a push & a shove into oblivion.
Ghalia Zohr


Age: 32 | Height: 5'7" | Race: Accepted | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Torchline
Level: 0 - Strg: 5 - Dext: 7 - Endr: 8 - Luck: 15 - Int:
Played by: smitty Offline
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Posts: 1 | Total: 2
MP: 0
#1

It was calmness catapulted into chaos — and then more calm.

She had been there, in the entertaining bedchambers, waiting for whatever man had purchased her attentions for the evening. Usually, she was on the floors, giving her infamous daring stare to any who approached the Father with gold for her for the evening. But, as of late… her stare had fallen downwards, her fierce green eyes grown clouded and quiet.

So she had been sent upstairs to wait for the men (or rare woman). Those who came for Ghalia Zhor wanted a tempestuous inferno, not dying flame— best to hide the failing fire upstairs after the gold had already been collected.

Zhor waited, red silk clinging to long limbs and curved hips. A thin, dark yellow sash tied in a purposefully careless way around her waist. She leaned against the thick, opulent bedpost with her mass of mahogany hair hiding her shoulder and half her face. She watched her thick lower lip roll between her teeth in the mirror placed strategically at the foot of the bed.

Blank, green eyes stared back at her.

Eyes framed with thick lashes and pale skin and high cheek bones— her scarlet-nailed hand rose to her face. She watched it trace the circles beneath her eyes, hidden beneath layers of powder.

And then the door opened. Her ‘suitor’ for the night.

Her hand dropped, gracefully brushing open the red silk robe to expose a length of soft skin at her upper thigh. It was a practiced move, done absentmindedly. But all absentmindedness fled for stone-hard shock as her gaze swiveled from mirror to man.

Him. It was the man from her breaking night, the first to pay (an exorbitant) amount to lay between her legs.

A clenched jaw. A blink. A flare of flame behind that stare.

The swell of her chest moved quickly with a sharp inhale of breath—but the man (apparently) had no time for such subtleties. ‘Quickly,’ he had said, long strides bringing him across the boudoir to her, ‘Now, before anyone can follow.’

He had paused only once, when his dark and callused hand closed around the soft and slender skin of her upper arm. His dark eyes looked down at where they touched, then glanced up into her (now bewildered, though still sharp) gaze.

‘I’m sorry. Sorry for—’ he faltered. Then, roughly, he drug her to the mirror, and pushed her through it.



She stumbled forward on ground that wasn’t quite ground, red slippered feet barely catching herself from a tumble forward. Her head jerked up, thick curls flying back as a wide green gaze darted around. “What—?” A rush of air left her as a single-worded question, eyes narrowing at the signpost that stood dilapidated before her.

Eleven — yes, eleven, she counted —signs were on it. But she could read only five: ‘Greatwood, Halo, Torchline,’ and ‘Draig Cordillera.’

Her head cocked slightly to the side, weight shifting on between her hips as she glanced in each direction. “I’m certainly not ’Halo’ed,” she murmured quietly, a wry smile tugging at the corner of one of her lips, “And ’Draig Cord’—” her husky voice fumbled over the word as she shook her head no, she didn’t like the sound of the place.

Ghalia’s jaw clenched as she immediately turned away from ‘The Greatwood.’ She had had enough of men’s greatness in Uumalah.

“Torchline,” she whispered, then took a purposeful stride in the direction the sign pointed. A glimmer of warm sunlight and lapping waves. Another step brought a murky outline of a ship, another brought the smell of brine, and another a lash of warm sea spray wind across her curls.

And then she was running. Running towards (supposedly) freedom — or, at least, running away from that life on the other side of the mirror.

Then her slippered feet found found purchase from the Portal’s non-ground to the suddenly slatted wood of a dock. A dock? A dock filled with people—too many people. Too much noise, too much smoke, too much smell of rotting fish, too many quick-fingered children darting from purse to purse.

Too much like the streets of Uumalah. And Ghalia, despite her excitement to escape, was — in that moment — overwhelmed by the magnitude of all of it.

Chest heaving, gaze flying around the busy dock of the bustling port she had suddenly found herself in, she searched for a quiet corner, a slice of solitude—large green eyes expertly avoiding any lewd looks from men at her boudoir-apparel.

There, not too far from the dock stood, was a small stretch of sand. It was no luxurious beach for sunbathing, but it was quiet and empty.

Clumsily, due to attempting to keep her silk nightgown around her, she climbed down from the dock. Long legs reached her slippered toes towards the rocks directly below the peer. Clambering over the wave-breaking boulders, she managed to mostly shred her slippers, soak the hem of her robe, and open a superficial (though still bleeding) gash in her right palm.

But she paid all this no mind, instead sinking seated into the sand. She pulled her knees to her chest, burying her torn shoes and raw toes into the dry, warm sand. Now-chipped scarlet painted nails interlaced as she closed them around her bent legs, robe falling open to expose them. She winced only once as her scraped palm brushed against the skin of her limbs. Eyes stared out over her knees at the horizon and low-lying sun.

“Free,” she whispered, the buffeting breeze ripping the word from her lips before she could even hear it.

“Free.”

This time, the word was stated. Firmly. Not whispered. Not asked.

“Free.” Again, stated, this time with a nod and the smallest of smiles curving the corner of her mouth.


ooc| so it's a lot longer than anticipated. First time really writing a human :D so I had a lot to figure out! So no need to match length D:

TL;DR version: she gets on the dock through a portal, climbs on some rocks to get a small dingy beach, cuts her hand and shreds her shoes. She dgaf. It's heading towards sunset.
ghalia zohr
of the sun & moon, choose the horizon
Maea Valair
Hollowed Grounds Ambassador / Loreseeker

Age: 29 | Height: 156 cm / 5'1 ft | Race: Ancient | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Hollowed Grounds
Level: 2 - Strg: 22 - Dext: 22 - Endr: 25 - Luck: 20 - Int:
Played by: Chan Offline
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Posts: 3,025 | Total: 5,767
MP: 1897
#2
Maea
And I hope that you don't suffer
But take the pain
Humming quietly to herself, a young woman came wondering down the beach. A ragged black shawl had been worn over her head at one point, but it had been pushed back to hang loosely about thin shoulders. Similarly, restless fingers hand combed through the moon-bright seafoam hair, undoing soft silk from the braid to drift and dance upon the wind. Aside from the skin, marble pale and matching the simple white dress tangling about her legs, there was nothing remarkable about her. A bit short, perhaps. Rather wistful looking, for all that the song the sang was sweet; some lullaby or other, a melody she couldn't recall the origins of.

"Lavender's blue, dilly dilly
Lavender's green...
"


Her eyes, pale and of indistinct color - blue, gray, purple? - moved with easy lack of interest over the pretty woman who sat curled up in her path. Walked right by her, in fact, just offering a slightly wide berth around her to not intrude... and Maea would have kept going if her gaze hadn't fallen on crimson drops in the sand. Blood? Following their path, she turned, tracing them back to the woman...

"Are you hurt?" she asked, pausing. A slight note of concern seeping through a face and voice that tried to remain calm, collected... But she had never been good at hiding her emotions.
Hope if everybody runs
You choose to stay
♦ Violence, magic, thievery is permitted with Maea at all times. DM me if you have any ideas ♦


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