Two-One-Two

[squakhawk 7302]

Spoiler

 

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Grief struck the frail Uradir, as memories of past began to stage their haunting play of agony upon the helpless blonde. Awaking from a short and dreamless sleep filled with colour and light, she looked up toward the marbled prison she built for herself. Watching closely the ebb of emotions that washed over her, lapping at her worn and clouded mind, she watched the height of the room with dim yellow eyes glazed over with little left behind them. The feeling was not unfamiliar, and the resident resistance fortifying the last shreds of what was left of the Uradir did not feel anger, did not feel vengeful of how poorly things had gotten. Futile, was the mind, and futile was the effort in resisting it. Like a weed the stalks of venomous flora planted by the foreign visitors to her conscious grew around what was last of her, taking place. She rose, pallid skin with tinges of what was once care for such, frail form, frilled hair, and bags under eyes which reflected little. She stepped not far throughout her manor, finding the baths; shutting the door as the sun began to crest over the hill. She stepped within the warm spring, seeming to enjoy the company of aqua. Within the water, all she felt was warm- with no pain, coldness, or the brush of clothes against her. Upward through the skylight she was the sky turn from it’s once unwelcoming shadow to a pale orange, and with it’s welcome the mali’thill left such a spring. She stopped by the mirror which preceded the door, drying her face thoroughly. While awake, there was little excitement, little enthusiasm blatantly shown behind orbs of gold.
 

 

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Her guise began it’s craft with foundation. Built upon sorrow, grief, and lies, the basis of her mask began to take shape. The ‘thill had what little blemishing her face begin to blend with the mask which blend rather well with her skin tone. She continued thoroughly to apply such as the foundation of the mask coated the Uradir from hairline to jaw, dry lips of a pale-peach maw the only resemblance of below. She began the next step, to conceal her sorrow, grief, lies- taking such and beginning to dust her face in the make of others, as the bags beneath her eyes slowly disappeared- her face glowed, with dull lips to accompany. She finished her guise with a coat of lightly-yellow wax, rubbing such around her maw- sweet, as if she was tasting the fruits of her own fields. Her guise complete- a glowing face of beauty and perfection, the mask imperfect as the yellowed eyes behind it held little. She continued to dry her hair fervently, granted flame, granted towel- careful to not disturb her carefully made mask. It took time, but such was not an issue for the ‘thill. She followed with brushing of her frilled and wiry hair, reminiscent of how once she sought to grow it. She paused on the thought, considering someone in passing, as if watching them across her visionfield – left, to right, and passed. Unacknowledged, unacknowledging. 

 

 

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Ominously the waivering ‘thill arrived to the hall, where she sat affront the flame. A silly thought in passing, of how such was to make her intimidating. She watched the tableclock, as time ticked along. Persistent, and unwaivering, it continued forward- but no sound was throughout the manor. Not a word spoken, not a word heard. She stepped to the next room, putting over the flame a kettle. Service, was always what she was purposed for. She awaited, mind drifting lazily until the kettle whistled loudly- preparing a tray of assorted teas, honey, milk, and sugar- the kettle and six cups upon such, she approached the hall oncemore. 

Empty.

She continued forward, as she heard the whistle of another kettle- though she did not put one upon. She awaited at the table, as the sound of music- an orchestra, slowly encroached upon her mind. She tapped the table, watching the clock tick and tick- the tea piping, as the orchestra continued. It continued along quietly, as the kettle eventually steamed no more, the water settled and becoming cold as the clock continued to persevere it’s task. The Uradir continued to hear the kettle within the room next, as the symphony picked up in the height of it’s sound, though audibly it picked up tone, she seemed not alarmed. She looked throughout the chairs as the orchestra continued to gain in volume, left, to right, panning across the room as the sounds began to become insufferable. The kettle in the next room whistling deafeningly as it begged to be freed from it’s flame, the elf continuing to merely watch the clock and await.

 

 

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The broken clock lay disassembled and dismembered upon the table, as silence oncemore became the main resident of The Uradir Manor.
 

 

 

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[Man of Respect 5430]

noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo! – cries daleka

 

[lemonke 1873]

This is where i cry

[Runabarn 1026]

Somewhere, Shanka’Yar feels a disturbance.