fears, shmears - Printable Version +- Court of the Fallen (https://cotf-rpg.com) +-- Forum: Out of Character (https://cotf-rpg.com/forumdisplay.php?fid=26) +--- Forum: Important (https://cotf-rpg.com/forumdisplay.php?fid=27) +---- Forum: Archives (https://cotf-rpg.com/forumdisplay.php?fid=38) +---- Thread: fears, shmears (/showthread.php?tid=528) |
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fears, shmears - Wessex - 01-30-2019
RE: fears, shmears - Ronin - 02-02-2019 Ronin stood before the start of the Bone Bridge, remembering how he and Zariah had walked across it once. The guildmaster turned the collar of his coat up to ward off a sharp winter breeze, the movement causing the dragonling that sheltered against his neck to chirp appreciatively. A frown flickered across his face, Ronin burying his hands in deep pockets - he wore his gauntlet on his left hand, as he had done since receiving it from Safrin, but he had foregone the Snakebite today. The last time he'd used it, he... it hadn't felt good, put it that way. About to set foot upon the bridge to see if he would be able to walk farther than he had done last time, Ronin paused at the sound of... humming. Quiet, repetitive. He turned to glance over his shoulder to see a figure he half recognised. Wessex had fought off demonic gourds with him in the Glade. He was also reasonably sure she had shot him in the arm (the limb was still bandaged - another reason for not wearing his clawed glove). But that was neither here nor there. What caused him to really stop and stare was the sight of Krosis strapped to her back, the claymore instantly recognisable. [say]"Hello,"[/say] he called, more to make sure his presence was known than as an actual greeting. RE: fears, shmears - Melita - 02-02-2019 M E L I T A
Her boldness was a lifeline, tethered straight into her raw, untamed ichor, claiming substance and sinew in breaths, in cycles, in minuets poised, prosed, by her reckless ambitions. Underneath all her aspirations, the girl felt justified in her impetuous endeavors, finding a specific branch, sharpening it with a tiny knife, whittling at its edges until it presented a rough-hewn spear. The makeshift weapon would be suitable for light hunting, hopefully, with a dabble into some staff machinations – maybe she could practice along the outskirts, or near the eerie bridge. Fangorn had all but grimaced and hissed at it, but he was partial to staying well out of danger (it was what caused him to survive after all; he hadn’t been amongst the vicious gourds attacking inhabitants, he’d stuck to the plains of brush and thorns). While she worked, a hum on her lips, the sun clinging to her crimson, tangled tresses, the world her battlefield, her making, her choosing, she could hear another’s trill; softer, like the breeze, like the embodiment of the wind, of the rain, and she stopped what she was doing. Melita had only ceased for a second or two; she was an exercise in constancy, in motion, in how many forces she could crush, in how many blades she could thrust. Then she followed, much like a predator, a curious, inquisitive animal, too foolish, too intrigued, for its own good; sliding behind rocks and crags, managing to manifest interest with audacious splendor, noting the overpass’s porcelain edges gleaming (and the usual questions circled her mind: how had they managed to be there? What monsters had been slain? Why?), and the outline of a familiar figure, daring and auspicious. Wessex: the reincarnated blade. Melita had been amongst the counsel, the strange gathering where those of worth had informed anyone and everyone of what had occurred, the spire monster lurking, treacherous and deadly, and Wessex’s ultimate demise. The honeybee girl had been shocked at first – then eager, fervent, to take up arms, to avenge a known, fallen inhabitant, because that was how she was, how she existed, between vengeance and upheaval, ardent in her part against the wars, the cruelty, the vehemence lurking amidst enigmas and warrens. She’d been disheartened too, for the warrioress had proffered an opportunity to learn - and to have it spurned, taken away from her before she’d even had a chance to collect on the lessons, had been brutal and scalding. The youth would’ve been lying if some rapacious, covetous, greedy little mercenary bit of her hadn’t frowned at the notion; but it’d been split hairs moments later, when the shield maiden walked into the threshold as if nothing was the matter. It’d been utterly baffling; but a demonstration of her power, of her tenacity, of her abilities. Melita saw it as a reflection of persistence and brawn – wanted to become just as potent, just as deadly, just as sure. She grabbed her makeshift spear and followed. Fangorn bounded behind her, and with a mighty bellow, the youth announced her presence well before they arrived, meters away: “Wessex! I’ve come to learn!” She held her spear aloft, as if it were something grand and lethal, instead of marred by knots and worn fibers, jubilant and exultant, one of those imps no one could ever truly be rid of. As the pair maneuvered their way across, another wandered into the clearing, recognizable but without a name etched in Melita’s psyche; but she didn’t waste the chance for further introductions (and on a closer look, she noticed that he was one of those who’d presented the noteworthy information). The girl rested her spear against her shoulder, and extended the hand not occupied by weaponry towards the man. “Hello! I’m Melita!” RE: fears, shmears - Wessex - 02-24-2019
RE: fears, shmears - Ronin - 02-25-2019 Ronin turned at the sound of another voice, smiling automatically as Melita came bounding towards him. [say]"Oh! Hello, Melita. I'm Ronin - I believe we met when we were building the perch for the Spark Bird?"[/say] At least he hoped the fiery haired girl had been the one he had seen. Else his faux pas would be obvious - ah, well. Too late to take it back now. He took Melita's hand in a warm, firm grip, shaking it and glancing up at the sound of Luckily for the Ascended, Ronin was rather busy being shot at the time of her... er, shooting him, and even the clues and descriptions given to him by others there were vague memories at best. [say]"Oh, is this training?"[/say] His smile turned crooked - a former captain of that very thing, he found himself feeling very much excited to participate. Letting Melita make her choice, he glanced again at the sword on Wessex's back. [say]"If it isn't too forward, may I ask where you came across that?"[/say] RE: fears, shmears - Melita - 02-25-2019 M E L I T A
Even if Wessex hadn’t permitted to join them, not much would’ve stopped the girl. Her determination and intentions were stalwart and gutsy, someone driven by whatever means or pursuits necessary, someone who’d had a multitude of things taken from them, someone whose grasp was tight and strong, persevering despite her winsome smile and her whimsical nature. Her attention diverted to Ronin first, whom she’d apparently failed to recognize (ridiculous she thought to herself, but she’d been so caught up in the sway of poles, logs, the strength and regard for birds who erupted into flames). She bowed over her slight, bending her head and shaking it, all the ringlets pulsing with vivid fire and ease of temper. “Oh, of course! My apologies! Nice to meet you again!” Her gilded eyes flicked over him once or twice, committing his face and form solidly to memory this time – returning the shake with equal measure and gusto. When Ronin inquired about possible training, she brightened again, never down or pushed aside for long, breath quickening in the excitement, in the possibility, of gaining precision and might. The girl was drawn to all depths of danger and power; wanted it all, every ounce, in order to protect and guard what was hers – it was simplistic enough, but after her childhood, the roughened edges of youth, Melita had only become more insistent on waltzing straight into hazard and peril, defending those who couldn’t manage on their own. “I hope so!” Her smile took on an impish, devil-may-care quality, as if she’d conjured and recalled it from all the other fiends and cretins she’d met along the way. Then, at Ronin’s inquiry, her eyes ghosted too to the sword strapped to Wessex’s back; a fine piece of craftwork, quite unlike her roughly-hewn spear. Perhaps he wanted one as well, and who could blame him – the weapon was lovely and deadly, a perfect combination for the rumors circulating around monsters, demons, and Long Nights. She tilted her head in curiosity, for she wanted to know (everything and anything; the best qualities). Per Wessex’s suggestion, suddenly things were in Melita’s control. As the youngest, and likely most immature, though not without a fair amount of bestial, barbaric, chaotic experience, it probably wasn’t the safest, wisest measure. Moments left up to the honeybee child often ended up torn, broken, damaged, and frayed at her impetuous, impulsive tendencies, flames and daggers prospered from foolish enterprises, more bruises and wounds than truly required or necessary. Her eyes still whispered and ghosted over the bone bridge though, the width was clearly not enough for all three of them, then she pondered over strengths, nuances, those who knew about this earth and plain. If this was a test though, she’d likely failed. Fangorn rolled his enigmatic gaze around while her fingers stroked at her chin. “Well, we could have you go first, RE: fears, shmears - Wessex - 02-27-2019
Melita RE: fears, shmears - Ronin - 02-28-2019 [say]"No apology needed,"[/say] Ronin assured Melita, simply glad that he'd not mistaken her for someone else. A smile still on his lips, he turned his attention back to Roana didn't seem the sort to bargain something like Krosis, but... who was he to know the details? [say]"Its previous owner must have been crushed to lose it,"[/say] he remarked instead, then wisely fell silent so they could discuss tactics. He was glad that the Ascended had pointed out that it would be wiser to have the least experienced in the centre, but Ronin hadn't known, really, what Melita was capable of. Either way, he didn't mind leading one bit, grinning at the two women and giving an easy shrug. [say]"Sure,"[/say] he said, already stepping onto the bridge. [say]"Not that I think the mist will make it easy going, whatever we decide. But I'm happy to try and spot things before they come up. Not that I want us to encounter anything, necessarily."[/say] RE: fears, shmears - Melita - 02-28-2019 M E L I T A
I won it sounded phenomenal; and Melita was instantly full of questions again, a roaring, tumbling hive of bustling inquiries. Where had she received such a prize? How did she acquire it? Had it been a competition? Were they holding another one soon? The ravenous, covetous contortions in her soul fueled the fire, but then were held in check by the layers, by the undertones, in Ronin’s response. She tilted her head, curious all the more, attempting to decipher all the lacquer in between, but everything moved on quickly (purposefully, she narrowed her eyes and speculated; Fangorn’s stare furrowed in the same instance). Her first lesson, likely one of the many to come, encountered a bristling faction in her membrane. Her initial instinct was to seethe, because Wessex had no idea of what the child had experienced. She’d survived the descent of Helovia, the shadows, the death waves and knells, the outcries and bedlam; only to continue enduring hardship after hardship, agony after agony, anguish after anguish, along the Rift’s chambers. The crackling kingdom’s anthem and banners had been dipped, etched, and stitched in the seams of kill or be killed, hunt or be hunted. She’d been in the grip of acrimony and vehemence, had come out on the other side, had remained despite the scars, the nightmares, the quandaries and destruction, because of her ability to withstand, because she looked danger in the face and opened her arms. Did that count for something? Or had she measured her, sized her up, simply due to her youth? She fought the urge to huff, to pout, to begin growling or roaring in distaste, crying out against the injustice. You don’t know what I can do. But as her gaze swept over the older individuals, who had likely seen just as much, if not more, of the world’s intertwining treacheries. Maybe they’d slayed more monsters. Maybe they’d survived more wars. Maybe they’d acquired skills, tactics, and precision she’d yet to even dream of. So the girl was forced to merely nod, and not shove her chin out in defiance, in sedition, in revolutionary habit. She reined it in, attempting not to pulse the insurgent tendencies throughout her fiery essence, and swallowing down the barbs, quills, and thorns piercing her tongue. The honeybee child nodded towards both of them, accepting the order, shouldering her spear once more, ready to embark into bones and mist. Melita didn’t ask why RE: fears, shmears - Wessex - 03-08-2019
RE: fears, shmears - Ronin - 03-13-2019 Ronin listened intently to Hopefully that counted for something. [say]"Once there was a... creature, here, I suppose you could call it. With a box. It asked questions and gave strange rewards - I'm not sure if either of you were there for it. But it hasn't been seen since, so I'm not sure I could say we're likely to encounter it here, per say."[/say] The mist was thick, near impenetrable, and Ronin sighed and waved a hand to engage his light ring. Around them a halo of soft gold aided their sight somewhat. [say]"Has anyone ever been to the other side?"[/say] RE: fears, shmears - Melita - 03-13-2019 M E L I T A
The impudence and rebellious thoughts billowed away from her; eternally mercurial and tempestuous, one moment a storm, the next a blossom – attention riveted on the tale Ronin even had an encounter, and she captured that into her mindset too, Fangorn bounding dutifully behind her, not a sound made despite his penchant for hissing, growling, and grumbling. Perhaps he understood the nature of the danger, the treachery, the probability of impending, ominous maneuvers too. A creature with a box sounded intriguing; offering rewards, proffering gifts. Would one have to do something to earn these things, or was it merely if it captured an essence, saw a presence? Was it crooked and cruel, or was it weary and kind? She’d had her fair share of both – the former with all the twists, turns, calamities, and injustices, the gods of her homeland ripped apart, torn, and disassembled with chicanery and blight. All Melita could do was shake her head, ignorant to everything except those experiences from before, and she suddenly wished she had a story to share, a legend to unravel. But in a way, she did, and though she hadn’t yet repeated it to anyone, and the demon was highly unlikely to come swarming out of the mist (though she wouldn’t be surprised, Kaos had his own way of consuming everyone), the youth wanted to be a part of the glory, of the triumph, of the passing of sagacity and sparks. The honeybee girl wanted them to know she’d seen things, that she wasn’t totally lost in the bounty of ignorance, that she’d survived just like they had, scarred and brutalized. “In my homeland, there was a monster who could raise the dead. When someone begged and pleaded for their loved ones to return, he obliged.” She hid the passing shudder roaming through her, the aching memory of those cherished beings rising from the water, never quite the same. They’d been wrath and contempt, anguish and suffering, embroiled to commit atrocious acts on the beings they’d once been devoted to. “But they weren’t the creatures we’d loved – they were angry, upset, that they could no longer rest. They attacked.” The youth ended her story there, didn’t explain the long, jagged, scar down her back (lightning; puckered, a burnt crisp of skin that told an infinite tale of determination, shielding, terror, and torture), and looked out across the fog again, breathing into the abyss. “Could something like that live here too?” She dared not be afraid of the answer; of catacombs opening and wraiths roaming, of false gods who wove their tenacity and deceit straight into blood and violence. |