Site Wide Event Where Angels Fear to Tread
Sarya Daemenor
Thief / Assassin

Age: 27 | Height: 5'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship:
Level: 0 - Strg: 8 - Dext: 10 - Endr: 12 - Luck: 6 - Int:
Played by: Rayo Offline
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Posts: 15 | Total: 19
MP: 0
#71

text. "talk"
Sarya opened her eyes.

The prison in which she had been sleeping was dark, dank, cold. It was a place of fear - the stench of blood, sweat, and vomit had permeated the very stones. She had not bee afraid, exactly. She'd been resigned. She had been betrayed, as she'd known she would be one day. She'd been warned, time and again. Perhaps she should have left. Perhaps she should have betrayed him first. Then she wouldn't have been caught, surrounded by more troops that she could fight. It wasn't that she hadn't believed Cyran. She knew he would betray her one day. Perhaps she'd thought it wouldn't be so soon. Perhaps she hadn't really cared.

It didn't matter now, though. This place in which she had opened her eyes was nothing like the prison. It was grey, but lighter, an outdoors kind of grey that breathed freedom into Sarya's prone body. The air tasted of ashes. Sarya spat as she stood, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. The sudden movement made the blood rush from her head, and she swayed in place, her right foot shifting on the sandy terrain to catch her balance.

She was not alone. Her brown eyes warily took in a number of others, all looking as dazed and confused as she herself. There was a sense in her belly of no return, an odd, silent slamming of a door, as though she could never return to the life she'd once lived. Fine by me, she thought. I didn't want to die there, anyway. It wasn't the truth, but it wasn't a lie. She'd been rather neutral about the thought of death. Perhaps death for her would lead to a better life in the next reality, or at least a different life.

Was that what this was? A different life?

She shook her head to clear it, masses of wavy brown hair tumbling around her face. The world that she faced now was desolate, broken, ruined. The only life she could see was that which stirred around her. As she watched, a few new bodies appeared as though from nowhere, surprising her enough to arch one thin brow. Perhaps this was death, after all. Or the life after. But she'd never know the truth, and did it even matter?  She was here now, one way or another. May as well make the most of it.

Out of habit, Sarya stretched, her arms reaching into the sky, her chest thrusting forward as she arched her back, rising onto her tiptoes. Surprisingly, she was fully clothed. The guards had taken most of her things when they'd thrown her in her cell, but here she was, with her full-sleeved, grey silk tunic beneath a black leather vest; her loose, comfortable breeches; and even her soft, knee-high boots. A pocket sewn into her vest contained her prized hair pin, a gilded piece with a hidden blade. Her knives were strapped to her wrists and tucked into her boots. The largest hung from her belt, as though it had never been taken.  Odd. But she'd never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

She'd been given a new life, and she wasn't about to waste it.

Sarya Daemenor
so the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing


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