08-07-2018, 11:33 PM
[align=center][div style="borderwidth=0px; text-align: justify; width: 65%; font-family: verdana; font-size: 11px;"]" ... And now it comes back in angry floods spilling down her cheeks"
An angry flood had always been in her destiny. It was carved into her bones, written behind her eyes, always within her, but out of sight. When the day came, she allowed it. She allowed the terror and the destruction, the wallow between the willows, the utter despair. The screams of torture, the last gasps of breath before they bubbled away below the surface. The sounds of her people dying ... always a muted ringing in her ears.
She knew she would always be a slave to her mistakes. Every wrong step, each single word she wished she could bite back down, they would always be lashing out, reaching for her, striking her and bruising her until eventually there would be nothing left, just ashes to blow away to the wind. She feared her judgement day, never truly knowing where she stood amongst the goddesses and gods. The water gods had been left scorned by her mother, when she rejected the religion and sought for the approval of the earth gods. In an instant, a group of people, devoted to the water, turned their backs on the only steady thing they had.
Fischer’s gaze never strayed though, never glanced away for a moment from the powerful Nereides and her children. They were meant to be her saviors, her protectors, her masters above all. And how were they supposed to know she was still loyal. Her, of all of the water nymphs, of all of their followers. For Fischer was the child with the tainted blood. Her father ... her father was the tainted god, Hydris. He’d once been the husband of Nereides, the mother goddess, but he turned to hell, he ran dirt and blood and spoil through the waters of the land with a single touch. He had taken his mother, precious and loving, and spun her into his web. Bore his tarnished legacy, brought her to greedy power, made her leader, and had her backstab Nereides. It was merciless ... why was she so suprised that when she bled, she bled brown, black? That’s how she knew she should always be afraid of death, because they would all be waiting to take her, to judge her.
She hadn’t bled since she died and breathed life into her new form, and she feared the sight of the murky liquid, the messenger for all of her sins.
So she was feeling lifeless in the moment, feeling her fate was murky and dark ahead. Things had felt so right when she became a Soothsayer, and she still felt happy, but she wasn’t getting too comfortable. The last time that had happened, the gods had wanted a sacrifice from her. It was this blend of paranoia and dread that kept her up, swinging on the hammock in her shack. Really having a 2am staring at the ceiling moment, but eternally hanging in her head, in darkness. But Fischer is stirred, there’s this sound that cuts between her ears and splits her thoughts away to only one point.
Vandal. Is that Vandal? And there’s this sort of mumbling, but it’s sharp, crisp, but muffled and rounded by soft, short breaths. Sobs. Is she crying? There’s a part of her that doesn’t want to check, that hopes it’s just the trick of her mind, or that it’s the sound of laughing, but it’s persistent, and between the constant sound of the waves crashing it never subsides, it rises above all else. Before she makes a decision in her mind, her body, and her heart, and making it for her. The black smoke comes looming out of the doorway, sniffing into the cold air of the night, searching for any sign of Vandal’s presence. There’s this swirling in her stomach now because she’s beginning to get a grasp on the situation a little better. Vandal, so distant lately, so out of touch ... now crying, by herself. It means something to her, enough to quicken her pace along the trail she’s picked up.
And then the blend of ripe mangoes, supple and tangy, and the sea salt, rough and grounding, with the lingering of smouldering smoke ... it comes all together and Fischer knows she’s only a few steps from Vandal. The scent can almost make her sick, because it’s so familiar and sweet but the bitterness of tears ... it makes her nauseous, the tears. Fischer never said anything, that night, not to let her presence be known, because she knew it didn’t matter. In her heart, deep down, she was thinking, more like hoping, Vandal knew that she would’ve been there that night, no matter what stood in her way. For her, always. It was a thought that rooted Fischer into a place she hadn’t ever been before in a long time. She hadn’t cared for someone so deeply as she did for Vandal since the death of little Fintan, or the betrayal of her mother.
”Breathe ...” That’s what she says, inching up beside the maned wolf. Her willowy fur brushes against Vandal’s as she flanks her, trying to nestle somewhere just beside her. She knows she isn’t the one to be able to swallow her frame up to embrace her, to hold her fully, she knows that’s not her role, but Fischer at least wants her to feel some warmth, some humanity. ”Listen and ... and feel me breathe, and ...” Fischer is barely whispering, chin tilted to speak into the others ear. It’s to connect to Vandal, to get her focus for a moment, for she makes up for what she’s lost now that she can’t maintain eye contact. ”And ... be free ...” It’s a ardent way to tell the other to just let it out, to not hold back the tears she’s trying to banish. Without her sight, as much as she’s trying to communicate, sometimes it just feels like she’s always talking to herself ... and even more so now than ever. In the fragile moment ... Fischer begins to cry too, her breathing still steady, but beaded and laced with strings of sharp inhales and a wet face of tears.
ooc | i am,,, so late to replying,, please forgive me father
An angry flood had always been in her destiny. It was carved into her bones, written behind her eyes, always within her, but out of sight. When the day came, she allowed it. She allowed the terror and the destruction, the wallow between the willows, the utter despair. The screams of torture, the last gasps of breath before they bubbled away below the surface. The sounds of her people dying ... always a muted ringing in her ears.
She knew she would always be a slave to her mistakes. Every wrong step, each single word she wished she could bite back down, they would always be lashing out, reaching for her, striking her and bruising her until eventually there would be nothing left, just ashes to blow away to the wind. She feared her judgement day, never truly knowing where she stood amongst the goddesses and gods. The water gods had been left scorned by her mother, when she rejected the religion and sought for the approval of the earth gods. In an instant, a group of people, devoted to the water, turned their backs on the only steady thing they had.
Fischer’s gaze never strayed though, never glanced away for a moment from the powerful Nereides and her children. They were meant to be her saviors, her protectors, her masters above all. And how were they supposed to know she was still loyal. Her, of all of the water nymphs, of all of their followers. For Fischer was the child with the tainted blood. Her father ... her father was the tainted god, Hydris. He’d once been the husband of Nereides, the mother goddess, but he turned to hell, he ran dirt and blood and spoil through the waters of the land with a single touch. He had taken his mother, precious and loving, and spun her into his web. Bore his tarnished legacy, brought her to greedy power, made her leader, and had her backstab Nereides. It was merciless ... why was she so suprised that when she bled, she bled brown, black? That’s how she knew she should always be afraid of death, because they would all be waiting to take her, to judge her.
She hadn’t bled since she died and breathed life into her new form, and she feared the sight of the murky liquid, the messenger for all of her sins.
So she was feeling lifeless in the moment, feeling her fate was murky and dark ahead. Things had felt so right when she became a Soothsayer, and she still felt happy, but she wasn’t getting too comfortable. The last time that had happened, the gods had wanted a sacrifice from her. It was this blend of paranoia and dread that kept her up, swinging on the hammock in her shack. Really having a 2am staring at the ceiling moment, but eternally hanging in her head, in darkness. But Fischer is stirred, there’s this sound that cuts between her ears and splits her thoughts away to only one point.
Vandal. Is that Vandal? And there’s this sort of mumbling, but it’s sharp, crisp, but muffled and rounded by soft, short breaths. Sobs. Is she crying? There’s a part of her that doesn’t want to check, that hopes it’s just the trick of her mind, or that it’s the sound of laughing, but it’s persistent, and between the constant sound of the waves crashing it never subsides, it rises above all else. Before she makes a decision in her mind, her body, and her heart, and making it for her. The black smoke comes looming out of the doorway, sniffing into the cold air of the night, searching for any sign of Vandal’s presence. There’s this swirling in her stomach now because she’s beginning to get a grasp on the situation a little better. Vandal, so distant lately, so out of touch ... now crying, by herself. It means something to her, enough to quicken her pace along the trail she’s picked up.
And then the blend of ripe mangoes, supple and tangy, and the sea salt, rough and grounding, with the lingering of smouldering smoke ... it comes all together and Fischer knows she’s only a few steps from Vandal. The scent can almost make her sick, because it’s so familiar and sweet but the bitterness of tears ... it makes her nauseous, the tears. Fischer never said anything, that night, not to let her presence be known, because she knew it didn’t matter. In her heart, deep down, she was thinking, more like hoping, Vandal knew that she would’ve been there that night, no matter what stood in her way. For her, always. It was a thought that rooted Fischer into a place she hadn’t ever been before in a long time. She hadn’t cared for someone so deeply as she did for Vandal since the death of little Fintan, or the betrayal of her mother.
”Breathe ...” That’s what she says, inching up beside the maned wolf. Her willowy fur brushes against Vandal’s as she flanks her, trying to nestle somewhere just beside her. She knows she isn’t the one to be able to swallow her frame up to embrace her, to hold her fully, she knows that’s not her role, but Fischer at least wants her to feel some warmth, some humanity. ”Listen and ... and feel me breathe, and ...” Fischer is barely whispering, chin tilted to speak into the others ear. It’s to connect to Vandal, to get her focus for a moment, for she makes up for what she’s lost now that she can’t maintain eye contact. ”And ... be free ...” It’s a ardent way to tell the other to just let it out, to not hold back the tears she’s trying to banish. Without her sight, as much as she’s trying to communicate, sometimes it just feels like she’s always talking to herself ... and even more so now than ever. In the fragile moment ... Fischer begins to cry too, her breathing still steady, but beaded and laced with strings of sharp inhales and a wet face of tears.
ooc | i am,,, so late to replying,, please forgive me father
[align=center][div style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 12.6px; letter-spacing: 1.6px; line-height: 100%; text-transform: uppercase"]
ain't it a gentle sound the rolling in the grave
[size=8pt]ain't it like thunder under earth the sound it makes ⋆ tags
ain't it a gentle sound the rolling in the grave
[size=8pt]ain't it like thunder under earth the sound it makes ⋆ tags