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+---- Thread: I KNOW MY SOUL TALKS | breakdown + storm (/showthread.php?tid=12596)
I KNOW MY SOUL TALKS | breakdown + storm - GEORGIA. - 08-25-2020
ooc human au! tl;dr at the bottom. there’s a * at the start of the action.
It was getting worse.
The zoning out, the dissociation. The nightmares. Georgia had always suffered from fatigue, so it was virtually impossible for her to physically pull an all-nighter. It roughly translated to no peaceful sleep - ever. She’d wake up every hour; she’d be in and out of full consciousness.
Nightmares plagued her restless mind like a swarm. It became increasingly intolerable because they were hardly nightmares at all - they were just memories with added details. Her childhood was being corroded; the memories of her father were becoming warped - their time spent together addled and riddled by Georgia’s surging anxiety and ancient forces bent on having a project to watch.
She would be floating, out of body, watching herself at six years old. She’d splash in the water as they sat along the beach, causing waves and lifting the ocean in balls as she toyed with her powers. Her father sat behind her, trying to wrestle her hair into a braid. He was faceless; he was always faceless in her dreams now. His hands were rough, calloused. A sea trader’s hands. It was a good memory. It felt like a good memory. But there was always a sense of unease; the memory was too superficial, too perfect. Something was going to happen.
The water would suddenly bleed red, leaking from where her father was. Clouds rumbled in the sky. Georgia’s scope of vision hardly extended past the bubble of her six year old self and her father; but there was a sense that the world was crumbling. Her hair had tints of red in it where her father’s hands had been dipped in the water. Thick, red liquid was now the plaything of her young self. It had an awful, metallic scent. Georgia wanted to choke on it.
She had that one frequently. Waking up, gagging on the thickness of blood. Occasionally, she dreamed of her own drowning; of calling a wave too big and being swept out to sea. It was illogical, irrational; she was perfectly capable of surviving underwater. It still chilled her to the bone: screaming for her father, swallowing mouthfuls of briny, salty water. Struggling to keep her head above the surface. The sheer terror that arched through her body.
She’d wake from that shaking. Every time. Paralyzed by terror, nerves on end and heart racing. Sometimes she would shake so violently she assumed she was cold; she’d yank the blanket up and find herself sweating. It was only a matter of time before she forgot the dream and sank back into the web of nightmares.
This was her repeat cycle; this was her loop. This was her torture. She lost track of the time, the days. Forgot where she was. Zoned out during conversations in such a severe manner she wouldn’t remember the conversation afterwards. She was losing herself to her own head; constantly trying to figure out where the dreams came from. What they were about. Were they a part of her curse? Were they a part of her past? Oftentimes the dreams slipped through her grasp, through her fingers. She struggled to remember them properly.
The days became a blur. People - conversations, they grounded her. If she woke up feeling empty she knew it was only a matter of time before her resolve would fade and she’d dissociate, slipping away into a shell of herself to wander the island like a lost ghost. Sometimes she’d lose herself on the pathways. She’d be following a footpath and then end up standing in the ocean, powers activated to keep her afloat on the water.
That was what scared Georgia the most: the power. She wielded such devastating ferocity within her own hands - she could hurt someone. She could kill. She could call on tsunamis and hurricanes, thunderstorms and waterspouts. She could destroy this island. A part of her brain would argue so? You owe them nothing here. Which wasn’t true. She owed the people of The Typhoon everything. There were children here. She refused to let herself be swallowed by her own power.
* These were her thoughts as she sat in the surf. These were her thoughts as she allowed the water to splash against her skin. Her fingers tangled in her hair as her head dipped to rest on her knees. The water was supposed to make her feel better. Calm her. But it only brought her a sense of dread - the same anxiety that rose in her dreams, paralyzing her. The longer she sat there the more she shrank into her own body. The more she felt reality fall away. She shrank, curling into herself, her mind. Receding.
Quiet.
Suddenly, a force arched through her body. Something old...ancient. It was staggering; it was painful. It felt like claws on her back. Georgia gasped, jerking - the sensation returned, pushing, forcing its way through her mind. The pressure was immense; incomprehensible. All consuming. Her own body panicked, heart slamming against her chest as she fell backwards. Georgia struggled to breathe - sea salt choked her; the smell of sour seaweed clogged her sinuses. The girl cried out, frustrated and in pain. She didn’t have time for this. Didn’t have time. Didn’t have time.
”Krios.”
A voice; disembodied, echoing. Ancient, like the other, but not oppressive. Georgia felt the warmth of beach sand; the chill of constellations. The glittering of water. The pressure in her lungs lessened. She inhaled, shaky and disoriented.
”Krios, let her be.”
Georgia struggled to get a hold of herself. Struggled to rid herself of the fog surrounding her brain. Tried to reconnect with her own body so it would stop functioning on autopilot. Mom, she thought desperately, reveling in the feeling of comfort the second voice brought. It was a primal feeling that drew her to the second voice - memories of being cradled and rocked by someone that wasn’t her father.
The pressure of the first presence had receded, pausing. It lasted a heartbeat, two...three...like it was thinking. Considering.
Georgia scrambled onto shore.
Then it crashed back into her, full force. Georgia screamed, shrill, unending, and grabbed her head, cradling it as she crashed to her knees. The immensity of the presence - of Krios - smothered her. Suffocated her. She gasped, feeling ragged claws dig into her brain. She tried, so desperately, to shove walls up; to block it. But the force of a Titan...a retired, beaten, old Titan, was too much to bear. She caved - easily.
It smelled like must. Smelled like the bottom of the oldest boat, encrusted with barnacles. Humid, sticky wind blew like the south’s hot breath against her face. Krios. The south - the ram; Aries. One of the four pillars separating heaven and earth. He was ancient; he was banished, tortured, incarcerated. The pain he wrought was worse than slamming through barrier waves - worse than storms and typhoons. It dragged down her spine, fried her every nerve; Georgia screamed, again; a wail. Make it stop, make it stop… The ocean behind her responded to her agony, rolling and frothing. A saltier wind clashed with Krios’s humidity.
Lights flashed behind her eyelids. The jingle of sequins echoed in her ears. Pain rolled through her system. A distant, angry noise filtered through the static. More lights.
The scenery changed: A clearing. Sand stuck to the bottom of her feet. Her hair was wet. She felt younger. The ocean crashed behind her. She was on her hands and knees, leaning over something.
A body.
Blood was everywhere; his skin was pale and cold. His eyes were glassy. Water soaked every inch of him. Georgia reached for his face, hands trembling.
Nothing. Featureless. Smooth.
Her father.
Georgia had been plunged into one of her nightmares; real time. A sob escaped her throat; she had replayed this scene - this image - hundreds of thousands of times. The greatest insult was that she couldn’t ever make out his face.
”You torment her ceaselessly,” her mother’s voice echoed somewhere in her mind. “End this.” She sounded righteous, but tired. Her time had long since passed. Three, four millennia has left the old titans and primordial forces dusty.
A deep, scratching, scathing voice responded: “Never.”
Georgia threw herself across her father’s body, screaming his name. Burying her face in his soaking shirt, begging for him to wake up. Telling him she was scared, that she didn’t know what to do.
”How pathetic it is to cry over partial memories,” Krios seethed, distant in her conscience. “How disgusting to waste your time with this, acting as if this is all you know.”
Georgia sobbed, gripping her father’s shirt like a lifeline. The wind had begun to pick up - whipping sand grains across her face.
”P. Partial?” She whispered, ever so hesitant.
”Yes, partial.” Krios huffed. “Coping. Your own stupid brain covered up the real memory. Let me...help you see.”
Georgia didn’t have a choice. There was no bargaining. She was slammed - not transported - slammed into another scene, where she sat at the water’s edge, soaking wet and spitting out ocean water. She’s clearly just been knocked over by a wave; one of her own making, considering the surf was relatively calm.
”Dad? Dad! Where are you?” She cried as she stood, her voice wobbling. She searched past the horizon, looking for a figure bobbing on the waves. She turned, looking farther down the shore; a tug. Go there. Run.
Georgia sprinted, full send, across the sand. As fast as she could go. Panic climbed into her throat. Her father couldn’t hold his breath for as long as she could. He needed her. She could save him.
But there was nothing to save. The waves broke over nothing. The sand had no indentations. “Here, right here,” Georgia felt herself say. The wind pushed at her hair, and gusted, nearly toppling her. It pushed her towards a cluster of palmedos, up an embankment. Georgia crept up the sides and discovered her father, bruised, blue, and soaked. She went cold. Her entire body felt numb; felt incapacitated.
”You killed him.” Krios whispered in her ear. “It was you, all along. You drowned him. How does it feel, to murder your father?” He preened. “I know I enjoyed it.”
”I didn’t!” Georgia screamed, ripping herself away from the memory.
She managed to find herself back on the beach of The Typhoon, standing in the sand. Tears were hot on her cheeks. The wind was strong, flinging flora debris from the forest up the beach.
Her father...drowned. She’d always assumed he had been murdered. So many things didn’t line up: how had he gotten that far out to sea? How had he ended up in the tree line? Why didn’t he swim? Why didn’t he call for her?
A storm was brewing.
Clouds crumbled into dark, hulking masses, crashing with rumbling thunder. It spread, covering the entire island - shadowing her home. Threatening her friends. Ocean waves battered the shore. Georgia found herself in the middle of it, in the eye, crying as Krios whispered in her ear.
”Unlike you, my father had it coming. He was abusive and tormented my mother. Your father was a gentle soul...a caregiver,” He sneered. “I am not surprised that he managed to lure the attention of my unfaithful wife.”
Georgia sucked in a ragged breath; hot air grabbed her cheeks, prying her face upwards to stare into the dead eyes of the southern titan. “My mom,” She croaked, “has every right to be unfaithful to an ugly ass titan like you!”
Krios roared, shaking her bones. The sound trembled the ground, made her shake with terror. Georgia covered her head, tears mixing with the rain that began to pour down. The storm was growing - just like the day her father died.
Like the day she murdered him.
”Your mother is an ungrateful whore, and so you shall be as well!” Krios thundered, what little wisps of physical form he had disappearing in the wind. “You murdered your father and your mother will never want you. You are a pathetic half-god; your siblings will never know your name. You will be lost to history. You will suffer the same fate in Hades, locked away in Asphodel, damned to wander endlessly for all eternity!”
Georgia’s consciousness began to fade. The storm was dipping into her power reserves, sucking every last bit of energy from her. Her vision swam. Sand grit between her teeth. Her nerves and adrenaline burned, flayed. Debris cut into her skin. She could barely hold herself upright. Murderer, murderer, murderer. Her brain whispered.
Krios drew her head towards him yet again. He was not visible, but she felt his grip nonetheless. “You deserve death. You almost crave it,” he whispered. “You want no attachment. You will carry this guilt for the rest of your miserable, mortal life. Who will be next, demigod? Whose life will you take?”
”Please,” She breathed. “Let me go.”
And with that, she passed out.
Krios vanished in a swirl of warm wind. The storm around her closed in, drenching her in rain. Thunder rumbled above. Lightning flashed, electrifying random spots on the ocean surface while it frothed under Georgia’s emotional influence.
tl;dr Georgia was sitting in the waves when the titan Krios (stepfather, same bugger who cursed her) decides to have some fun and shows her flashbacks of her father’s death. Only now he decides to reveal that it was actually Georgia’s fault, even if it was an accident. He dips her in and out of the actual memory, taunts her a little bit, and Georgia calls him ugly. Due to the triggering flashbacks, Georgia starts an island-wide thunderstorm that verges on a tropical depression/category one hurricane. Krios leaves, Georgia passes out on the beach. The storm is still going! 2269 words total.
It was getting worse.
The zoning out, the dissociation. The nightmares. Georgia had always suffered from fatigue, so it was virtually impossible for her to physically pull an all-nighter. It roughly translated to no peaceful sleep - ever. She’d wake up every hour; she’d be in and out of full consciousness.
Nightmares plagued her restless mind like a swarm. It became increasingly intolerable because they were hardly nightmares at all - they were just memories with added details. Her childhood was being corroded; the memories of her father were becoming warped - their time spent together addled and riddled by Georgia’s surging anxiety and ancient forces bent on having a project to watch.
She would be floating, out of body, watching herself at six years old. She’d splash in the water as they sat along the beach, causing waves and lifting the ocean in balls as she toyed with her powers. Her father sat behind her, trying to wrestle her hair into a braid. He was faceless; he was always faceless in her dreams now. His hands were rough, calloused. A sea trader’s hands. It was a good memory. It felt like a good memory. But there was always a sense of unease; the memory was too superficial, too perfect. Something was going to happen.
The water would suddenly bleed red, leaking from where her father was. Clouds rumbled in the sky. Georgia’s scope of vision hardly extended past the bubble of her six year old self and her father; but there was a sense that the world was crumbling. Her hair had tints of red in it where her father’s hands had been dipped in the water. Thick, red liquid was now the plaything of her young self. It had an awful, metallic scent. Georgia wanted to choke on it.
She had that one frequently. Waking up, gagging on the thickness of blood. Occasionally, she dreamed of her own drowning; of calling a wave too big and being swept out to sea. It was illogical, irrational; she was perfectly capable of surviving underwater. It still chilled her to the bone: screaming for her father, swallowing mouthfuls of briny, salty water. Struggling to keep her head above the surface. The sheer terror that arched through her body.
She’d wake from that shaking. Every time. Paralyzed by terror, nerves on end and heart racing. Sometimes she would shake so violently she assumed she was cold; she’d yank the blanket up and find herself sweating. It was only a matter of time before she forgot the dream and sank back into the web of nightmares.
This was her repeat cycle; this was her loop. This was her torture. She lost track of the time, the days. Forgot where she was. Zoned out during conversations in such a severe manner she wouldn’t remember the conversation afterwards. She was losing herself to her own head; constantly trying to figure out where the dreams came from. What they were about. Were they a part of her curse? Were they a part of her past? Oftentimes the dreams slipped through her grasp, through her fingers. She struggled to remember them properly.
The days became a blur. People - conversations, they grounded her. If she woke up feeling empty she knew it was only a matter of time before her resolve would fade and she’d dissociate, slipping away into a shell of herself to wander the island like a lost ghost. Sometimes she’d lose herself on the pathways. She’d be following a footpath and then end up standing in the ocean, powers activated to keep her afloat on the water.
That was what scared Georgia the most: the power. She wielded such devastating ferocity within her own hands - she could hurt someone. She could kill. She could call on tsunamis and hurricanes, thunderstorms and waterspouts. She could destroy this island. A part of her brain would argue so? You owe them nothing here. Which wasn’t true. She owed the people of The Typhoon everything. There were children here. She refused to let herself be swallowed by her own power.
* These were her thoughts as she sat in the surf. These were her thoughts as she allowed the water to splash against her skin. Her fingers tangled in her hair as her head dipped to rest on her knees. The water was supposed to make her feel better. Calm her. But it only brought her a sense of dread - the same anxiety that rose in her dreams, paralyzing her. The longer she sat there the more she shrank into her own body. The more she felt reality fall away. She shrank, curling into herself, her mind. Receding.
Quiet.
Suddenly, a force arched through her body. Something old...ancient. It was staggering; it was painful. It felt like claws on her back. Georgia gasped, jerking - the sensation returned, pushing, forcing its way through her mind. The pressure was immense; incomprehensible. All consuming. Her own body panicked, heart slamming against her chest as she fell backwards. Georgia struggled to breathe - sea salt choked her; the smell of sour seaweed clogged her sinuses. The girl cried out, frustrated and in pain. She didn’t have time for this. Didn’t have time. Didn’t have time.
”Krios.”
A voice; disembodied, echoing. Ancient, like the other, but not oppressive. Georgia felt the warmth of beach sand; the chill of constellations. The glittering of water. The pressure in her lungs lessened. She inhaled, shaky and disoriented.
”Krios, let her be.”
Georgia struggled to get a hold of herself. Struggled to rid herself of the fog surrounding her brain. Tried to reconnect with her own body so it would stop functioning on autopilot. Mom, she thought desperately, reveling in the feeling of comfort the second voice brought. It was a primal feeling that drew her to the second voice - memories of being cradled and rocked by someone that wasn’t her father.
The pressure of the first presence had receded, pausing. It lasted a heartbeat, two...three...like it was thinking. Considering.
Georgia scrambled onto shore.
Then it crashed back into her, full force. Georgia screamed, shrill, unending, and grabbed her head, cradling it as she crashed to her knees. The immensity of the presence - of Krios - smothered her. Suffocated her. She gasped, feeling ragged claws dig into her brain. She tried, so desperately, to shove walls up; to block it. But the force of a Titan...a retired, beaten, old Titan, was too much to bear. She caved - easily.
It smelled like must. Smelled like the bottom of the oldest boat, encrusted with barnacles. Humid, sticky wind blew like the south’s hot breath against her face. Krios. The south - the ram; Aries. One of the four pillars separating heaven and earth. He was ancient; he was banished, tortured, incarcerated. The pain he wrought was worse than slamming through barrier waves - worse than storms and typhoons. It dragged down her spine, fried her every nerve; Georgia screamed, again; a wail. Make it stop, make it stop… The ocean behind her responded to her agony, rolling and frothing. A saltier wind clashed with Krios’s humidity.
Lights flashed behind her eyelids. The jingle of sequins echoed in her ears. Pain rolled through her system. A distant, angry noise filtered through the static. More lights.
The scenery changed: A clearing. Sand stuck to the bottom of her feet. Her hair was wet. She felt younger. The ocean crashed behind her. She was on her hands and knees, leaning over something.
A body.
Blood was everywhere; his skin was pale and cold. His eyes were glassy. Water soaked every inch of him. Georgia reached for his face, hands trembling.
Nothing. Featureless. Smooth.
Her father.
Georgia had been plunged into one of her nightmares; real time. A sob escaped her throat; she had replayed this scene - this image - hundreds of thousands of times. The greatest insult was that she couldn’t ever make out his face.
”You torment her ceaselessly,” her mother’s voice echoed somewhere in her mind. “End this.” She sounded righteous, but tired. Her time had long since passed. Three, four millennia has left the old titans and primordial forces dusty.
A deep, scratching, scathing voice responded: “Never.”
Georgia threw herself across her father’s body, screaming his name. Burying her face in his soaking shirt, begging for him to wake up. Telling him she was scared, that she didn’t know what to do.
”How pathetic it is to cry over partial memories,” Krios seethed, distant in her conscience. “How disgusting to waste your time with this, acting as if this is all you know.”
Georgia sobbed, gripping her father’s shirt like a lifeline. The wind had begun to pick up - whipping sand grains across her face.
”P. Partial?” She whispered, ever so hesitant.
”Yes, partial.” Krios huffed. “Coping. Your own stupid brain covered up the real memory. Let me...help you see.”
Georgia didn’t have a choice. There was no bargaining. She was slammed - not transported - slammed into another scene, where she sat at the water’s edge, soaking wet and spitting out ocean water. She’s clearly just been knocked over by a wave; one of her own making, considering the surf was relatively calm.
”Dad? Dad! Where are you?” She cried as she stood, her voice wobbling. She searched past the horizon, looking for a figure bobbing on the waves. She turned, looking farther down the shore; a tug. Go there. Run.
Georgia sprinted, full send, across the sand. As fast as she could go. Panic climbed into her throat. Her father couldn’t hold his breath for as long as she could. He needed her. She could save him.
But there was nothing to save. The waves broke over nothing. The sand had no indentations. “Here, right here,” Georgia felt herself say. The wind pushed at her hair, and gusted, nearly toppling her. It pushed her towards a cluster of palmedos, up an embankment. Georgia crept up the sides and discovered her father, bruised, blue, and soaked. She went cold. Her entire body felt numb; felt incapacitated.
”You killed him.” Krios whispered in her ear. “It was you, all along. You drowned him. How does it feel, to murder your father?” He preened. “I know I enjoyed it.”
”I didn’t!” Georgia screamed, ripping herself away from the memory.
She managed to find herself back on the beach of The Typhoon, standing in the sand. Tears were hot on her cheeks. The wind was strong, flinging flora debris from the forest up the beach.
Her father...drowned. She’d always assumed he had been murdered. So many things didn’t line up: how had he gotten that far out to sea? How had he ended up in the tree line? Why didn’t he swim? Why didn’t he call for her?
A storm was brewing.
Clouds crumbled into dark, hulking masses, crashing with rumbling thunder. It spread, covering the entire island - shadowing her home. Threatening her friends. Ocean waves battered the shore. Georgia found herself in the middle of it, in the eye, crying as Krios whispered in her ear.
”Unlike you, my father had it coming. He was abusive and tormented my mother. Your father was a gentle soul...a caregiver,” He sneered. “I am not surprised that he managed to lure the attention of my unfaithful wife.”
Georgia sucked in a ragged breath; hot air grabbed her cheeks, prying her face upwards to stare into the dead eyes of the southern titan. “My mom,” She croaked, “has every right to be unfaithful to an ugly ass titan like you!”
Krios roared, shaking her bones. The sound trembled the ground, made her shake with terror. Georgia covered her head, tears mixing with the rain that began to pour down. The storm was growing - just like the day her father died.
Like the day she murdered him.
”Your mother is an ungrateful whore, and so you shall be as well!” Krios thundered, what little wisps of physical form he had disappearing in the wind. “You murdered your father and your mother will never want you. You are a pathetic half-god; your siblings will never know your name. You will be lost to history. You will suffer the same fate in Hades, locked away in Asphodel, damned to wander endlessly for all eternity!”
Georgia’s consciousness began to fade. The storm was dipping into her power reserves, sucking every last bit of energy from her. Her vision swam. Sand grit between her teeth. Her nerves and adrenaline burned, flayed. Debris cut into her skin. She could barely hold herself upright. Murderer, murderer, murderer. Her brain whispered.
Krios drew her head towards him yet again. He was not visible, but she felt his grip nonetheless. “You deserve death. You almost crave it,” he whispered. “You want no attachment. You will carry this guilt for the rest of your miserable, mortal life. Who will be next, demigod? Whose life will you take?”
”Please,” She breathed. “Let me go.”
And with that, she passed out.
Krios vanished in a swirl of warm wind. The storm around her closed in, drenching her in rain. Thunder rumbled above. Lightning flashed, electrifying random spots on the ocean surface while it frothed under Georgia’s emotional influence.
tl;dr Georgia was sitting in the waves when the titan Krios (stepfather, same bugger who cursed her) decides to have some fun and shows her flashbacks of her father’s death. Only now he decides to reveal that it was actually Georgia’s fault, even if it was an accident. He dips her in and out of the actual memory, taunts her a little bit, and Georgia calls him ugly. Due to the triggering flashbacks, Georgia starts an island-wide thunderstorm that verges on a tropical depression/category one hurricane. Krios leaves, Georgia passes out on the beach. The storm is still going! 2269 words total.
© LEXASPERATED
[align=left]
THE SEA WAVES ARE MY EVENING GOWN:
Re: I KNOW MY SOUL TALKS | breakdown + storm - Seakit Roux. - 08-25-2020
IF MY LIFE IS GOING
TO MEAN ANYTHING,
I HAVE TO LIVE IT
MYSELF.
tiguar . young . he/him
demigod of the deep
demigod of the deep
Deniz had been, for once, not in the ocean when the storm struck. Peaking his head from the tavern, his eyebrows furrowed. Where had this storm come from? It had been sunny not too long ago, how had a storm of this magnitude just appeared?
Shaking his head, he plunged into the rain, swirling a hand above his head in an attempt to manipulate the water away from him, to keep it off his head. He was heading home, wanting to make sure that his house had been closed up. The last thing they needed was all their belongings blown away or soaked.
His home reside on the beach, facing the normally calm waves. That was the only reason he saw Georgia, and barely at that. At first, the distant lump in the sand had seemed to be a rock or maybe even seaweed thrown by the waves. As he grew closer, and the figure became clearer, panic gripped the boys chest. His hand dropped, rain immedietly slamming against his chest. He broke into a run, ducking his head as he sped towards his friend.
His stop was a messy one, sending him stumbling across the wet sand. He fell to his knees beside her, breath coming out in short gasps. "No... No, Geo not you too..." he whined, shaking his head. Reaching a tentative hand out, he pressed it against the side of the girls neck. Thank the gods above, there was a heart beat. She wouldn't be next, he wouldn't loose someone else today.
He needed to get her away from there, and fast. Repositioning into a more crouched position, he would put an arm under her knees and the other under her neck. With a grunt of effort, he would stand, holding her close. He would try and hold her at an angle towards his body, trying to keep some of the rain off her face. As quickly as he could without falling, he headed back for the tavern. His first instinct had been his home but, with this storm he knew they needed to be as far from the beach as possible.
Using his back to push open the tavern's door, he stumbled in panting. "someone get a blanket or something and lay it infront of the fireplace!" he ordered, still holding Geo close. The members of the Typoon new better than to argue with the captain's son, especially considering the circumstances.
When someone managed to find a blanket and had layed it out on the ground a couple meters the fire, Deniz kneeled and gently layed her down, careful not to jostle her too much. "come on, Geo, wake up..."
Shaking his head, he plunged into the rain, swirling a hand above his head in an attempt to manipulate the water away from him, to keep it off his head. He was heading home, wanting to make sure that his house had been closed up. The last thing they needed was all their belongings blown away or soaked.
His home reside on the beach, facing the normally calm waves. That was the only reason he saw Georgia, and barely at that. At first, the distant lump in the sand had seemed to be a rock or maybe even seaweed thrown by the waves. As he grew closer, and the figure became clearer, panic gripped the boys chest. His hand dropped, rain immedietly slamming against his chest. He broke into a run, ducking his head as he sped towards his friend.
His stop was a messy one, sending him stumbling across the wet sand. He fell to his knees beside her, breath coming out in short gasps. "No... No, Geo not you too..." he whined, shaking his head. Reaching a tentative hand out, he pressed it against the side of the girls neck. Thank the gods above, there was a heart beat. She wouldn't be next, he wouldn't loose someone else today.
He needed to get her away from there, and fast. Repositioning into a more crouched position, he would put an arm under her knees and the other under her neck. With a grunt of effort, he would stand, holding her close. He would try and hold her at an angle towards his body, trying to keep some of the rain off her face. As quickly as he could without falling, he headed back for the tavern. His first instinct had been his home but, with this storm he knew they needed to be as far from the beach as possible.
Using his back to push open the tavern's door, he stumbled in panting. "someone get a blanket or something and lay it infront of the fireplace!" he ordered, still holding Geo close. The members of the Typoon new better than to argue with the captain's son, especially considering the circumstances.
When someone managed to find a blanket and had layed it out on the ground a couple meters the fire, Deniz kneeled and gently layed her down, careful not to jostle her too much. "come on, Geo, wake up..."
Re: I KNOW MY SOUL TALKS | breakdown + storm - PAOLA - 08-25-2020
[shadow=black,left]PAOLA VASQUEZ[/shadow]
[table][tr][td][/td][td][/td][td][/td][td][/td][td][/td][/tr][/table]I just wanna taste it; Watermelon sugar high!
Paola is... not as fortunate when the storm strikes. She'd been dozing underneath a palm tree, hands folded behind her head, and she could have sworn the skies were clear when she went to sleep, but suddenly there's an insistent drip, drip, drip, followed by more, followed by too much and suddenly Paola is awake, staring groggily, irritated, at the dark skies. "Give me a break," she mutters, only faintly acknowledging that she's probably had more breaks than she deserves.
Scrambling onto her feet, Paola stretches under the downpour, pulling at each tensed muscle until it relaxes under the pressure. Satisfied, and wet, she wanders off for some shelter—not that she really minds the rain, but soggy clothes are not her most favorite thing in the world. The way they uncomfortably press against her skin should be illegal.
She finds the tavern, the closest establishment to where she had been having a nice nap, and quickly steps through the door, giving her curly hair a good shake and mischievously ignoring the side-eyed glares of the poor patrons who were decently sprayed with rainwater. Smirking, Paola heads further in, asking for a small shot of something from the barkeep and clutching the glass close to her, letting the liquid warm her up from the inside.
She begins to find a table for herself, somewhere she can put her feet up, when the sudden and rushed opening of the tavern doors cause her shoulders to jolt. She whips around, curious to see what's making the cacophony, but freezes when she recognizes Deniz... carrying Georgia.
"Here, have a drink," she says to a random patron, nearly shoving the glass into his hands and rushing off towards one of the vacant rooms of the tavern. When she comes back out, she's carrying a thick comforter over her shoulder, dragging it and laying it out in front of the fireplace and shooing away a handful of curious eyes in the process.
Georgia looks... not well. Paola takes a seat next to Deniz, almost lethargic, and for a moment just stares at her friend's body.
Something painful twinges somewhere deep in her chest, too deep for her to grab, too unknown for her to decipher, but there's a telltale tremble haunting her fingers as she reaches forward, perhaps aiming to brush some of her hair away—but then she stops and pulls back, suddenly afraid.
"What happened?" Paola doesn't look at anyone else but Georgia. Maybe if she wills it, if she wills it hard enough—she shakes her head, pensive, and pushes the thought to the back of her head. She doesn't know how to help but, gods be damned, she'll do anything in her power to. "Is there anything else we need? Should I get a glass of water? For when she wakes up?"
[table][tr][td]Scrambling onto her feet, Paola stretches under the downpour, pulling at each tensed muscle until it relaxes under the pressure. Satisfied, and wet, she wanders off for some shelter—not that she really minds the rain, but soggy clothes are not her most favorite thing in the world. The way they uncomfortably press against her skin should be illegal.
She finds the tavern, the closest establishment to where she had been having a nice nap, and quickly steps through the door, giving her curly hair a good shake and mischievously ignoring the side-eyed glares of the poor patrons who were decently sprayed with rainwater. Smirking, Paola heads further in, asking for a small shot of something from the barkeep and clutching the glass close to her, letting the liquid warm her up from the inside.
She begins to find a table for herself, somewhere she can put her feet up, when the sudden and rushed opening of the tavern doors cause her shoulders to jolt. She whips around, curious to see what's making the cacophony, but freezes when she recognizes Deniz... carrying Georgia.
"Here, have a drink," she says to a random patron, nearly shoving the glass into his hands and rushing off towards one of the vacant rooms of the tavern. When she comes back out, she's carrying a thick comforter over her shoulder, dragging it and laying it out in front of the fireplace and shooing away a handful of curious eyes in the process.
Georgia looks... not well. Paola takes a seat next to Deniz, almost lethargic, and for a moment just stares at her friend's body.
Something painful twinges somewhere deep in her chest, too deep for her to grab, too unknown for her to decipher, but there's a telltale tremble haunting her fingers as she reaches forward, perhaps aiming to brush some of her hair away—but then she stops and pulls back, suddenly afraid.
"What happened?" Paola doesn't look at anyone else but Georgia. Maybe if she wills it, if she wills it hard enough—she shakes her head, pensive, and pushes the thought to the back of her head. She doesn't know how to help but, gods be damned, she'll do anything in her power to. "Is there anything else we need? Should I get a glass of water? For when she wakes up?"
10 MOONS
[/td][td]BETA
[/td][td]TYPHOON
[/td][td]SHE/HER
[/td][td]© AUDACITY
[/td][/tr][/table] BABY'S GOT A FACE LIKE THUNDER:
Re: I KNOW MY SOUL TALKS | breakdown + storm - bubblegum - 08-25-2020
It was quiet when Demetra stepped into the tavern herself, getting there before her son, the day still fresh enough that there was not much more than crewmates chatting among themselves over tea, coffee, and brunch. And of course there would be the day drinkers regardless, getting a head start, not caring what the weather or time was, simply looking for a temporary buzz. There may be an unspoken worry, every time their captain set foot in the tavern, after her wife's death. But the female had never been known to fall under to the temptation of uncontrollable drinking before, despite her own papa's destructive habits. She'd learned from them, and only looked to do such an act as a celebration. The temporary relief was much more rewarding in her work. And thus, there was nothing to truly worry of, as the woman held a basket of freshly caught fish, hair up in a messy bun.
Her body was still drying slightly, though she had gone through the effort of the towel, it was clear she'd just finished her hunt for the tavern's supply. The fish would make delicious meals to last throughout the day and night. And it was with the chefs she would be, despite the weariness clear in her gaze, she kept at work, helped as much as she could. She appreciated the work they performed at the tavern, feeding the crew and keeping shelter for them. And the same notion was proven in just moments, the sound of a storm brought on quickly - not an incredibly rare occurrence, given they were living on a tropical archipelago. She'd bore witness to the destruction a hurricane can truly bring, and while the noise outside did sound threatening on such a thing, she did not move just yet, finding herself lost in the sound one again. Perhaps there was a kinship between the event and the demigoddess of raging storms.
The captain understood the suffering, the loss, the guilt, better than most. The blood that stained her hands, her arms, legs, feet, splattered across her face, it was an immense amount. It would never truly wash away, scrub all she may, the actions she took, both regretful and intentional, all were her own. And in the end, more often than not, she knew the risk, the consequence. She'd faced death many times, spit in its face, been spat back at. It was a constant struggle, against the war, the enemies, the threats. Life itself was hardly her friend, then much less was Death, spiteful and bitter towards the girl that'd cheated it. But it still took as it desired, all the same. If she would not go down so easily, someone else would.
And the taste was filth, every time. Those who deserved it may shred some freedom, some relief into their execution, but the action was still something she did not enjoy. Karma would not do its job always, so she would fill in. She'd drowned, drowned another, burnt alive, burnt others. Though it would be rare Dee truly used her powers to take the final blow. No, her scimitar much more often took that grace, the useless eyes of those too blind to see their wrongdoings ripped out. Though would that be so fair, even, for her to claim the moral high ground? Others harmed from her fearful secrets, proven by the burns on her back, mother taking her place in fate's grasp, children she'd never wanted, faced consequence of her actions, and even now she fears that her children were harmed from her own grief despite greatest efforts to be there.
And today's experiences would reflect all the same, a child collapsed on the beach, broken and confused, senses taken from under her, everything spilling out, uncontrollably. The only difference was, Dee was an adult now, and it was not her that'd been found upon the shoreline.
The noise of commotion, her son calling out. She leaves the kitchen, approaches the sound. The captain would simply observe for a moment, unnatural for the other so quick to act, so quick to prioritize. But it was still so fresh, and actions were not so natural. And so she observes, taking in the scene, before finally deciding. She walks closer, to the side of her son, taking a better look at Georgia. "She doesn't look hurt," comes her voice calmly, softly. Still, a mother, still trying her hardest to keep everything together. "There's no need for panic. Keep her comfortable." Dee would instruct simply, looking to Paola and offering a nod. "She'll need water." There could be a number of things that'd caused the younger girl to go unconscious, and unfortunately she was not there to witness what any of those may be, and so she goes quiet, waiting for Deniz to answer Paola's question.
Her body was still drying slightly, though she had gone through the effort of the towel, it was clear she'd just finished her hunt for the tavern's supply. The fish would make delicious meals to last throughout the day and night. And it was with the chefs she would be, despite the weariness clear in her gaze, she kept at work, helped as much as she could. She appreciated the work they performed at the tavern, feeding the crew and keeping shelter for them. And the same notion was proven in just moments, the sound of a storm brought on quickly - not an incredibly rare occurrence, given they were living on a tropical archipelago. She'd bore witness to the destruction a hurricane can truly bring, and while the noise outside did sound threatening on such a thing, she did not move just yet, finding herself lost in the sound one again. Perhaps there was a kinship between the event and the demigoddess of raging storms.
The captain understood the suffering, the loss, the guilt, better than most. The blood that stained her hands, her arms, legs, feet, splattered across her face, it was an immense amount. It would never truly wash away, scrub all she may, the actions she took, both regretful and intentional, all were her own. And in the end, more often than not, she knew the risk, the consequence. She'd faced death many times, spit in its face, been spat back at. It was a constant struggle, against the war, the enemies, the threats. Life itself was hardly her friend, then much less was Death, spiteful and bitter towards the girl that'd cheated it. But it still took as it desired, all the same. If she would not go down so easily, someone else would.
And the taste was filth, every time. Those who deserved it may shred some freedom, some relief into their execution, but the action was still something she did not enjoy. Karma would not do its job always, so she would fill in. She'd drowned, drowned another, burnt alive, burnt others. Though it would be rare Dee truly used her powers to take the final blow. No, her scimitar much more often took that grace, the useless eyes of those too blind to see their wrongdoings ripped out. Though would that be so fair, even, for her to claim the moral high ground? Others harmed from her fearful secrets, proven by the burns on her back, mother taking her place in fate's grasp, children she'd never wanted, faced consequence of her actions, and even now she fears that her children were harmed from her own grief despite greatest efforts to be there.
And today's experiences would reflect all the same, a child collapsed on the beach, broken and confused, senses taken from under her, everything spilling out, uncontrollably. The only difference was, Dee was an adult now, and it was not her that'd been found upon the shoreline.
The noise of commotion, her son calling out. She leaves the kitchen, approaches the sound. The captain would simply observe for a moment, unnatural for the other so quick to act, so quick to prioritize. But it was still so fresh, and actions were not so natural. And so she observes, taking in the scene, before finally deciding. She walks closer, to the side of her son, taking a better look at Georgia. "She doesn't look hurt," comes her voice calmly, softly. Still, a mother, still trying her hardest to keep everything together. "There's no need for panic. Keep her comfortable." Dee would instruct simply, looking to Paola and offering a nod. "She'll need water." There could be a number of things that'd caused the younger girl to go unconscious, and unfortunately she was not there to witness what any of those may be, and so she goes quiet, waiting for Deniz to answer Paola's question.
Re: I KNOW MY SOUL TALKS | breakdown + storm - michael t. - 08-26-2020
( tw ; brief mentions of child abuse in the first paragraph )
Michael was far from inexperienced with nightmares. Hell, nightmares were a large part of why he drank so much now, and spent so much time within the walls of the tavern. Unlike Georgia, his nightmares didn't involve killing a loving father, or panicking about his tragic death. No, the thief had never even had a father who care about him, so instead his nightmares were full of bad memories. Memories of shouting, and bottles thrown at his head, and hands gripping his neck. Sometimes it felt as though he could never escape the nightmares, and part of him was sure that if he was ever forced to see them in his waking hours, he'd fall apart. Usually only Trevor or Roxie were the ones who could rouse him from these unpleasant slumbers, where his face screwed up and his entire body shook with panic and fear. It was a feeling he had thought he had forgotten, from the moment his bat had hit skull. Unlike Georgia, the death of Michael's father had been a moment of triumph for him. Triumph over the man who had abused him for his entire life, and the man who had made him question everything, even well into his 30s. However, he never got to remember that part. Never got to dream about killing the bastard and running off with the love of his life. Instead, he was always forced to think about before that, when he had been nothing but a scared little kid.
He had been sitting at the bar, as usual, but not drinking. No, this time he had stopped in to see everyone, and to perhaps rope his sister into doing something fun with him for once. Of course, he said for once, but Roxie went out with him more than enough, he just really enjoyed those brief moments where the two of them could have some time away from their responsibilities. Unfortunately, the reaver hadn't been able to enjoy the calm white noise of the bar for long, considering someone came stumbling in before long. The black haired man hadn't heard at first, since Deniz's shout managed to hit his left ear – his unfortunately deaf one – perfectly. However, it wasn't long before one of the other patrons was shoving at him, trying to grab his attention as they pointed over towards the fireplace. He could hear him question his relationship with the girl who had just come in, evidently having noticed his odd fatherly streak. Turning a bit red, Michael turned his head to welcome Georgia in – only to freeze when he saw what was going on. His heart dropped down into his stomach, and he found himself slipping down from the barstool, immediately heading towards the pair. They were already being crowded, but the fugitive knew he needed to make sure Georgia was alright.
The male had definitely noticed the rather sudden storm that had come in with little warning, but he couldn't have possibly expected that it was Georgia who had done it. Yes, he had his own elementals, but he was no demi-god. He couldn't rain down the earth on top of others, and the thought of someone calling in such a thunderstorm was baffling to him. It was no wonder that she had passed out, even without the added knowledge that she had been tormented by forces unseen by most of the Typhoon. Michael shoved the thought of the storm from his mind as he went over, kneeling down nearby to Deniz. He winced at the lifeless form of Georgia in front of him, knowing that she was only unconscious. Despite that, he couldn't help the knot of anxiety that formed in his chest, and gripped throughout his entire body. It was so easy for unconscious to rapidly turn to dead, and Michael had just been beginning to like the kid. He couldn't forgive himself if she passed away, especially not so soon after they had just lost someone else.
Reaching a hand out, Michael pressed it very gently to Georgia's arm, wincing at the cold feel that her skin had to the touch. She had to have been out in the rain, obviously. Hopefully the fire would warm her fast enough, or they would have to get far more blankets. Turning his gaze towards Deniz, the thief had something that very rarely ever showed in his eyes – genuine worry. Even through all of his shortcomings and mistakes, Michael had come to see his fellow crew members as family, and that included Georgia. Swallowing the thick lump that had suddenly formed in his throat, he questioned Deniz softly, "Where did you find her...? Do you have any idea what happened to her?" He had a sneaking suspicion that not even Deniz truly knew what was going on, considering the clear panic that showed on the teenager's face. Then again, Michael couldn't blame the kid for being scared. How else were you supposed to react, when you found one of your friends passed out and soaking wet?
Michael was far from inexperienced with nightmares. Hell, nightmares were a large part of why he drank so much now, and spent so much time within the walls of the tavern. Unlike Georgia, his nightmares didn't involve killing a loving father, or panicking about his tragic death. No, the thief had never even had a father who care about him, so instead his nightmares were full of bad memories. Memories of shouting, and bottles thrown at his head, and hands gripping his neck. Sometimes it felt as though he could never escape the nightmares, and part of him was sure that if he was ever forced to see them in his waking hours, he'd fall apart. Usually only Trevor or Roxie were the ones who could rouse him from these unpleasant slumbers, where his face screwed up and his entire body shook with panic and fear. It was a feeling he had thought he had forgotten, from the moment his bat had hit skull. Unlike Georgia, the death of Michael's father had been a moment of triumph for him. Triumph over the man who had abused him for his entire life, and the man who had made him question everything, even well into his 30s. However, he never got to remember that part. Never got to dream about killing the bastard and running off with the love of his life. Instead, he was always forced to think about before that, when he had been nothing but a scared little kid.
He had been sitting at the bar, as usual, but not drinking. No, this time he had stopped in to see everyone, and to perhaps rope his sister into doing something fun with him for once. Of course, he said for once, but Roxie went out with him more than enough, he just really enjoyed those brief moments where the two of them could have some time away from their responsibilities. Unfortunately, the reaver hadn't been able to enjoy the calm white noise of the bar for long, considering someone came stumbling in before long. The black haired man hadn't heard at first, since Deniz's shout managed to hit his left ear – his unfortunately deaf one – perfectly. However, it wasn't long before one of the other patrons was shoving at him, trying to grab his attention as they pointed over towards the fireplace. He could hear him question his relationship with the girl who had just come in, evidently having noticed his odd fatherly streak. Turning a bit red, Michael turned his head to welcome Georgia in – only to freeze when he saw what was going on. His heart dropped down into his stomach, and he found himself slipping down from the barstool, immediately heading towards the pair. They were already being crowded, but the fugitive knew he needed to make sure Georgia was alright.
The male had definitely noticed the rather sudden storm that had come in with little warning, but he couldn't have possibly expected that it was Georgia who had done it. Yes, he had his own elementals, but he was no demi-god. He couldn't rain down the earth on top of others, and the thought of someone calling in such a thunderstorm was baffling to him. It was no wonder that she had passed out, even without the added knowledge that she had been tormented by forces unseen by most of the Typhoon. Michael shoved the thought of the storm from his mind as he went over, kneeling down nearby to Deniz. He winced at the lifeless form of Georgia in front of him, knowing that she was only unconscious. Despite that, he couldn't help the knot of anxiety that formed in his chest, and gripped throughout his entire body. It was so easy for unconscious to rapidly turn to dead, and Michael had just been beginning to like the kid. He couldn't forgive himself if she passed away, especially not so soon after they had just lost someone else.
Reaching a hand out, Michael pressed it very gently to Georgia's arm, wincing at the cold feel that her skin had to the touch. She had to have been out in the rain, obviously. Hopefully the fire would warm her fast enough, or they would have to get far more blankets. Turning his gaze towards Deniz, the thief had something that very rarely ever showed in his eyes – genuine worry. Even through all of his shortcomings and mistakes, Michael had come to see his fellow crew members as family, and that included Georgia. Swallowing the thick lump that had suddenly formed in his throat, he questioned Deniz softly, "Where did you find her...? Do you have any idea what happened to her?" He had a sneaking suspicion that not even Deniz truly knew what was going on, considering the clear panic that showed on the teenager's face. Then again, Michael couldn't blame the kid for being scared. How else were you supposed to react, when you found one of your friends passed out and soaking wet?
MICHAEL TOWNLEY-PHILLIPS - THE TYPHOON - REAVER
[sup]template made by tikki[/sup]Re: I KNOW MY SOUL TALKS | breakdown + storm - Seakit Roux. - 08-26-2020
IF MY LIFE IS GOING
TO MEAN ANYTHING,
I HAVE TO LIVE IT
MYSELF.
tiguar . young . he/him
demigod of the deep
demigod of the deep
Deniz was deaf to the world as the tavern broke into a tavern, his eyes constantly flickering across Georgia's prone form. Paola's questions fell on deaf ears, tears beginning to brim in the teenager's miscolored green eyes. It wasn't until his mother spoke that he was brought back to reality, head turning to face her for only a moment before returning to Geo, as if terrified something would happen while he wasn't watching.
He heard Michael approach but didn't turn to greet him. "I... I don' kno' what 'appened! I was just- I was just- huu." He took a deep breath, calming himself so he could properly explain. "I saw the storm rollin' in, you kno'? So ah was 'eaded to the 'ouse to close ever'thin' up so it wouldn't get soaked. WHen I.... I found 'er, I saw 'er on the beach." He ran a hand over his multi-colored hair, continuing to watch his friend with worry. Wiping the water on his hand onto the blanket, he proceeded to gently place it on the arm opposite the one Michael touched.
He spotted Paola from the corner of his eye and wondered when she had approached. Gently leaning to the side, he pressed their shoulders together in a form of comfort and reassurance. "I ah, I tried to get 'er here as quick as I could..." He spoke softly. "It was rainin' so 'ard and I didn't wanna drop 'er."
He heard Michael approach but didn't turn to greet him. "I... I don' kno' what 'appened! I was just- I was just- huu." He took a deep breath, calming himself so he could properly explain. "I saw the storm rollin' in, you kno'? So ah was 'eaded to the 'ouse to close ever'thin' up so it wouldn't get soaked. WHen I.... I found 'er, I saw 'er on the beach." He ran a hand over his multi-colored hair, continuing to watch his friend with worry. Wiping the water on his hand onto the blanket, he proceeded to gently place it on the arm opposite the one Michael touched.
He spotted Paola from the corner of his eye and wondered when she had approached. Gently leaning to the side, he pressed their shoulders together in a form of comfort and reassurance. "I ah, I tried to get 'er here as quick as I could..." He spoke softly. "It was rainin' so 'ard and I didn't wanna drop 'er."
Re: I KNOW MY SOUL TALKS | breakdown + storm - GEORGIA. - 08-26-2020
Georgia felt numb.
Terribly, horribly numb. She floated, listlessly, in her own mind, surrounded by the echoes of her father's death. Revolving in guilt. You killed him. You murdered him. Murderer, murderer, murderer. Krios's voice breathed against her skull. Or maybe, it was her own voice. Georgia did nothing to block it out - did nothing to stop the chill that slid down her spine. She deserved it, after all. No wonder she felt haunted all the time - her father's ghost clung to her, begging for a reason.
She wondered, idly, if he made it to Hades. If her mother saw to it that he settled in the lavish gardens of Elysium. Or perhaps Krios decided to torment him by banishing him to Asphodel...to wander endlessly, like he'd threatened to do to her.
She wished he had banished her. Georgia sank, numb, into nothing.
When she woke, it was with a startled gasp as she flung herself upright. The rain and wind howled outside; she could feel the vibration of the storm in her veins. The lightning pulsed with her heartbeat; the thunder rumbled with the tears that slid down her cheeks. It didn't matter to her where she was, or who was with her. There was a fire, forcing warmth into her skin. Her fingers scraped against worn, wooden flooring. The tavern.
She turned, expression utterly miserable, to the small group of people waiting there. Deniz, Paola, Demetra, Michael. Too many people. Her own ears roared with white noise, covering up the chatter of the tavern and hushed whispers of the patrons who stole suspicious glances of her. How did she tell them to leave? How did she ask for the worry in their faces to go away? She wiped at the tears on her cheeks, and drew her knees closer to her body, shifting towards the fire.
"You should have left me out there to die," Georgia said, quietly. Wistfully. Her voice was little more than a croak, her throat raw from screaming. None of them needed to know. They'd cast her out immediately. Her hands covered the leather cuffs that adorned her arms, rubbing them with so much pressure her thumb whitened. They had always been too big; they'd honestly fit better around her biceps. But they were her fathers, and he wore them on his wrists, so there they would stay.
Terribly, horribly numb. She floated, listlessly, in her own mind, surrounded by the echoes of her father's death. Revolving in guilt. You killed him. You murdered him. Murderer, murderer, murderer. Krios's voice breathed against her skull. Or maybe, it was her own voice. Georgia did nothing to block it out - did nothing to stop the chill that slid down her spine. She deserved it, after all. No wonder she felt haunted all the time - her father's ghost clung to her, begging for a reason.
She wondered, idly, if he made it to Hades. If her mother saw to it that he settled in the lavish gardens of Elysium. Or perhaps Krios decided to torment him by banishing him to Asphodel...to wander endlessly, like he'd threatened to do to her.
She wished he had banished her. Georgia sank, numb, into nothing.
When she woke, it was with a startled gasp as she flung herself upright. The rain and wind howled outside; she could feel the vibration of the storm in her veins. The lightning pulsed with her heartbeat; the thunder rumbled with the tears that slid down her cheeks. It didn't matter to her where she was, or who was with her. There was a fire, forcing warmth into her skin. Her fingers scraped against worn, wooden flooring. The tavern.
She turned, expression utterly miserable, to the small group of people waiting there. Deniz, Paola, Demetra, Michael. Too many people. Her own ears roared with white noise, covering up the chatter of the tavern and hushed whispers of the patrons who stole suspicious glances of her. How did she tell them to leave? How did she ask for the worry in their faces to go away? She wiped at the tears on her cheeks, and drew her knees closer to her body, shifting towards the fire.
"You should have left me out there to die," Georgia said, quietly. Wistfully. Her voice was little more than a croak, her throat raw from screaming. None of them needed to know. They'd cast her out immediately. Her hands covered the leather cuffs that adorned her arms, rubbing them with so much pressure her thumb whitened. They had always been too big; they'd honestly fit better around her biceps. But they were her fathers, and he wore them on his wrists, so there they would stay.
© LEXASPERATED
[align=left]
THE SEA WAVES ARE MY EVENING GOWN: