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Post by Netreemic on Nov 19, 2010 23:04:35 GMT -6
Come Back to Me – David Cook and Animal I Have Become – Three Days Grace I believe my Pandora has gone a little crazy if it puts these in a row…at least it provided some different music to jog my writing back into life. -_______-
[continuation of an old word prompt piece – Absalon waltzes~]
Sister Renée quietly moved along the bookshelf, restoring order on the lower shelves for the children and dusting off the higher ones. She let out a small sigh. The children had mutely gone to bed, their spirits worn out. These past months had everyone feeling weighed down. Since the brother had left, hopelessness seemed to have slowly burrowed back into all their hearts. She had never been able to put her finger on it, but he had always drawn the sadness from all he met. She leaned against the bookcase, whispering, “Where have you gone, Brother Abana…”
“So many places, Sister.” The woman’s eyes went wide and she spun to face the doorway. Standing there - arms crossed and vague smile on his lips - he looked exactly the same as the last day she saw him. Joy lit her face and she started across the room, arms outstretched in welcome. “Oh, Brother Abana how have you…been?” She faltered to a stop as he observed the room with bruised eyes, seemingly uninterested in her presence. This close she could see his black robes had lost their clean lines and his teeth gleamed brighter than his soiled white collar.
“Hmmmm…still alive, I do suppose. I apologize for my unexplained absence. Matters to deal with.” He turned his head to face her, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. Concern touched her features. Renee knew of some of the mission work the brother had been on, the things he had seen. She reached out to touch his arm, uncertain what to make of his unsteady tremor.
“Do not despair, Brother.” She smiled, trying to spark the old Abana she remembered into life. “It is just like you told me, all those months ago.” His strained smile wavered, but something akin to hope softened his eyes and Renée grew confident. She continued earnestly, “those words helped me, ever so much. Did you know Becca was adopted? It was just three days after you left that a wonderful couple came and started the process.” Her eyes glowed at the memory, but his went cold.
“Did you know that their house burnt down the other day?” Her hand jerked off his arm, disconcerted at his monotone and the horrible news. The brother had turned slightly, dark profile sharp against the buttery yellow walls as he stared at something beyond the empty room. “W-what did you say?” The sister froze, hands halfway to covering her horrified expression as he continued quietly.
“I came to visit and she was already gone. Horrors fill your lives and you disappear so easily. No wonder you all feel forsaken…clinging to barest hopes…surrounded by each other and so alone. Desperately depending on someone who isn’t here while we walk amongst you.” Something cold settled deep in her gut when he lifted his chin to regard her sideways, eyes glowing with inner Hellfire. “It is the easiest meal in the world.”
Renee started back in alarm, hands clutching desperately at the front of her blouse over her pounding heart. “B-brother Abana?!” She stepped back twice in wary confusion, but she didn’t run. Uncertainty warred with the inhuman stillness of the dark man’s body when she jerked to a halt. For a moment the palpable threat of unnatural faded to reveal Little Boy Lost - not confused as to why he was alone, but why someone stayed. Lord in Heaven, nearly every iota of her mind screamed to flee but…he had come here for a reason and she was not going to fail her friend. She was not going to loose him without a fight.
“Well,” he actually flinched back as Renee crossed her arms and pulled her best lecture voice. “If you are going to eat me, get on with it but if you think you can puff up and scare me away…” Her tightly clenched fist jerked up and stabbed a finger at his carefully blank face. “You got my friend in there and I want him back.” Teeth clenching in reckless determination, Sister Renee felt gooseflesh break out on her feverish skin as he watched her display.
The moment of silence made the sound that barked from Abana seem unnaturally loud. It had enough of the man she remembered – always smiling and laughing about something new – that it was frightening to hear it empty of merriment. Something clamped around her heart and her hand shot out to unconsciously grasp for the rosary resting on an unshelved tome. Betrayal sparked in his burning eyes, like she was supposed to know the moves in this strange two-step – she had stayed but weakness belied her integrity.
“This,” he crossed the space in a wink, plucking the small cross from her nerveless fingers, “isn’t going to do anything.” He frowned down at the beads linking their hands and jangling in his quivering hold. Her hand was surprisingly steady. Slowly, short breaths puffing against her uncovered bangs, his pent energy dissipated, leaving him empty and diminished. “I’m not possessed you know.”
“Then what are you? How can I fix you? How can I save you?” He smiled sadly and leaned forward, hand brushing her pallid cheek as her eyes darted between his glowing pair.
“DEMON! I EXPEL THEE!” This close, Sister Renee’s vision was filled with the look of terror on the brother’s face before he was blown bodily through the wooden doors leading to the outside playground. He bounced across the woodchips, coming to an abrupt halt as his back thudded into the recycled plastic playset. Father Harrison stormed into the room and stood before the sister, facing the swaying doors. The air around him vibrated, cross gleaming from its place on his chest.
Plucking out chips imbedded in his arms, what-was-once-Brother-Abana rose to his feet with a wet laugh. He threw his arms wide, looking around the empty playground lit only by starlight. “God never abandons anyone,” he drawled out the last word, cheerless smile stretching his face and blue blood gleaming on his teeth. “Looks like I won that bet.”
“Keep your twisted words to yourself, demon,” Father Harrison spat as he kicked the broken doors aside and made to stalk out after the man, but then the field of wood chips burst into flame. Jerking back, he glared through the sweltering air at the immobile demon. Brushing past Sister Renée, the priest sped to find another exit and flank his enemy. She stumbled to the door with her arm raised before her face to ward off the rolling heat.
“A-Abana-” Nearly lost in the constantly shifting shadows cast by the flames licking around his body, she saw the assurance trickle from his stance as they watched each other. She clenched her fists and straightened. “You still owe me a dance!” His face split into the first real smile of the night and she fought hard against tears, clinging to this bare hint that he was not completely lost. Raising his hand in farewell, Abandon wound through the melting plastic palisades, disappearing into the shadows with one last hesitant look at Renée over the smoldering chips.
[Father Harrison’s story continues in Jören’s RP example…having chased Loni for months, the priest got over his head and pays for it big time. TAKE THAT! D<]
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Post by ElliBleu on Dec 9, 2010 21:51:20 GMT -6
[*retreats under box to hide from the wrath of Net* ]
Song: Restless Heart Syndrome Artist: Green Day
The stars were invisible.
Too close to the city to see them most nights, and it was cloudy besides. Nonetheless, Addie didn’t know why he felt so disappointed when he had climbed out the attic window onto the roof. He ignored the snow that bit at the back of his neck, following the blinking red light of a plane overhead.
Minutes or an hour later, the halfbreed belatedly noticed it was snowing, the little flakes starting to cling to his hair and eyelashes, peppering specks of white into multicolored hair. The revelation made him blink, fingers numb and slow and useless when he made to move them in an attempt to judge how long he’d been lost. He tilted his head up, feeling the back grate against shingle and blinking again when the motion had the snow in his bangs falling into his face.
The footprints he had made in crossing to where he now lay on his roof were half erased under the new blanket, the window he’d crawled from still open to the cold. Addie’s breath hung frozen in the air when he exhaled, closing his eyes against the dull gray sky and feeling the little pinpricks of cold when the snow landed to melt across his cheeks and nose. For a brief moment he considered catching some on his tongue, like he would have when he was younger, but let the impulse slip away without so much as a twitch. Too much effort, and he was so tired.
He hadn’t eaten in a few days, maybe that was why. Maybe the meds, maybe the cold, the nerves, the insomnia, or maybe the unending, exhausting, unwilling baggage it was to keep floundering in this muddy-fucking-quagmire he was. He was tired, and he ached. Down to the bones. Rest, medication, nothing seemed to fix it. It helped sometimes, but it clung to him like a particularly resilient disease. Sometimes it was no more bothersome than a scratch. Sometimes a skinned knee. Right now, Adrael wouldn’t have been surprised to look down and realize someone had pried his ribcage open to leave his heart beating free under the snowfall.
With a hiss he lifted his hands, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. Stupid, petulant child, showing all the signs and symptoms but unwilling to read his own diagnosis. The shaky intake of air had been meant to quell the tears burning at his cold eyelids, instead shaking itself loose from his throat in a hysteric laugh.
Elated. Medicated.
In a moment he was on his feet, swaying uncertainly on dead legs as he took a step forward. Another, and he was looking down into the yard below and feeling his chest tighten in fear. He’d never liked heights. In a smooth motion he was on the edge. He stood straight, looking out at the lights in the distance now. The wind picked up his hair and the loose edges of his coat. And for another long time he held still, before lifting his left foot, crossing it behind his right leg and again touching it down onto the edge of the roof. And slowly he turned around, staring at the flex of his toes, at the ball of his foot twisting to propel the rest of his body around as it strained against the soles of his sneakers.
Addie shifted slightly, tail swaying to accommodate the change in balance with his heels only halfway on the ledge. Tipping back further, he closed his eyes and smiled at the snow that lingered, unmelting, on his face. “Do your worst, old frost,” some old poem, something his mother would sing when she was happy, “You can no longer wound me- the last chrysanthemum, me.“
Closing his eyes, he remembered walking along the porch railing of his mother’s house when he was a child. The world was again gray and cold when he opened them, tilting back under the weight on his shoulders, crushing his chest--
-- and he fell.
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Post by ElliBleu on May 17, 2011 20:48:18 GMT -6
[Addie has some unresolved phone issues. X3]
Song: Different Artist: Acceptance
It took a few good minutes of head-on-the-steering-wheel contention to work himself up to killing the engine and staying, and another minute of agitatedly rubbing his thumb along the teeth of the house key to work up to stepping out of the car. The short path of widely-spaced cobblestones to the porch was starting to look a bit overgrown under the new spring grass, and Adrael imagined he’d be glad of the chance at some distracting chores over the next few days. His hand shook as he fought to unlock the door, the mechanics fine but himself unwilling to complete the task. The bolt retreated without a sound, though the hinges grated when Addie pushed the door open, stepping through the threshold and retrieving the keys before pulling it closed once again.
A heavy sigh accompanied the drooping of his too-narrow shoulders. This damned place seemed to suck any life right out of him, made his stomach sink, and he fell back to lean against the door to blindly fumble at the lock. There’d be nobody coming, there never was, but the physical gesture helped to enforce a similar internal one.
Hating everything you knew got tiring. Lying about it even more so. The smallest, most natural impulses were foreign or entirely absent. Like coming home. He didn’t look forward to it, found no comfort in the idea. Pulling into the driveway wasn’t a relief, like it probably should have been after a day of appointments and disappointed doctors. It was so easy to leave, so why should it be so hard to return? But it was something, at least. Something to hold on to, something to hold him here, through obligation and guilt if nothing else.
Over a decade of these doctors- mental, emotional, physical- and he still found it hard to say everything. To say anything. And was getting the impression some found it increasingly hard to care, which suited the half-breed just fine. Nobody seemed to know what to do with him, aside from a heaping dosage of pity and drugs. Addie had a pretty good idea of the best fix, but knew from past experience nobody liked hearing about that. Hell, he didn’t even like thinking about it. Damaged goods, couldn’t even die right. Ears tucked tightly into his colorful hair, Addie forcibly shook the thoughts away, shouldering himself off the door and walking down the hall into the kitchen.
The small paper bag, by now crinkled and limp from worrying hands, rattled sharply when the half-breed dropped it to the counter. The most recent medicinal cocktail, another attempt at reigning in some of the disorders and doubts while trying to not make others worse. One of the orange and white pill bottles slipped from the toppled bag, rolling across the counter and wavering on the edge before falling to the floor with another angry clattering of pills that had the boy flinching in alarm. Addie watched it continue across the tile, trembling fingers tight on the edge of the counter. Off-balance, it erratically started to arc back towards him, shuddering as the contents shifted, throwing the weight enough to keep it moving. The fitful curve came to a stop when the bottle hit the toe of his shoe. Stooping to pick up the errant prescription, Addie blinked vacantly at the label before twisting off the cap and dumping a few out into his palm.
He closed his eyes and curled his fingers around the unassuming white pills, nails pricking his palm, and opened his eyes again to stare desperately at contrastingly bright nail polish. “I’m fine,” he muttered, tongue running along the lip he hadn’t realized he was biting. Head tilted back, he brought the hand to his mouth and felt the pills- dry and bitter- on his tongue before swallowing them too easily. Addie again curled down, forehead on the countertop with eyes still closed and fingers loosely caged over his mouth. “I’m so fine…”
He straightened slowly, tail dragging on the floor and letting the hand fall from his face to curl around his belly. His legs started moving him towards the back door before he’d even really decided on catching the last of the sun, stepping out onto the back porch. He didn’t bother pulling the door shut behind him, one arm loosely hugging himself and the other pulling the phone from his pocket. The rough brick of the house caught on his shirt as he sank against it, bunching against the arm clutching across his ribs. It was scratchy and uncomfortably cool against his back.
He leaned more determinedly back, focusing on the physical discomfort and rampantly wishing it was enough to distract him from the realization that he had no number to dial. The screen went dark, and Addie found himself staring at his faint reflection on the screen. He frowned at the dim silhouette, wearily staring at his messy hair, smudged eyes. Inhuman eyes too dark to look as bloodshot as they felt. With a sigh he watched his ears again dip low in unhappiness, crossing his tail over his feet and staring at the little reflection for a while longer.
He hissed through sharp teeth-sad and angry and a thousand things he couldn’t say- fingers tightening on the phone before pulling his arm back to throw it across the yard. The screen reflected a blink of fading orange sunlight back at him before bouncing into the dead leaves still littering the garden. The free hand curled into his hair, pulling at his scalp and feeling the furrows of his ribs with the other. He looked desperately, hopelessly, towards the open door before falling limply back against the rough brick work that grated wonderfully against his spine. “I wanted to be…” he paused, even unsure of what to say to himself. He swallowed, tongue again flicking against the cut on his lip. Another sigh. “I wanted to be anything different.”
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Post by ElliBleu on Aug 6, 2011 0:10:44 GMT -6
[Putting this here for lack of a better place! Will probably move it when I wind up needing to make a separate thread for my insane ramblings. But it’ll live here for now, on the excuse that I listened to the same song on repeat for a good two hours while writing this. And some Mass Effect 2 spoilers, since I know some of us *coughNetcough* are being forced to play. So proceed with caution? No color coding because I’m LAZY! That’s also why I didn’t proofread!]
Song: Butterflies and Hurricanes (with a bit of Starlight at the end, because of Hawk) Artist: Muse ---- She can’t feel her hands.
Whether it’s from the unceasing adrenaline rush or the similarly incessant recoil of the firearms battering against her palms, she’s not sure. It doesn’t matter, not at the moment.
The massive ship collapsing around them has half of Shepard’s attention at the moment, if only because it’s hard to ignore the floors lurching beneath their feet, the groaning of the frame, the pocked chunks of wall and ceiling tearing away with a muffled roar. Everything else vies for the remaining portion of her concentration. There’s something sticky and black smeared across her cheek and jaw from when the Reaper-fetus fell, and she doesn’t want to think about what it might be.
Tali and Garrus’ chatter on the radio is a far-off hum in her ears, as ingrained as any reflex. Someone warns left, someone shoots left. Seamless, mechanical. Shepard could sleepwalk her way through a battlefield, and with Tali and Garrus around she wouldn’t have too many holes punched through her on the other side. Someone, with a chiding tone that momentarily throws her back to being a little girl, tells her they can’t just run through this newest batch of Collectors. She bites down a retort on the massive bomb they left behind, tic-ticking away, and crouches behind a bit of toppled wall. It’s a reasonable point; escaping the explosion won’t matter much if they’re bullet-riddled corpses. As though to punctuate her concession, a particle beam flits over her head with an angry hum to burn itself into the walls.
She pulls her rifle from its place behind her left shoulder and holds it against her chest, breathing for a moment until her shields can flicker back into place. “We take these ones down and then we need to run, we’re too close. If reinforcements show we’re going, we don’t have time.” Two affirmatives and Shepard’s up from cover, the butt of the rifle braced on her shoulder. The Widow’s static makes her numbed fingers prickle uncomfortably as it fires, the anti-material round effortlessly punching through the head of one Collector and leaving an angry hole in the shoulder of the one behind.
Her shield distorts her vision for a moment as it deflects fire, already piping an alarm when she retreats back behind her cover, ejecting the red-hot thermal clip and loading another in its place. Tali’s combat drone is a shock of color among the monochrome gray-brown of Collectors and their ship, spinning and firing in a whirl of pink, orange, and purple. The Collectors are trying to avoid standing too closely bunched as concussive rounds knock them off their feet in twos and threes.
There’s always another to take the place of its predecessor.
The Arc Projector weighs heavy on her right shoulder, a portable battering ram of on call plasma lightning. There’s just not enough room in the narrow hallway, no way she can fire it without electrocuting one of her team. The dull thud of the rifle recoiling into her shoulder armor seems louder than Harbinger’s threats as he possesses another drone, dissolving into pieces as three weapons immediately turn on the conspicuously glowing form.
She’s remembering Garrus’ bridge on Omega, sharing his scope while he mumbled about the funnel working both ways.
As seamless as Shepard’s team is, there’s no substitute for a true hive mind. “That’s it, we need to go,” she calls over the radio, hoping the tremor in her voice doesn’t carry over the discordance of gunfire and inhuman shrieks. “All right,” Garrus agrees, picking off a last few with his sniper rifle until the clip is empty, exchanging it for his assault rifle. It rests casually in the crook of his elbow as he turns to look across an open, bullet-ridden path at the woman. Shepard wonders if she looks as calm as he does. Or if he’s as anxious as she is. He nods, shrugging a shoulder towards the last door between them and a straight shot to way-the-hell-away-from-here.
She returns the gesture as she opts to switch to her heavy pistol, peeking around her small chunk of protection towards the exit. She actually feels her lips turn up a bit- the black sludge tugs uncomfortably as her face moves- when Tali’s drone pops up before the doors and sets about dedicatedly clearing a space. The quarian’s a bit breathless when she replies, a quick “Right behind you, Shepard,” and the woman’s vaulting over her cover. The movement draws all attention to her for a moment, giving her companions that extra few seconds to close across the room. A shotgun blast and volley of automatic cover -fire punctuate the moment her shields fail and her armor has to take the sudden sharp impacts of bullets.
The other two are up the ramp, and in the moment it takes Shepard to climb the ledge Tali or EDI has the door open and they’re through. Her shields are still piping in alarm as she passes through the door, garnering her a look from Tali as the engineer raises her omni-tool in an automatic reflex to start repairing the damaged tech. Shepard shoves her forward, impatiently tossing her head down the hall as she fires back through the doorway. “No time. Out, now!”
She hastily mashes the door control panel before she turns to follow the quickly retreating footfalls, definitely not expecting it to stay closed but knowing even an extra second of obstructed enemy fire might be the one that gets them out alive. Barely three steps away it hisses open again, but she keeps her eyes on Tali and Garrus ahead of her, so close to the ship hovering at the end of the dock. A few more yards and they’re out. She spins, more acutely aware of the ropy strands of hair sticking wetly to her forehead than the pistol firing in her hands.
The dead Collector bodies block the doorway for another few precious seconds. So close. Tali’s on board, steadying Garrus by the shoulder after he makes the jump. And then they’re yelling, kneeling on the edge of the Normandy’s docking platform, Tali with an arm outstretched and Garrus already bringing his sniper rifle up to provide what cover he can. The cargo hatch slides open, then the exterior bridge emergency door, the shuttle bay, every opening filled with familiar armed figures.
Shepard drops her gun and runs, thoughts making a complete about-face until she’s no longer aware of the crumbling ship and the torrent of gunfire racing in either direction around her. The dark smudge on the edges of her vision contracts until there’s nothing but the pounding of blood and gunshots in her ears and the ship at the end of the corridor. She’s looking for faces, terrified she’ll notice someone missing.
Jack’s at the cargo door, lips turned up in a feral sneer with both hands curled around her pistol, swimming in rippling blue biotic pulses.
Please, not another Mindoir.
A blue-white light brings her gaze snapping to Legion at the second level rear-port escape hatch, impossibly accurate with that rifle even though the geth is literally firing from the hip.
Another Virmire.
She stumbles when a bullet tears through the thinner material at the back of her knee, fumbling momentarily until Joker’s frantic voice pops in on her radio. The words are lost and meaningless but the panic in it throws her back to Alchera, fear coiling itself into a heavy molten ball in the pit of her belly as she watches the Normandy- this second Normandy- drift helplessly away. She doesn’t want to die again, but is ashamed of that selfish fear at the same time. More voices join Joker’s, all shouting at the same time and Shepard wishes she could order them to talk one at a time so she could keep track of them, maybe finally know if everyone had made it back-
The ground heaves when the bomb detonates and the Normandy lilts helplessly away from the lurching behemoth, can’t take any more hits if they have any chance of getting anyone out alive. There’s no time, and not enough walkway left between her and the ship. She’ll never make it.
She jumps anyway, pushing off as best she can with a bullet lodged in one of her knees. Garrus drops his rifle, it bounces off the edge before falling away. Shepard can’t help but notice it tumbling down and away like she will be in a moment. The leaden ball of terror in her gut is too heavy, dragging her down to another death.
Her ribs collide with the metallic edge of the Normandy’s open decontamination chamber and force the air out of her lungs, and she sags under the impact for a fraction of a second. Her gloved fingers can’t find purchase on the smooth floor, and the weight of the rest of her own body hanging over the edge starts dragging at her. Immediately Tali’s got a hand wrapped around one of Shepard’s forearms, down on a knee and trying to keep herself and the Commander form tumbling out of the roiling ship. Garrus is at her other side, leaning too far out to risk curling a hand under the plate of armor across her back.
They have to get away before the whole thing explodes, and the Normandy lurches away. Shepard’s ready to throw Tali and Garrus off before she drags them out when hands curl onto her shoulders with enough force that her omni-tool starts shrilling an alarm that her armor has been compromised. Grunt lifts her like a heavily-armed ragdoll, pulling her towards the interior hatch as Garrus and Tali fight with momentum to get the outer one closed. The console is unresponsive for a terrifying moment before springing to life and closing with such abrupt severity Shepard wants to clutch her ears at the dramatic pressure change.
The ship stops rolling when the stabilizers kick in, and she can hear Joker vaguely again through her still-fuzzy ears. There’s that momentary sensation of falling in all directions at once when the FTL drive ignites, and everything is still and quiet when they’re suddenly half a star-system away. Tali’s hand is on her arm and she turns to the quarian with wide, wild eyes, watching the dim flicker of her mask’s HUD play across the dark silhouette of her face. It’s good to hear her voice without the radio. “You’re the last, Shepard,” she murmurs, and Shepard thinks she might be crying. “You got everyone out. You did it.”
Shepard laughs, the helpless, anxious laugh of the nearly-not-so living, one leg useless and the other unwilling to support her weight as she sags against the unyielding wall of Grunt’s chest. The krogan holds her at arm’s length with an amused expression, regarding her with blue eyes while Garrus works one of Shepard’s arms across his broad shoulders to take her weight. Grunt laughs along with the woman when he releases her, slamming curled fists into his chest in triumph.
Garrus leans her against the wall and eases her down to sit on the floor, crouching beside her with mandibles cinched tight to his jaw and quivering with strain. A few muttered words from the turian has Tali off to retrieve some medi-gel, gravely curling his hands behind Shepard’s knee to try and staunch the trickling blood as she wipes tears of relief from her eyes. Whether it’s the fading adrenaline or the turian’s disapproving stare that stops her giggles, Shepard’s not sure.
The hull of the Normandy is hard behind her head, and blissfully cold. She crosses one arm across her aching ribs, lifting the other to rest a hand on one of Garrus’ forearms. His mandibles twitch again, like he’s waiting for her to say something profound. Or just waiting until she’s stopped bleeding before berating her for not following her own orders. She blinks slowly, unconsciously enjoying the luxury of being able to do so. When she opens her eyes again Garrus is still staring expectantly, but Shepard thinks the lines of his brow are a bit more relaxed.
Her mind reels back through the important things people have said in her life, trying to determine what had made the words stand out, why they’d had such gravity at the time. All the great people in her life, all the wonders and terrors she’s been through, a galaxy worth of experience and nothing comes to mind as she stares into the face of the most important person in her life. Gloved fingers scrape along his armored arm until they find purchase in a groove, the light tug making Garrus turn his gaze down to Shepard’s hand momentarily. He tilts his head, looking concerned and ready to ask whether she’s all right, but as soon as he opens his mouth Shepard finds her words and they’re tumbling gracelessly from her mouth.
“I’m sorry you dropped your rifle.”
Garrus blinks mutely, mandibles flaring out and nasal plates pinching together. The reaction has Shepard chuckling again, rubbing her fingers reassuringly along Garrus’ arm when she feels his hands tighten around her leg. Shepard can almost see him thinking blood loss is to blame for her uncharacteristic elation. Later, she can tell him she’s all right, that she is just so relieved. So glad everyone’s alive, to be alive. So glad that she can laugh at the way his nose crinkles when he’s confused. Later, though. After a hot shower, a cold drink, and probably an unnecessarily thorough medical examination.
For now, Shepard settles for leaning forward with one last watery laugh and curling her fingers behind the curve of Garrus’ jaw and hauling him forward. Knee be damned, her undersuit was doing its job of keeping the wound staunched well enough. She pressed her lips against the turian’s mouth, feeling them quirk upwards when he returned a bit of the pressure. Turians didn’t kiss, but could apparently be taught. She bumped her forehead to his brow plate when he retreated, letting a hand curl up the back of his skull and under his fringe. “You always leave me at a disadvantage, Shepard,” he rumbled quietly, a glint of humor trickling into his voice. “It was just a matter of time before that meant actually losing a weapon.”
[More pending, potentially. Had a couple more paragraphs so I could give Mordin a cameo (I love that salarian) and have him make some scientific commentary about humans and turians dealing with stress in similiar (sexy) ways. >3> ]
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Post by ElliBleu on Dec 5, 2011 20:32:23 GMT -6
[Kinda weird. Trynx is an odd one.] Song: Sale el SolArtist: Shakira The room was lit with the dim, silvery glow of moonlight, softening edges and muting colors to a comfortable blanket of calm. The eclectic décor of the study heightened the otherworldly feel- cords of small mirrors of varying shapes and sizes strung between bookshelves and rafters like strange, silent wind chimes, bundles of dried flowers rested between thick leather-bound books. Trynx sat at a sturdy desk below the window, opened to admit the cool night breeze that ruffled papers and her long curls. Half-lidded eyes stared blankly out from under heavy lashes, unblinking. Though blind, she watched the silvered waves lap at the shore, slightly out of sync with what her ears told her. Her ‘sight’ was entirely something internal now, pictures of the present or immediate past and future playing across her inner eye. It still made her lips quirk sardonically, the sometimes lagging, sometimes leading visual information. Without moving, her sight turned to the thick paper on her desk and her own unfamiliar, curved handwriting. It seemed different every time she sat down to write, the subtle changes in size or slant punctuated by space on the page. The pen in her hand started moving again, and her narrowed focus soon had what she saw coinciding with the dull scratch of nib along rough paper. ‘Dearest Xincade’- it had begun, scrawled out with a crisp line and a smudge of ink where she’d let the pen linger too long. Below, separated by an untidy series of dots from a restless pen tip, ‘My Good Friend-’ An X through it that time, and, on the same line, ‘To Xin, simply, as I have always known you,’What sense I have left to me admonishes my silly attempt to write you. Though perhaps you will be astonished at my claim of ever having any sense at all. I know nothing beyond the name you were given when you lost your heart and that once we maybe stood together here. Time is kind to we who exist outside its influence, but, if you remember my failings, I always had trouble keeping track of when and if. Time cannot touch me, but I feel like I can no longer touch it, either. Whether it was yesterday or a lifetime ago I led you down the docks, I cannot say.
In the interest of truth- for truth has always been my deepest, most terrible, interest- I must say I no longer even know if I did indeed stand with you or if it was merely one of those could-have-beens I may or may not have lived. I feel like I’ve lived too many times to remember. Or none at all, and there’s merely nothing to recall. Looking back has always been difficult for me, when everything I feel and see pulls me forward to might-be’s and should-be’s. Like trying to sail a boat backwards, upriver and upwind.
It was always my weakness, looking back. I am dreadfully jealous when someone so easily recounts a past memory to me, how they can remember the taste of some foreign spice or the feel of a favorite dress smoothed under their palms. I seem only to remember things when I encounter them again. I’m one of those paper boats children float to carry their wishes, swept along the strongest current. I have met stones, ones who change and resist the flow of fate. There are those who are as fish, as well- I was one of those fish once, you know, silver and strong- slipping from one current to another as easily as I lose myself to it.
And as easily as I lose control of my point and pen, it seems.
If ever I have a point. I have a pen, at least.
We did walk this port, didn’t we? You saw the ocean, and I simply saw.
I frustrate myself with my own words, tangled and scattered on this page like ill-kept sailing lines. A badly drawn map. I cannot see the effect of words, only action moves me at all in this eternal stillness. Only action makes me again feel the assuring tug of Fate’s flow. Alea iacta est- our fate is what we make it. Something I never used to believe. But perhaps the act of my writing the letter will be more important to my disappointing little stream of Fate than the words I’ve pinned to the page like poorly catalogued bugs. Maybe the act of writing, of remembering, can be enough to drift my little paper boat back towards familiar hands waiting in the water.
I’m tired. Of drifting. Of being uncertain. Being blinded.
I see only what is in front of me now, and it makes me uneasy. I always knew where to step before there was even a path. Perhaps that, too, is why I am writing this. So someone who knew me before can tell me simply that I am here, that I am not lost amidst those currents I used to wade so easily. And it must be you, you who never questioned me about what was to come. You, who I always told only the truth because you never asked for it. You knew the truth of me, and could tell me if I still am.
You would not recognize me, I think. Certainly I do not recognize myself on the occasions when my reflection does not hide from me. But maybe you will recognize the bells. They will sing for you, if I’ve any luck left. And, again with more luck than I should hope for, maybe you will hear. If not, some shell-seeker or crab-chaser will be disappointed that their little treasure chest hold only an eccentric letter and some musical hairpins.
If you do hear and heed, my friend, I will be here. In the last port I ever saw with my own eyes. It is an old house, with a metal gate that might very well creak for you before you even touch it. Ask for the blind seer, there aren’t too many of us about.
Once your friend, Trynx
She signed without flourish, smiling softly as her blank eyes stared out the window. After a few moments she set the paper aside to dry in the light breeze, pulling a worn, leather-bound journal from a desk drawer to copy the letter into- an assurance to her spotty memory later that it actually occurred. And later, as she neatly folded the letter into a polished black box along with her silver bells and a length of silk ribbon, she felt the incessant, chaotic tugging of Fate offer something it had not in a long time— Direction.
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Post by ElliBleu on May 10, 2012 19:43:55 GMT -6
[Mishou likes to smash things.] Song: Deadman's Basin Artist: John Debney ----- A brief, wafting smell of oiled steel pulled Mishouka from the deep, pleasant sleep brought on by a three day flight carrying a deer in each foreclaw and the subsequent meal. A green eye cracked open beneath the armored ridge of his brow, pupil wide as he gazed around the near pitch-black chamber. Small patches of faintly glowing cave moss dotted the walls and ceilings, the random pattern as familiar to the big bronze dragon as that of his own scales. Nothing obscured any of the blotches, and no noises met his ears beyond the regular drop of the water trickle leading to the shallow pool on the far side of the rocky shelf. Nostrils flared on his broad snout as he tried again to find the scent. He was ready to dismiss it as some lingering dream-sense when a small tap, the soft note of metal on rock, had him raising his six-horned head. Moments later he heard it again, an even tap-tap-tap, spaced to match the steady tune of the water trickle as it splashed down the rocks. Had it not been for the one off-beat strike he very well could have missed it entirely. Mishouka rose slowly to his feet, shifting to face the water pool. A long, slow inhale again played the scent of oil and steel across his palate, out of place amongst the familiarities here in his homecave. Dragon lungs ran almost the entire length of their long bodies, and the bronze made use of the volume of air. He roared, chest muscles constricting and long neck trumpeting the noise up through his gaping mouth. The sound echoed off the rock walls, rebounding in the confined space until it was a confusing maelstrom of furious sound. Muffled shouts in a foreign tongue sounded from a narrow split in the natural wall over the pool, formerly housing a family of bats. Mishouka roared again, gathering his powerful limbs and leaping from his sleeping shelf. Assassins! Murderers! Momentum and muscle drove his massive, heavily armored shoulder into the water trickle, the rockpile exploding and littering the narrow tunnel behind with chips of rock and thick dust. Sheer tenacity saw the big bronze through the makeshift opening, wings pressed tight to his sides and spine whipsawing to accommodate as he scraped and squirmed himself through the gap. A few tail-lengths of grating scales against walls, floor, and ceiling and the tunnel widened enough for a crouching sort of run, bellowing another roar at the sound of rapidly fleeing footsteps ahead. The tunnel took a sharp turn upwards, three hominid shapes struggling up through the rocky detritus of the steep shaft. What slowed the bipeds was ideal, familiar terrain for a dragon- the uneven juts of rock gave plenty of holds for foot, tail, and wing-spurs, and overly-developed dragon shoulders were well-suited for steep climbing. The shouting started again as he gained ground, nostrils flaring as he inhaled and chest muscles constricting tight around his fire organs. A jet of flame chased the intruders up the sloping tunnel, the rearmost tumbling to the floor with a scream as he burned. The other two shouted, clawing their way out of smoldering cloaks as they disappeared into the glare of the upper world. The bones and charred flesh of the burnt intruder crumbled beneath one of the dragon’s hefty feet as he barreled out of the tunnel, thundering like a storm of fire and teeth. The moment his great head left the shadows a hail of arrows clattered off his crest of horns. The bright glare had him snapping his eyes shut for a moment as he snarled, the reflex potentially saving him an arrow to a vulnerable eye. The projectiles made the massive beat pause just for a moment, and a group of stocky, armed and armored dwarves waiting on the upper lip of his cave entrance used the pause to leap onto Mishouka’s broad shoulders. Simultaneously a thick, weighted net of chain was hurled over the same edge, landing across his crest and tangling in his horns, draped over his eyes, nose, and mouth. He’d burn himself before any of his oily dragon flame made it to his tormentors. It was a tactic the dragon was familiar with, and one meant to confuse and startle a young dragon into spitting flame and charring their own mouth badly enough to be unable to do so again, or panic them into a blind flight where ballista and weighted harpoons would quickly bring them down again. Mishou was no fledgling. He was willing to guess this motley group of hunters may have been, though. A warning jolt of pain rippled up his spine when an axehead found its way through a scale at the base of his neck, half a dozen other more distant thuds pounding dully in less worrisome spots. The bronze lowered his wings until the spurs scraped the ground, hearing the hominids assembled outside shout in warning and dismay as he quickly stepped backwards into the cave. The dwarves had no time to respond, let alone react, when the dragon reared up on powerful hind legs, smashing the whole lot into a bloody, sticky smear between his back and the cavern ceiling. Retreating further backwards into the sloping tunnel, growled, snarled and hissed, keeping up a fine racket like a frightened hatchling as he worked the net from his horns with his front claws and wing spurs, keeping his great wings mantled in front of himself as much as the tight fit would allow. Arrows again peppered him, most bouncing harmlessly off rock or scale, and the few that did find the leathery membrane of his wing were inconsequential. Just as the last loop came free of a horn, one of the braver- or more foolish- hunters stepped into the opening with a heavy spear in hand. It was half raised for a throw at the dragon’s chest before Mishouka shot forward like a ten-ton snake, massive jaws snapping the man almost in two before he flung the body outside, blood and bits of gore spattering the rocky shelf outside. More shouting followed, half growing more panicked and the other half ceasing entirely when the broken and crumpled chain net was hurled out after. A jet of flame again prefaced the bronze’s exit from the tunnel, hurling himself skyward with a seething roar as he watched the hunters scatter downhill. A sloppy retreat. Along with expecting a younger dragon, they must have expected their infiltration to go undetected for longer. The ballista was still halfway down the rocky slope, giving the three men frantically clipping the heavy chain to the end of the harpoon a bad angle of fire. The massive projectile passed well under the rising dragon, who folded his great wings and dove to meet it. Mishou curled all four feet around the harpoon, snapping his wings open and climbing again. Attached by the chain, the ballista surged forward, crushing one of the men before tearing apart as it toppled and dragged along the rocks. Utterly remorseless, he circled and dove, thorough and methodical in his extermination. They had expected a helpless, clueless fledgling dragon, an easy target. Instead, they had found a fully-grown, battle-scarred veteran, and they would pay for their mistake. He had learned to tolerate the hominids, content to live and hunt away from them and leave them to their short, furious lives. But these were enemies now, and while the threat was minimal, the intrusion was an unforgiveable offense. Fire, tooth, and claw were put to use, even crushing a few into the loose rocks with a swipe of his thick tail. Swords and lances were raised, some even managed to draw blood from his belly, the soft spot under a hind leg, the thinner skin between foreclaws. Many were screaming, injured but not yet dead, and Mishou would do nothing to quicken their passing. His fire glands pulsed in hot anger as he belatedly imagined the outcome had these hominids found a nest-cave of hatchlings and a brood-thin dragoness. In a final loop he passed low over the carnage, watching their eyes roll, the blood bubble on their lips, and again roared. Not in anger now, but in invitation. Invitation for more to try, to threaten his home and hoard. But, mostly, an invitation to the buzzards already taking to the sky. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ [The song here is more general for these two, rather than fitting the drabble perfectly.... But I had to write up something about the good ol' Morrowind Thieves guild. X3] Song: With A Little Help From My Friends (Across the Universe version) Artist: The Beatles (Joe Anderson?) --- Ajiira was a good runner. She’d never met anyone, man or mer, that could keep pace with her. At the moment, however, the Khajiit found she had nowhere to run. A bad tip, a botched job, and now she was southbound and bruised in chains aboard a prison ship headed for the Imperial City itself. She was yet undecided if it would have been easier to face the Ordinators. At least then she wouldn’t be on a boat leaving the country. Wrists bound behind her back, weapons, armor, and a good stash of lockpicks confiscated, the one sunny spot in the sour ordeal was that Vas had managed to evade capture. Even if he hadn’t, the Guild would be looking into their disappearance when neither reported back by sunrise. Her ears ticked back, tail lashing uneasily across the worn boards of the dark hold belowdecks. Sunrise was many hours away, though, and they could be halfway to Cyrodiil by then. The way the boat rocked made her think they were still making their way through the Ascadian Isles, the water too rough for the smoother waters beyond the cliffs and shoals. If they managed to get her across the sea into Cyrodiil, there was little chance of her safely escaping back to Morrowind. She could always head south back to Elsweyr, but abandoning Vas was a very undesirable option. The Argonian might as well have been her brother. Still some time, at least. She twisted her bound wrists, but the iron cuffs were too tight, the chains between them too short for even her feline-flexible body to work her arms around to her front. She knew only a handful of spells, never having been one with much skill in magick, and the threads of her unlocking spell frayed away before she’d barely begun. Dispel wards somewhere, then. Even if she got out of the cuffs, she wasn’t a strong swimmer. If she could even nerve herself to make the jump off the boat. Further attempts were stalled when the hatch above opened, orange sunlight slicing a crisp rectangle into the gloom below. A thick Nord in leather armor- a career sailor, as Ajiira read from his tattoos- descended the steps, a Breton of the guard following behind. The Nord, at a word from the other, hoisted Ajiira roughly to her feet by the scruff of her neck, dragging her up the stairs when she could not find her balance on the ship. Near the rail of the ship’s port side he let go, the dark-haired Breton taking his place and shoving her roughly into the railing, harshly twisting one of her earrings to direct her gaze to the north. Pain and sun had her blinking rapidly, hissing petulantly. “Friends of yours, I presume?” the man snarled, gesturing to a smaller, swifter ship bearing down on them. They flew no colors, but Ajiira had no eye for boats or their markers anyway, had no idea if she’d seen the smaller skiff before. Without waiting for an answer he turned away, shoving the Khajiiti prisoner back towards the hatch to the hold. “No matter. They’ll be dreugh feed soon, anyways. Men, to arms! Archers at the rail, and ready some fire. We’ll burn their sails, then the whole blasted thing.” In the ensuing commotion she seemed to become a distant second priority, the men bustling around the deck and only a couple sparing a correctional shove for the Khajiit. She was narrowing her sharp eyes against the glare of the setting sun off the water, trying to get a better look at the pursuing boat, when a hand clamped over her short snout. Half a blink later there was a strong arm around her waist, and a familiar voice in her ear. “Deep breath.”The hand moved and she sucked in a gulp of air without question as she was lifted, and then falling. And then she was in the water, panic and instinct fighting for dominance as she tried to kick off whatever clung about her waist and up towards the surface. Hands tied, cold and dark and wet. Scared. Bubbles poured from her mouth as panic won, thrashing uselessly at the deadweight still resolutely hanging about her back and waist. After a few moments she opened her mouth, desperate enough to even breathe in this damned water if it’d make the need stop, her lungs to stop aching— And she was above the surface, barely, spluttering and sucking down air like she’d never had a taste of it before. A few deep breaths and some coughed up seawater later, she was able to spare a glance for the prison ship drifting further and further away, flaming arrows bright against the darkening sky as they soared for the already-burning skiff. A flash of green in the water brought her attention back to the current predicament, again lashing out with the claws of her feet at the presence behind her. “Xhuth!” she swore, trying to twist around to face her rescuer-turned-tormentor. Vastha-Kol loosened his hold for a moment, just long enough to let the Khajiit’s nose- and further curses- sink below the water. “Hssst, quiet and still. We’re behind the boat, but a good eye will spot us.”They bobbed in the waves for several miserable minutes, Ajiira unable to do anything but trust her partner to keep her afloat. What seemed ages later Vas was happy enough with the boat’s distance, shifting his arm around the female’s waist to pull her a bit higher out of the water as he treaded. Her fingers again went to work weaving magicka, brushing between her back and the scales of the Argonian’s stomach as she worked. “Are you trying to kill me or rescue me?” she muttered, sighing in relief when the cuffs opened and slid off her hands, sinking into the gloomy waters. Freed, she clung shamelessly to Vas’ arm. “I haven’t decided yet,” was his helpful, too-sunny reply, followed closely by a rumble in his chest that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Hands all right? Can you hold to my back?” She nodded, water rushing into her mouth when she dipped low as Vas released her to turn around. Arms wrapped tight around his scaly shoulders, fighting the urge to claw her way atop his head- anything to be out of the cold, rough waters. To her relief, Vas was able to lift her a bit higher when he had both arms to put towards staying afloat. “One of the men said something about dreugh,” she warned. “A distinct possibility. They like the bay this time of year, warmer waters.” He tilted his head, the crest of horns sweeping back from his brow skimming through her whiskers. “Don’t try to help me, I’ll do the swimming. I’ll stay near the surface so you can breathe, but try to keep your head down. Easier for me to swim, and we’ll stay out of sight.”The feline grumbled her assent, breathing deep before ducking down, burying her face into the dip between strong shoulders. And the Argonian set off truly swimming, digging at the waves with the ease of one born for the water. Webbed feet did much of the work, his thick, sturdy tail steering them through the waves. A few minutes in Ajiira seemed to find a good rhythm for her breaths, lifting her head when it would have the least impact on the Argonian’s stroke. Counting kept her mind occupied, but at the twenty-third breath Vas’ pattern changed and she gulped water. Choking, she pulled back, pushing against his shoulders to reach the surface. Her rebuke turned to a wordless, surprised yowl when he turned sharply into the swell of a wave. His whole body tensed and Ajiira had enough sense to get as deep a gulp of air as she could before he dove, down and down so fast the Khajiit was convinced they’d hit the rocky bottom of the bay and be torn to pieces. Vas was doing some crazy dance, it felt, twisting and turning and looping through the water like the Skooma-addicts Ajiira had seen in the streets of Rimmen as a child. Running out of air again, she dug her claws between the scales of Vas’ shoulders, desperate to remind the water-breathing Argonian of his air-breathing passenger. On the way up, she saw the blurry, rust-red pincer of a dreugh snap closed a handsbreadth from Vas’ snout. If she hadn’t needed the air, she’d have sighed. So many ways to die in the Thieves Guild.
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Post by ElliBleu on Jul 7, 2012 10:51:43 GMT -6
[More trippy Trynx stuff.] Song: TearsArtist: Health ------- "Love saved us once..."The voice was dripping with mockery, but Trynx turned towards the sound. The words, no matter how condescending, offered something she had been without for a very long time. Direction. Trynx didn't know if she heard the voice so much as feel it, a string of certainty amidst the chaos of infinite possibility she had tumbled into. She followed the little pull of that thread, feeling it more than she could see it with her useless eyes, more than she heard that voice with her ears. The fortune-teller dipped her hands into the currents of fate that tore and tumbled around her, fingers seeking that little streamline and following it. Forever or moments, Trynx had no idea how long she followed it. The notion of time was one of the first things she had felt fragment beyond repair. Even so, she followed, desiring that certainty as ferociously as she had once desired the knowledge that had left her lost here in the flow of chance. Trynx followed, hearing a voice that was not there, walking a trail that did not exist, seeing a path with blind eyes. But she followed; because it promised to lead her somewhere, and anywhere was better than the nowhere she had found. Flashes of reality or probability flashed in her eyes, swimming in her head until they were a blur of confusion that made Trynx grasp again for that intangible line that led her. The realities shown in the waters swirling around her shattered as fine as glass and reformed themselves ceaselessly: reflections of a thousand thousand might-have-beens, might-well-bes, should-have-beens.... It hurt, too much for even a seer as proud and strong as Trynx, feeling her eyes cry or bleed or maybe just her broken and scattered mind thinking such a thing should be happening. Her feet stopped moving, one hand leaving the string and fumbling for her face- "Trust us now..."Was it louder now? Determined to find the source of the call, Trynx forced her hands back down, fingers stretching to sift through and isolate that strand from all the other possibilities. It felt impossible, each effort to search creating a hundred more possibilities. Her vision blurred, watching tears land on the back of her slender, pale hands. The talent that had doomed her to wander here- body and soul split, mind trapped within the vagaries of insanity- made omens of her success and failure bubble to the surface. The confusion made the pain behind her eyes return, closing them tightly as a sob left her lips. She'd relied on seeing too much, apparently, eyes both inner and outer exhausted beyond use. So she seized upon the stronger strands of current that flowed around her, releasing the ones that felt wrong and focusing herself on her goal. And suddenly it was there; warm, curling around her wrist and up to her elbow. She waded with it until she found more of the same threads, curling over her shoulders, around her chest, pinching her waist and neck and tugging her along until she stood on a precipice, a torrent of uncertainty tumbling down and away around her one chosen stream of fate. “It’s time to let me go...”She tried not to think of herself and Xincade, how she had held his elbow walking down the docks. How he’d watched, almost horrified, when she stepped into that skeevy tavern in her fine dress and jewelry, black ribbons in her hair. “Give up...”Trynx gathered herself, and dove. She had thought she might leap back into herself; that she would finally rejoin body and mind that she had unknowingly sundered. She knew precisely where her body was, waiting for her old friend in a house by the sea, but her mind was so cut off that she wasn’t sure how to find it again. Or if she was even still alive. Where was she? She had aimed to leap back to her body, and she had leapt, and had arrived, but to where? She was somewhere. The randomness of possibility no longer clashed around her, so she was somewhere… else. Her surroundings were silvery, full of shadow and repetition. Familiar, but foreign. “Gave our soul away...”It came from a pool, a flicker of motion catching her attention. With a flash of hope- an emotion Trynx had long ago discarded as being futile- she moved to see herself in the pool, wading out to the middle. Either it was scarcely deep as a puddle, or she walked across the surface. It troubled her, and Trynx couldn’t decide if the pool was indeed deep and refused to admit her, or shallow and the bottom was simply dark as jet. She cast no reflection and it troubled her more. Bending at the waist, she touched her fingertips to the dark water and watched the ripples spread. Backwards, she noted belatedly, traveling from the stony rim of the shallow pool inwards to meet her fingers.Water was always giving her trouble, it seemed. Exasperated, she hit her hand against the surface, an outburst like a petulant child. "Your memories are wrong...."It bent at first, yielding to her hand like bread dough, but staying stubbornly solid. It flattened itself too-quickly where Trynx had struck, and rippled outwards this time, too slow and thick for water. The water that didn’t behave like water splashed when it hit the rim, up and out into silver facets rather than drops that hung in the air at the apex of the splash. The unknown had always scared the woman, for she had always known everything. Bits of herself stared back from every crystalline drop hanging motionless in the air. Some she recognized; herself in a simple dress on a ship, grinning as she held a borrowed hat over her unnaturally colored hair. In the next she was pretty and perfect as a porcelain doll, sitting on a balcony rail trying to explain herself and understand another. Others she felt she should have known. A necklace of pearl and coral resting on her collarbones. A flash of silvery-green scale that made the old hollow ache in her chest twinge painfully. Most were entirely foreign, and she would not even have recognized them as herself were they not staring fixedly back at her. She moved her gaze slowly, trying to find herself as she was now. She was nowhere to be found, so she made to cross one foot over the other and turn. But her foot would not move, could not leave the surface of the water. Looking down she finally found herself, her pretty face staring up with wide aqua eyes from the pool, her own fingers in their black lace gloves trapping her in place. Her mouth, both her own and the reflection at her feet, stayed silent but the voice that followed was her own, distant and near and everywhere in between, a dozen voices but all her. Everything she was or could have been, had been, would be, spoke from the silver shards. “Trust us now...”Ripples again, this time real, honest ripples that distorted the reflection below her but did not lessen its grip. Tears fell from her cheeks though she didn’t recall crying, dripping down to make her reflection swim and sway. The woman lifted her hands to her face, digging the heel of her palms into her eyes, wiping at the tears she wasn’t sure why she was shedding. After a slow, shaky breath she lowered them, staring down into her own patiently watching face. And the Trynx in the pool spoke alone now, the reflection that was Trynx as she was now, voice low and sweet and final. “It’s time to let me go.”Had she a heart left, Trynx felt like it would have lurched terrifyingly. As it was, she simply stared at herself, wide eyed and afraid to comprehend. How could she abandon herself, the only thing she was certain of anymore? But then certainty is what had led her here. She’d been chasing certainty, terrified of the one moment of uncertainty she had ever encountered. Trynx knew everything, saw everything as it was, as it could be, as it should be. Seen too much, perhaps, to be able to handle the sudden blindfold when chance had abandoned her to floundering in currents she had once cut through easy as a fish. Her tongue felt too thick and heavy, and the woman swallowed through a tight throat, pressing her eyes closed. Glassy, dull blue met her bright aqua gaze when they opened, her reflection staring sightlessly, sadly up at herself. Fingers ghosted silk-soft against her leg but Trynx couldn’t tear herself from her own eyes, distant and dead and she knew what had to be done, what could bring her broken pieces back together. No one could see everything. Her voice had abandoned her, so the woman nodded. At that her reflection smiled and raised a hand. A moment of hesitation and Trynx lifted her own, fingers outstretched and reaching for her reflection. She bent at the waist, reaching down, and just before her fingers skimmed the surface her own voice was on her ear. “Never let go.”She never knew if the surface was liquid or firm. It shattered the moment she touched it, all at once like a great mirror, breaking away into a thousand shards beneath her. And she fell. The floor was hard when she hit, sheets tangled around her legs and cheek against the cool hardwood. It was dark, too dark, but she could hear her own panicked breathing, the incessant crash of waves on the shore out the window. The woman clawed the blankets away, struggling to her feet with one hand pressed to her face and the other gripping a bedpost in case her shaky knees decided to give way. The hand slid to her throat as she blinked, waiting for her eyes to adjust, needing to know she was back in her bedroom in the house by the sea. For many long moments she waited, not daring to turn her head as the leaden ball of fear sunk lower in her belly. It had only been a dream. Slowly, carefully, she turned, keeping a hand on the bedpost. A trembling hand reached out and found the curtains, pulled them slowly aside. She could hear the metal rings rasping against the rod, feel the soft fabric between her fingertips. But she saw nothing, no moonlight on the water, no glow of streetlamps in the port down the road. One shouldn’t, couldn’t, see everything. It was too much. Numbly, she slid along the bedpost, climbed onto the mattress and pulled her knees to her chest. One hand raised to her face, tracing the pretty features she’d been so proud of as her eyes stared uselessly ahead. The other crawled along the bed until it collided with something soft and familiar. She pulled the teddy bear into her lap, twisted her fingers through its fur. And when her thumb grazed over one of its glass eyes, always so bright and clear, she sobbed.
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Post by ElliBleu on Oct 25, 2012 21:44:01 GMT -6
[HI NET! <3] Song: Love is HereArtist: Starsailor The power cores glowed and pulsed sluggishly in the circular core room, wrapping around the metal platform like a sphere of uninterrupted, starry sky. For the first time in weeks Monkey felt almost relaxed. As relaxed as ever allowed himself to be. The metal platform was blissfully cold under his battle-weary shoulders and back, and the slow, steady sway of the Leviathan as it walked was calming on a deep, basic level. His mind was pleasantly empty for the first time in a long while, staring blankly overhead at the slowly pulsing beads of light, accustomed or weary enough to hardly notice the icons and meters hanging on the edges of his sight. Trip sat beside him, still and silent for a long while. If it weren’t for the rigidity of her posture as she sat with arms curled around her knees, Monkey might have thought she had dozed off. He’d spent enough time with the girl to know the stillness meant she had something on her mind. Otherwise she’d be talking or moving or digging through the Leviathan’s computers. They had time now, and even a brute like Monkey knew enough to not push the redhead too hard when she had that glass-thin mask on. Trip had been surprised by the man’s gentility after everything she had put him through, wished she had the courage to thank him. To apologize. To fulfill her promise. Trip watched the man through half-lidded eyes for some quiet minutes, counting the sway of the Leviathan against the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. All the wrong she had done, the pain she had caused, the promise she had forced upon him and then broken. Yet he still lay beside her, looking as content as she’d ever seen him. Her lips twitched into a frown as an unhelpfully truthful voice in her head reminded her he had little choice. Finally she closed her eyes and turned her face away, guilty. Monkey’s distant gaze focused a bit at her movement, his jaw dropping enough to look at her, blue eyes soft beneath the angry splash of crimson across his face. With that surprising patience he watched as Trip opened her mouth, closed it, and shook her head. A leg fell to one side as she shifted, pulling herself a bit closer to the man who had literally carried her this far. When she found her voice it was soft and slow, heavy with sorrow. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” she began, quite lamely in her opinion. Her tongue swiped over her bottom lip, throat constricting as she swallowed. “But there never seems to be a good time.” She paused again, almost cursing Monkey’s seemingly infinite patience. It would be easier if he were scowling or shouting, anything but lying there quiet and with an almost contented curve to his mouth. And yet there it was, an uncomfortable comfort in his easy posture and patient gaze that made Trip unable to meet those blue eyes with her own. “When I found my father dead-“ her throat constricted in protest, choking the words before she could finish. With a sigh, she lifted her right hand, her holographic console popping to life and making their shadows dance with the change in lighting. She’d rehearsed it so many times in her head, the woman hardly needed to look to tap out the necessary commands, keeping her glass-green eyes guiltily averted from the form still watching her silently through her screen. If only the words were so easy. With a shaky breath she continued, glad at least her hands seemed to know what they were doing. “I’m not trying to excuse what I’ve done, I know it was wrong,” she began, blinking hard against the growing prickling in the corners of her eyes. Looking anywhere but at Monkey, she swallowed another breath. Monkey could almost see the gears turning into overdrive in her head, thinking as she tried to gather what to say when there was so much to be said. Desperation couldn’t excuse it; she had forced her will onto another, no matter how gentle and sorry she had been. She was his captor. And it had been easier when that had been the whole of it. Her next words were quiet, almost swallowed by the groan and hum of the machinery. A confession born of guilt and desperation and tempered in sorrow. The closest to an apology she could come. “I have no more right to enslave you than anyone does.”The holographic display shrunk away again, and something about the uneasy set of Trip’s shoulders and the shattered look in her diverted eyes had Monkey tensing. She had made no secret of her remorse for dragging Monkey into their journey, but neither had she relinquished her control. Never before had the woman so entirely refused to meet his gaze, and never before had she looked, or felt, quite so small. Even footing put her at such a disadvantage. A confession and a farewell, Monkey realized as his vision flashed pink and blue for a moment before clearing like a breath of cold air to the sinuses. And he was suddenly lacking the floating icons he hadn’t realized he had grown so accustomed to; energy readings, directional beacons, his own and Trip’s biomonitors. He brought a hand to the metal band fixed to his forehead, curling upwards until he sat facing the woman. Something coiled tight in his gut, and he couldn’t rightly explain the sudden feeling of betrayal beating against the inside of his ribs like angry wings. Finally she raised her eyes to meet his and the question poured from his mouth with a hushed urgency, unwilling disbelief. “What have you done?”“There’s nothing controlling you anymore,” was her whispered reply, her soft concession of her wrong and her desire to set it right. Monkey felt he should have appreciated the sentiment, and found himself only staring at the smaller woman as the initial jolt of betrayal condensed and pooled into a heavy ball of dread. “So,” he breathed, stumbling over the words and Trip felt her heart stumble with them. “I can just…. leave?” The words pulled painfully in her chest, like a hook set deep in her bones, pulling more painful than the guilt of caging him ever had. Moisture welled at her eyes again and Trip was glad she hadn’t been able to hold Monkey’s gaze. Speaking of her father had been hard. Trip couldn’t have imagined the next words to come would have been more painful. “If that’s what you want.”The sudden fall in his stomach answered the question before Monkey could put any rational thought to it. The headband and its influence were gone, deactivated, but the very thought was as panic inducing as that warning twinge when he strayed too far, or Trip was in danger. Monkey was a creature of muscle and tendon and instinct, so when the words were spilling from his tongue he didn’t question them. Instinct was meant to be followed. “Turn it back on.”Wide green eyes finally snapped to him at that, watery and dark and uncomprehending. “But I-“ she began, cut off abruptly when a calloused hand landed on her knee, blue eyes boring into her own sharp and crisp as ice. “You heard what I said,” he continued, voice firm and confident, “Turn it back on.”Protests immediately rose to her tongue, but Trip bit them back, knowing they would be insincere at best. Nothing but excuses, a paltry balm for the wounds she had inflicted. She might have broken one promise already, but she could keep another. She had promised to listen, to do what he said, without question. Through everything, all the danger she had led them into, he had kept her alive and Trip could not deny him any wish. Her console flashed open again, and it wasn’t until she was again tapping away at the clear commands that Monkey’s expression softened. The dull glow returned to the band, and the edges of Monkey’s vision contracted briefly. When they filled in again, focusing on Trip had her health signs again flashing before his eyes. Comforting. When her console closed and she found Monkey staring at her, Trip froze, unsure of what to do. The dull ache in her chest that had settled into her lungs and heart upon finding her father dead twinged painfully. Monkey had the patience of a survivor, a hunter, a warrior. He watched the woman as she digested what she- what they- had just done. Saw the moment when those brilliant gears in her head finally turned into place and figured out all the implications of it. Carefully, one of her her hand settled atop the one he rested on her knee, so much smaller. Trembling. Thoughts raced in her brain, wild and trackless, flitting away before she could fix on any one. decide what to do. The one that finally settled made her grin, a small breathless noise that was not quite a laugh falling from her mouth. For the first time in a long, long while Trip thought of her mother. Longed for her in this one moment; someone to ask about the not-quite-unpleasant churning in her stomach, the tightness in her throat. Head bowed, she watched their hands on her knee. Watched as she curled hers around his rough ones, the entirety of her hand wound around two of the man’s fingers. She saw Monkey’s mouth twitch into the barest grin when she hiccupped another small laugh, disbelief slowly being replaced by a giddiness she didn’t quite know what to call. It was absurd, if she thought too much on it. In another world they would never have even met, yet now... A heavy hand curled over the top of Trip’s, entirely enveloping her hand in a cocoon of warm, rough skin. He heard her breath in sharply through her nose, the fingers around his own tightening momentarily, before relaxing along with the previously rigid line of her shoulders. She bent forward and Monkey, immovable as a mountain, held his ground, unwavering as a slim hand slowly rose towards his face. Green eyes finally again met blue, pink tongue again darting nervously across her lower lip when her gaze made the dip from eyes to his mouth. Pliant fingertips grazed over the stubble on his cheek, tracing the edge of his jaw. When she spoke it was quiet and soft, again almost lost amongst the hum and groan of the monstrous machinery. “Monkey...”He lifted a hand to her shoulder, halting her slow advance when her forehead bumped the band across his, wisps of stray red hair tickling his face. Confusion flickered across her eyes for a moment. A course thumb traced circles against her collarbone, but Monkey made no other move, staring intently at the smaller woman with immobile patience. For a long moment they were both still. Until the man shifted- the slightest tilt of his head. Just enough to nudge the headband, the physical reminder of their strange tie, into Trip’s own bare forehead. A small, true laugh trickled from her throat, squeezing the fingers in her grasp and letting her other hand slide to the ropy muscle of Monkey’s neck. “Kiss me,” she prompted, grinning. Still Monkey stared, expression calm and content but unreadable. After a moment the grin fell and Trip returned the stare with a bit of uncertainty. Another nudge against her forehead, the hand on her shoulder holding firm and keeping her close. The ghost of a smile passed across the man’s rugged face and Trip almost rolled her eyes. The man had a skill for getting his way, even with the headband. “Command-” she began, more than willing to indulge Monkey’s sudden playful submissiveness. Before she could finish a mouth was pressed firmly against her own, eagerly swallowing whatever command rested on her tongue.
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