively warm. But there seems to be grass peeking through the ground, which seems promising. There’s no pine forest as she is so used to, but the pine forest had always been her mother’s really. In a way, she’s glad to find that her shelter is looming mountains, that her life no longer has to be dictated only by the things her mother loved. They shared many loves, of course, but no one here could compare her to The Raven Queen. “I like it,” she says, her voice casual and careless as always, but the words true enough. - weaver - RE: Strangled by their own rope. [Welcoming] - Beloved - 01-16-2017
@Weaver RE: Strangled by their own rope. [Welcoming] - Erebos - 01-16-2017
The General spent hours weighed down by nothing but grief and agony, climbing to the tallest heights and summits in the kingdom, looking upon on the rest of the world with naught in his heart but emptiness and misery. He thought about tossing himself off the fortifications more than once – everyone in his family had either gone or perished, so why shouldn’t he – except the poignancy of promises, of convictions, of accursed vengeance wove too closely through his blood and kept him in place. So he wallowed in his misery until the dawn rose, high in the sky, vivid with illustrious hues, and he stared at it, narrowed his eyes, and was nearly urged to spit at its decadence. He maneuvered from misery and guilt to waves of bitter, unrelenting anguish and contempt, and the abhorrence was easier to hold beside him, picking his way down the mountain with such brutal, rancorous acrimony that even Orsino bit his tongue. There were still things to do in this realm, but lord, he didn’t want to commit to any of them. He forgot about the title fallen over his shoulders. He forgot about the tenuous weight of oaths and assurances laden from his lips. He forgot about the shackles and tethers suddenly keeping him bound to this sovereignty, and just pieced together remnants of movement and motions – blank, indifferent, coveting his father’s old expressions as he wandered from plain to plain, from rime to valley. The black kitsune was nothing more than a wayfaring mercenary at his side, looking everywhere but at the crestfallen boy who kept threatening to fall apart. The companion drifted his sights and settled them upon beasts by the lake, and the prince clenched his jaw, kept it tightly in place, tried not to remember the lengths of a funeral, the cascading droplets of an early spring rain. The fox lowered his head and trudged onward, while the youth stood stock still, and watched them for a few moments, uncertain whether he should proceed back into shadow, retreat, brood, reflect on his misery until the sun fell again, or reemerge and attempt to be a phoenix, rising from his father’s fallen scythe. The scion might have committed to the former, had one of his Soldiers not been a familiar form: Beloved, strange and unnerving, but a willing compatriot to misdeeds and ominous etchings, like a sketch of canvas he could never accurately predict or understand. The other was entirely foreign to him, winged, likely a newcomer – and for a moment he thought his father might come, summoned from the wings, ignited by curiosity and intrigue, welcoming the stranger with his own brand of hospitality. But no ghosts emerged, no wraiths inclined. Go, was all Orsino hissed, snapping Erebos out of his trance, and the prince yielded only out of habit, following the floating songs of ladies and soldiers, struggling not to lower his head and unravel at the seams, obliging movement and motion until he’d reached the quiet, lulling songs of the lake and proceeded no further. “Good day,” he called over the horizon, nodding his head because it’s what his mother had always said to do to anyone he met, raising it back when it was proper, bestowing a smile that almost certainly didn’t reach his eyes (haunted). “I’m General Erebos. Who are you?” He extended towards the painted Pegasus, and the title still sounded strange across his tongue, stupid, asinine. But he remained amiable, rose to its pretenses because it’s what he’d always done, forcing pretenses along his mouth when all he wanted to do was be alone, be away. “I trust Beloved has treated you well,” and here he raised a brow, almost cunning, nearly himself, urged to delve into chicanery and charisma because it was familiar and known (and his lines were nearly a joke unto themselves, for he’d seen her capabilities, heard the warrioress’s promises before). Erebos i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want @Weaver @Beloved RE: Strangled by their own rope. [Welcoming] - Weaver - 01-19-2017 Beloved cackles at the I’ll just fly in comment and, at least to Weaver, it doesn’t seem like an amused oh that’s funny cackle. It seems like a cackle that knows something Weaver doesn’t. Which wouldn’t be shocking. Weaver barely knows the name of the place she’s decided to call home for at least the next ten minutes, let alone what exactly is going on in this place. Her reply comes with a knowing smirk, and Weaver swings her head a little more in Beloved’s direction at that look. “What aren’t you telling me?” she says, her voice serious, doing her best to keep the demand out of the question. But this seems like one of those things she should probably know. Maybe not. Maybe she’s totally fucking wrong. But she doubts it. Beloved didn’t strike her as subtle. Just weird. They keep going, and Beloved answers questions in ways Weaver doesn’t entirely understand. Is it simply the way the pale mare speaks, or is it because there’s a language here that the girl doesn’t speak yet. She thinks the former, but like everything else, has no point of reference to actually have a clue. It’s a strange realization, that she knows nothing. Before, she was a princess. Daughter of a feared Queen. And while yes, not living in her mother’s shadow is a glorious thing, it was nice to be on the inside of the circle. She never experienced life outside that circle. Her time away from her mother’s inner circle was time spent away from most every circle, flitting from place to place as a guest, not as a potential recruit. A whole slew of retorts come to mind at the comment that everyone else are merely faces, that Weaver would not know the names. She doesn’t even know the names Hotaru or Erebos (though the later reminds her of her brother). Everyone is a nameless face to the girl, other than Beloved, who names herself repeatedly enough that Weaver isn’t about to forget this particular name. For once, she keeps her mouth shut though, and it’s not long before she gets a face for one of those names anyway. Soon, a black unicorn (and she’s beginning to wonder if this particular thing is what no one is telling her, or if she just so happened to draw unicorns to her side) appears. He does not come particularly close, but close enough, introducing himself as General Erebos. He reminds her of Erebor in looks and name, though Erebor born no horn. At one point in her life, Weaver had neither wings nor horn, though no one here need know that. “Weaver,” she offers, dipping her head own in a vague show of being polite. It’s not a bow, but it’s something. She’s never bowed her head to anyone. It’s a strange feeling. He keeps talking, brow raising, a bit of charm creeping into his words. It takes a lot of restraint for her to resist the urge to flirt, for no other reason than flirting is fun. Instead she smiles, and it too is a charismatic but mischievous thing, her voice that sort of smoky, sexy sound. This is always how she is though. These things she cannot change. “Beloved has been a good hostess, thank you.” A strange hostess, yes, but not bad. She’s answered Weaver’s questions and put up with her crap. - weaver - @Beloved @Erebos RE: Strangled by their own rope. [Welcoming] - Beloved - 01-23-2017
@Erebos RE: Strangled by their own rope. [Welcoming] - Erebos - 01-24-2017
Unseen motions and moments transpired – Erebos could feel it through the tucked away insinuations, the barbs and thorns kept close at hand, the riddles floating through manic giggles. He tilted his head and bore his pretense well, because it was all he could do to stay present in the world of furtive, specious secrets, too many unsaid notions and schemes, and if they intended to wield deceptions he’d do the same; duplicitous and mercenary until the bitter end. The newcomer offered her name (Weaver - and he almost laughed because of the symbolism of the mountains and the title prospered across her lips; then imagined she’d take up knitting the cloth and become Weaver the Weaver), and his smile deepened, not Cheshire, not smirking, but kind, friendly, composed, seemingly genuine when all he yearned to do was bow his head and be left alone in a cave to shed his mask and sulk. We haven’t a clue what she is good for came Beloved’s reply, and his brow remained arched, intrigued, cursed with the notion to chuckle once more simply because he didn’t know what he was good for either, and maybe they could all bask in the equanimity of nothingness and ineptitude. He could drown in its weight and no one would notice until it was too late, and they’d shake their heads, clamor something about worthless princes and too young, too stupid and he’d proven them right all along – he wasn’t meant to be anything or anyone. But the boy failed to sink now. He swallowed down the lost senses, the guilt, the apprehension and confidence eating away at his bones, at his marrow, at his flesh, at his schemes, wallowing delicately between the unknown and the foretold – piecing together chosen words and phrases, pretending he had a notion glimmering between his teeth, tongue, and grin. “Perhaps we have a rank suitable to your talents.” The scion shuffled closer, gaining ground along the lake, nearly daring himself to run across its surface, but pondering over it a moment later as a means of escape, if the whims and mercurial exploits turned back upon him. His voice was charismatic and appealing, granting choices, options, on the hinges of the prominence’s icy peaks and valleys, eyes sliding back to the painted mare, to his demonic warrior, curious, intrigued, interested. “There are soldiers, crafters, healers, scholars, and sleuths to pick from.” Endless opportunities and the needs to fill them were an eternal demand; with the Basin’s strengths faltering, they’d all had to step into roles (maybe some unsuitable and here he thought of himself, of the boy General who conspired to ruin and devastate but only his own targets). What she yearned, craved, and wanted to do could be instrumental, monumental to their empire, or designated to flicker away, like so many others before her (and here the youth seemed to pinpoint his hopes on her being incapable of disappearing, pleading, begging, that she’d be one of the strong, one of the determined). Erebos i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want @Weaver @Beloved RE: Strangled by their own rope. [Welcoming] - Weaver - 01-29-2017 She likes Beloved. Really, she does. She can handle the creepy laughing and the toothy smile and all the weird, off-kilter sort of stuff. But the talking in half puzzles is killing her. She’s a smart girl, and she can draw some conclusions from in-between the lines. Apparently wings are a thing frowned upon here. But she doesn’t want to have to guess that this is in fact the thing that might be problematic. She just wants someone to tell her, point blank. But that seems like the thing here. Who even cares if she has wings? But then again, she came from a world were those without magic hated those with magic (some days, anyway, it always did depend on the monarch). The idea is foreign to her. But they are only wings. What would the members of the Basin think if they knew she was born with none of the things that now adorned her body. That once, she was simply a black and white girl with nothing to note. She’d earned her mastery over death. She’s been given the wings from her mother, when Yael had thought it was a brilliant idea to dangle Weaver miles off the ground. She’d gotten the horns as a gift from a strange witch doctor she’d found in some forest on her way here. Cliché? Definitely. But she’s gotten horns out of it. A rather deadly little tiara. She has to give it to Beloved for being blunt now though. Where she spoke half in riddles to answer Weaver’s questions, now she’s straight to the point. We haven’t a clue what she is good for, the mare says. So apparently this isn’t the kind of place where she gets to sit on her laurels. Not that she expected it, mind you, but that doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be a nice change of pace. What are you? the pale ghost asks, rather than What can you do? Though the slightly round-about question doesn’t surprise Weaver at this point. Erebos is more forthcoming, though she finds herself watching him and thinking more than listening to his words. He reminds her of Erebor, though as she approaches, she realizes he’s more blue than black. Where Erebor’s eyes were hard as granites, Erebos’ are more like a storm. And she is rather intrigued by the young General, though she can’t let that show with Beloved staring at them. She’s not sure what intrigues him though, except perhaps that he reminds her a bit of home. He gives her a list of jobs they have here. Far more than any kingdom back in her old home, where they had soldiers and diplomats. If he’d told her that she could be Weaver the Weaver, she might have actually jumped at the opportunity. Just because it would be ridiculous, and amusing. But she doesn’t know this, so instead she says, “I’m rather good at not dying,” she says simply, because they wanted to know what she was good for. “You don’t wander alone for a year without picking up some various skills,” she adds, because she can do almost anything. But she’s untrained and unkempt in all those things. A jack of all trades and a master of none. “I’m best suited as a solider, but if don’t need more of those, I could help elsewhere.” She rolls her shoulders in something of a shrug. Not that she’d make for a very kind healer (It hurts? Oh, suck it up.), but she could do it. Or she would be Weaver the Weaver for comic relief. - weaver - @Beloved @Erebos RE: Strangled by their own rope. [Welcoming] - Beloved - 02-08-2017
@Erebos RE: Strangled by their own rope. [Welcoming] - Erebos - 02-09-2017
“A rather reputable talent, nonetheless.” He laughed, not mocking, but purely amused, a tinge of mischief springing across his tongue, because more of them could use the skill of not dying. Then his heart hurt, his chest bled out severe, acrimonious urges (to run, to flee, to get away from joking about death when his father had just taken his last breath). But he didn’t let them know, didn’t let them see, pretended the effect was merely nothing, happenstance, so the cruelties and enigmas didn’t play out across his face, didn’t render him into anything but the hospitable, young General, trying desperately not to fail. The boy’s head tilted, lips curling in a content, gratified exposition, a charming turn, a careful study, another brief examination towards the newcomer garbed in black and white. When Beloved offered naught else but more of her manic giggles (and what were those supposed to mean - in context, in contrast, in phrases and ruminations?), he obliged the stranger, courting tenacity and ambition, yearning for the masses to join him on hunts, on patrols, on strolls towards devastation and recoil. We could be strong again might’ve been a spiraling noose on his tongue, imagining their frozen world heralded by a bounty of mighty, stalwart cretins, ready to defend its glacial walls, its wondrous, snow-capped towers, and show that his father’s legacy could live on (he could be something) through endurance, through fortitude, through leagues of strangers becoming a force to be reckoned with. He’d lead them there, consecrate, bless, anoint them with the savage arts, the nefarious motions, and they could show the world exactly what the Basin was made of (blistering, scathing machinations and condemnable revelations; all in due course, all in due time). “We’d be happy to have another soldier amongst us.” His grin twisted into something revenant, holy, pure, virtuous, gallant, defiant to the mercurial whims thundering over his soul: torn and twisted and polished into too many different roles and pretenses. “Once you get the lay of the land, we can spar, if you’d like.” Then she could learn more than just how not to take one's last breath, and they could succeed (they could triumph). Erebos i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want @Weaver @Beloved RE: Strangled by their own rope. [Welcoming] - Weaver - 02-13-2017 If she’s being accurate, she’s good at not staying dead. But that’s an awkward sentence, so she doesn’t stick to exact accuracy with this one. She dies, she just doesn’t stay dead. It’s happened twice. Once at Death’s gentle touch, the very touch that has since given her mastery over death. She will meet him again, one day, but it will be at her choosing that she falls into her arms once again. The second time was at the hands of a particularly cruel herd that she’d stumbled into in the middle of the night. Hadn’t even seen them coming, and certainly didn’t stand a chance. There were a handful of faded scars along her right ribcage where she’d taken that beating. They’d left her lying in the dirt and the mud to die, certain that she would still be there the morning when the sun’s rays shone. She was long gone, leaving only traces of blood behind. She didn’t like to make a habit of dying, however. It hurt. She wanted to learn how to be more than an unruly, double-edge sword. She was all instinct and no finesse. All fearlessness and foolishness, no calculating plans. Beloved giggles away, which Weaver finds she’s quickly getting used to. She likes the mare, even the weird giggles, but she does find Erebos a little more interesting. Well no, that’s the wrong word. He’s just a bit easier to understand, and he’s so much like her brother it’s a little captivating and haunting. In the place where she’d come to get away from her home, she finds him. Would Beloved understand that fascination, that it is no insult to the pale mare herself? Maybe, maybe not. Though Weaver isn’t the kind to worry much about insulting others, though the fact that this thought crosses her mind is something. She likes Beloved enough to think about the possibility of this. But really, how would she explain it to her? Besides, Weaver sort of doubts Beloved cares. If only he would tell her of his dreams to be strong again. She would work for that anyway – she always did, desired nothing less than strength and power. But what could they be together, if she knew? Not that she knows what they might accomplish together either – she does not know this young General enough to have a clue – but how a girl could dream about that. Dream about the havoc that she could wreak in a world where she could not die, with others beside her that longed for something similar. He accepts her into their ranks though, naming her a solider, and she offers a smile and a nod. “I’d love to spar. You let me know when General. I’m always ready.” At that, her grin grows a little wider, that mischievous Mona Lisa-like smile that knows more than it says. Not that she knows anything in this new land, but if you act like you own the place, one day you will. - weaver - @Beloved @Erebos If you guys would like to end here, that's fine by me (unless you have more to add, of course!) I am working on stats for her. :) |