((I had so much fun with this one, http://www.rp-haven.com/blog/lilliana/perchance_dream that I felt a throwback was in due order. A perversion of it, if you will.))
Nothing, no one...
They all stood at a distance now, those masked people that had so enjoyed the dance.
The chestnut-haired elf in the elegant dress glanced around hurriedly at those gathered.
The tempo was heart-breakingly frantic, as she was swallowed by the crowd suddenly. They pressed, and writhed against her...all these nameless, face-less bodies. The dragon's maw here, a frog there, and a gnoll next to a grim fairy.
The dark-plated paladin...he'd left her here alone, hadn't he?
Some days were better than others.
Other days seemed perfectly fine until the very moment they suddenly spiraled out of control. Like the morning he saw the woman in the Exchange…
It shouldn’t have surprised me. I could still feel Kharris’s eyes. The usually playful sparkling hue was flat and serious. Angry even. Hell, I even knew why.
Because I had used Iloam.
Soooooooo..... maybe I could have done things differently. I should have figured out someone else to use to cleanse the corrupted soulstone. So maybe there were pieces of decay and voices of the past lurking in the bottom of that oily stone. But they are fucking crazy, if they think for a second; I was sticking that putrescent vile stone that smelled like another warlock in my ex-husband.
Jericho may not be mine now, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t kill everyone in that room to protect him.
Iloam was strong. He could take it.
So why the hell was it Kharris’s eyes that I saw as I walked away from the scene.
That flicker of suspicion.
I stood on the porch of my cabin in Winterspring. Little did I care for company. The incessant ramblings of the voices coming through my com would normally have driven me to turn it off.
I merely tuned it out instead.
The snow drifted down from the sky lazily, as if it didn't care about anything, as if it weren't in a rush at all. I felt like the snow. I had no cares. My hands rested on the railing of the porch, looking out over the woods. They were blanketed in white. I never really noticed the quiet that comes with snow. As if it sedates and drowns out everything it touches.
Silvermoon is swarmin' with 'em.
It wears a man out.
Thing is, they're all the same eventually: blonde, brunette, red-head, raven-haired...short, tall, voluptuous, petite.
The foyer is as I remember it and I recover from the disorientation of translocation by dusting at my skirts and looking around. Hesitating. Stalling. I can’t breathe, but I pretend. I finally start across the small guest lounge to the bedroom door, fingers tucking at my hair and smoothing over my clothes. My bangles chime when I knock.
There’s no time. Now. Now. NOW. I can hear movement beyond. The door is not locked. Both of my hands are on the latch and it swings open from my weight where I lean. “Iloam?” There is a high note to my voice, though it comes out soft. I’m so scared part of me wants to bolt. But what am I scared of? It had been building: I needed to see him. To reassure myself. I was worried for him and he would tell me nothing when I’d asked. Fluttering uncertainty felt like a bird trapped in my breast. Seeing him was the only way to try to understand. The only way to move past the trapped feeling of worry and keep it from moving into panic.
((After over a week of fiddling, cold medicine induced haze, and personal real life unexpected happenings, I finally have to just post without it being what I want it to be. It was also MASSIVE, so I've split it into two, again. Apologies. This RP happened a bit ago, and I hope it's not too confusing with 'newer' blogs out.))
It had not been long since she had seen him, and just as it was on Day of the Dead: the tiny spirit hovered silently just out of reach. He was never very far from her, but she could never touch him, no matter how her heart or hands stretched. She knew from experience.
The candles continued to flicker, as if exposed to a breeze, though the air was still. Between the rapt dancer and spirit something … sang. The air was quiet, and there were no words and or sound, but there was rising melody of spirit as their souls resonated. Somedays, she swore she could hear their song, even in silence.
Guilt and pain rolled through Kharris again and her hands hung listlessly in her lap as she stared unblinking up at the dazzling manifestation of her son’s soul, and everything else in the world slid away. For an instant. For forever.
"He's weak," the tattooed gypsy woman corrected with a cold, but satisfied, tone.
"He's found ways to chase us off temporarily at times, but we have others to attend to as well."
Dwarven curses are heavy; the weight of them on your tongue, then bursting through the air makes you feel like you are punching someone in the gut. Very satisfying, Kharris looked down at the potted plant that had seemingly flung itself off its expensive stand. The vision was macabre: dirt and a ceramic shards scattered as if imitation life’s blood pooling, fronds and leaves grasping across the plush carpet, and roots exposed here and there in pale hues that brought bones to mind. The pot had narrowly missed crushing her toes as its flight across the room had ended. It was no accident, though no one visible had thrown it. Kharris could still hear the familiar ghosts’ voices in her ears: the cursing in poorly enunciated Dwarven and the warm, woman’s laugh. I had forgotten how much Papa enjoyed cursing in Dwarven. And how he made Mum laugh because of his wretched accent. He loved her laugh.
It isn't fair.
They don't deserve this.
None of them.
I lit votive after votive in the tiny chapel that sat flanked by tall, pruned trees. At each flicker of a new flame's life, I saw the face of another friend...another Sin'dorei.
On a wooden table, prominently positioned to be seen from anywhere in the room, there is a tall bottle of very fine whiskey. Under the bottle of whiskey rests a letter. When unfolded the letter is undated and unaddressed. The ink is rich and smooth with clean, strong script dancing across the fine vellum, but it is the excess slant of the letters that is the subtle indication of the strength of the author's emotion.
I am not your child. So stop treating me like one.
A large manilla envelope arrives via certified mail and addressed to Kharris Dawndancer. Inside the envelope is an ornate silver lighter and two very official-looking documents.
Dear Ms. Dawndancer:
We are saddened to hear the news of the death of Bellani Phoenicia . We realize this is a difficult time for you and your family, and it is our wish to help you expedite the settlement of the outstanding wages due Ms. Phoenicia's named beneficiaries per the terms of her employment contract.
My boss's brogue- concerned, wafted from the box...then not all of his emotions were gone?
“Anyone seen Lily since this afternoon?”
The Marquis' rich bass, stretched taut over the comm that I could not see,
“Do you need my aid?”
Kharris' shock, at hearing of demons on their own ship...
His brogue is back...again, and again. Only the voices, and this damned succubus to keep me company.
Her fingers raked through my hair, almost rough in her need.
“You knew what you were getting into.”
“You knew what kind of a man he was.”
I sighed and set my knitting to one side. “We’ve been through this before.”
The colors of twilight swirl and float about me in an array of fluid patterns that captivates and distracts me from the faint, irregular hum I can feel vibrating from within my core. As my eyes glaze over tiny winking dots of white fire fluttering about like lantern bugs across the darkened canopy above, I become aware of a flickering yellow light buzzing from within a doorway across the deck of the ship. With my gaze now fixated on this all too familiar light, I begin walking towards the open door, becoming more aware of my other senses. I taste salt upon my lips and smell it upon the breeze that hits my bare skin sending goose bumps rippling across unprotected flesh. A faint verdant breath seems to exhale weakly from the room before me, no more closer than a moment ago when I began to move my feet. Besides the buzzing light and low hum, my acute hearing picks up on a hypnotic, repetitive thumping against solid and hollow matter around me. I bring my focus back to my erratic humming to discover my voice, faint and unclear, but struggling to break free...to sing!
"Things are not always what they seem - the first appearance deceives many;the intelligence of a few perceives what has been carefully hidden..."
Lily lay in her hammock, curled in the blanket that Aelberyn had gifted her. She reached a slender hand down to scratch behind her kitten's ears, smiling as the mottled calico purred loudly, resting in her elf's lap. She then slid her scarred hand behind her head -tugging her white-blonde hair out of her ponytail in a languid motion, catching Asarel's soft voice wafting out of her comm again.
The knight smiled to herself – this one made her think.
She liked that.
They are gone, leaving me with my Lady.
The boy sleeps I am certain. The servants have washed him. They will be returning from a day's rest I'd given them, weary of feeling like an invalid, weary of their whispers when I came to myself after a lapse of memory and mind.
((The following is written in neat, schooled script, but in a dialect of Thalassian letters unlikely to be understood by many. The book itself is small, with a dark purple leather cover and the initials KDB embossed on the corner. The entry is dated, and the latest in a series of other short, handwritten notes. Apparently, Kharris keeps a diary.))
~There's so much around me.
We dance and I watch them come together and spin apart. I can see so much from up here.
Hands touch. Smiles exchange. Feet are stepped on. A woman stumbles, her partner ignores it; a man has no rhythm, but sincerity, his partner leaves; and through it all, they put me up here. To watch and be watched. Costumed in far away affection and momentary interest.
I am not part of their dance. I am enjoyed, but not shared. I belong to the stage, not them.
The inside of the room the shadowy version of Aelberyn leads Kharris to is like all the other rooms along the corridor in that it is plain and unremarkable. The door opens to a small, wood paneled room with drafty bare floors and no afforded rug for comfort. The ceilings are high and the beams are bare with sloppy, white washed paint edging the heavy oak at the corners. There is a simple cot and a tall wardrobe. A porcelain wash basin sits on a plain chair wedged in the corner. A small desk with a single white wax candle that illuminates the room. But it is not the room itself that draws the eye - it is the first the smell: food. The sticky sweet aromas of cinnamon and sugar, fresh baked cookies and steaming, cooling cake. Flakey pastries and fresh, sweet citrus oranges. The carnival aromas of kettle corn and fluffy cotton candy. It is all there in the room, covering every surface and the floor, stacked deep on the desk, plates on top of plates - empty serving dishes and covered silver platters. And it's not just sweets, but the savory, wonderful scents of beef wellington and mushroom gravy. Fresh hot Yorkshire puddings and mash potatoes. Steaming, crackling sausages dripping with grease. Then there are the sounds in the room, the whirling of wind-up toys and the echo of a bouncing rubber basketball, the dry swish and thokk! of a cricket bat hitting a ball, the echoing of a boy's laughter as he pants heavily and plays a game of afternoon football in the grass.
Stardrifter. Stardust. Starwhisper. Mu'sha, it seems like everyone's either you or the stars. Even in name...
The balmy heat licked against her skin, causing a layer of sweat to cling to her slightly aching frame with no way to escape, the muggy time of day was to blame for the unpleasantness certainly. The day was dragging to a close and she awaited the cooler evening patiently. Lifting her arm, she wiped the perspiration away from her forehead with the back of her hand before using her fingers to draw the dark chocolate strands away from her eyes.
It was hot.
It was a couple days before they could return to the task; a couple days, and Aelberyn had almost gone elsewhere to get it done. The unhappiness and anger Kharris showed after looking into her mind was enough to make her realize that it simply was a terrible idea. What in the world did her friend see that affected her so badly, she kept wondering. Some dark secret? Something about Iloam? Some hidden personality trait? She wouldn’t have turned to Kharris again… but then she almost killed Iloam. Well actually, the fight was fairly even. He beat her pretty badly, but she WANTED to kill him. She could taste his blood in her mouth, and she craved it so badly. Aelberyn knew the thought wasn’t hers, knew she snapped only because of whatever was going wrong in her head. The problem needed to be dealt with, and Kharris was the closest one there. She wanted to do it, she told the Bishop sincerely. It would be alright. Kharris knew it wasn’t real, she assured her. And because she really didn’t have another choice, Aelberyn allowed it.
((I was feeling artistic this weekend, and was going over older sketchwork I'd done. Almost 2 yrs ago now or something, Kharris Dawndancer went for an audition at Ythgar's club. Ythgar was a very thoroughly undead man, and their conversation was frankly quite clinical once she succeeded at her job interview. At one point, Kharris asked to see Yth's deathwound, and I chose to draw that scene, and honestly, I loved how it turned out, but was terrified to colour it. After a very enjoyable time trying out colour theories on my tablet, and avoiding writing a syllabus, I revisited that lineart, and produced the following.
"If you're aware you're friendship... Then he is wrong. And that says something to me," Kharris says in an even voice to the figure of the human girl that walked at her side down the streets of a Lordaeron that no longer existed. "I'm not exactly sure what yet. But it says something to me. It may not be important. I don't think it is to the mission." Her feet are quick, sure, and purposeful in a graceful but ground-eating paced stride. Now and again she rubs both hands across her skirts again as her own thoughts go back to the mentally conjured image of her own husband. Her green eyes peer ahead, watching and waiting for some sign or direction that would show her what could possibly be amiss in the ever-changing mindscape within the Bishop of Silvermoon’s brain.
Something was wrong, and she didn’t know what it was, but it couldn’t continue like this. Her thoughts were all chaos and control was out of her grasp. Something was terribly wrong, and whatever it was had changed the Aelberyn into nearly a different person. She didn’t know where to even begin to fix it, but it had to be fixed. Her options were few, but she turned to her friends. There were instructions passed, ideas offered, but in the end she lay vulnerable on her large, soft bed in Uldum, staring up at the dark lashes that fanned over dusky cheeks as Kharris tightly held the Bishop’s hand. A quick sidelong glance to Kharris’ husband – to Iloam – sitting like a silent sentinel at the chair near the window and watching them both intently, then forest green eyes moved back towards the other woman’s face. Aelberyn took a deep breath, and sighed, and trusted, and hoped that Kharris could identify the problem… and wondered what she would see within the depths of her mind…
If you're reading this, then I'm already long gone.
"You're... very good at this." She was all leg, awkward, torn between indecision and fear, desire and trepidation. A challenge in her eyes, but with that challenge came tension.
"You are a mongrel dog among wolves!" Scarred snarling face glaring at me with hatred like venom dripping from his tongue, threatening, trying to bully.
"No other man makes me feel like yeh do.. like yeh're all I want." He stood in front of me, hands on either side of where I leaned back against a table, sipping mulled wine.
"He rescued the orphans from.... horrible situations. He actually didn't do anything with the cookies." I remember first seeing her, luminous eyes lowered, twisting the hem of a robe in her hands. So childlike.
"Your daughter was very lucky." Her voice a husky contralto, green eyes knowing, flush touching her cheeks, tucking that stray curl back.
Je suis un homme de Cro-Magnon I am a caveman
Je suis un singe ou un poisson I am an ape, or a fish
Sur la Terre en toute saison On the earth, in all seasons