thequeennadine 311 Share Posted May 17, 2022 (edited) Spoiler OOC: This is just a little character piece I did in light of some development I have been ramping up to. It was inspired by the Mayktober prompts we're doing! If it doesn't make sense or is difficult to read, don't worry, my incompetency is intentional. Spoiler ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- It was a listless few weeks for Ainmhí, after her realization of the truth. Days of idling about the Vale with neither destination nor purpose. Clinging to her familiar haunts; spaces found on the fringes of conversation, but hardly ever in their depth. She had decided to give little fuss. After all, indulging herself in the ambience of their lives was far, far preferred to the loneliness of her trek before the Vale had come along. On one late afternoon, the mali' found herself sat alone, looking out over the cloud-dappled sky. She had settled herself in a small 'park' by her home, content to waste the hours after communal story-time. This lazing in the sun filled her with its usual fatigue. Light failed to seep wholly through the wraps of her blindfold, though swiftly went from warming her skin to tinging it a wary red; similarly, it left her mind in an ailing haze. This fugue state hovered over her for the better length of an hour. When the sun began to set and the sky's blue hues tinged crimson, she stirred. Introspection and a sense of pessimism had pervaded her rest, both coming to a head in that moment. There was a certain arrogance there, as Ainmhí chose to remove her blindfold, and take out her journal. The tool of her entry to the Vale, and the vessel by which she had kept her accounts of each of her neighbors. She decided to spend the ending hours of daylight as her own, writing. Despite its dangers, she vowed to watch the sunset eagerly. "My hours of chatter with 'Birch' come to mind, in these waning hours. He seems comfortable with his debilitations, if not totally positioned as their master. These offers I receive, of alchemical crutch or dubious replacement. Does he receive the same? Do all broken people, at some point? Whatever drives those all-too-common folk to deny a helping hand, if not a lack of opportunity? I pray for these people that it is not this same arrogance I feel. There can be nothing else driving me to such idiotic abandon..." - On The Nature Of Weaknesses, - Journal Excerpt - By time the sun disappeared behind that horizon, the woman had set her head to the grass, and fallen asleep beneath its glow. Dry tears on her cheeks, as amidst the onset of a restless sleep, her acceptance had come undone. Blindness setting on for the better part of five decades was terrifying. The idea of waking up to face it, even more so. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "... wonder if my memory of sight will linger, in my dreams. Will the vistas of non-reality still be lush with color and lucidity? Or will memory of these things be lost to me, alongside my view of the waking world?" - A Mind's Eye, Blind? - Journal Excerpt - Spoiler Bleeding hues of vermilion and marigold shone down, the evening sun washing a girl in waning light and lengthening shadows. Most of her troupe sang, inspired by the beautiful sky above, and eager still to make good time by its light. In contrast, she stomped, cursing each scattered ray that stung her eyes. She might have awed at the bloom of cerulean night-glow flowers, but sight of the few travelers too sickly to sing along left her blind to it. They wore smiles in spite of the soreness of their throats, and that too left her outcast, as her heart ached with a foul malaise. It brought a fire of shame and contempt to her cheeks. The troupe had set out riding on hope– it was wrong of her to drag doubt along. Still, she could not fathom how they held such whimsy, knowing what waited at the end of their trek. The familiarity of those sour feelings made her pause. She could not place the source of her anger. She could not remember learning of the journey’s crux; a forgotten detail about it all that irked her so. Something tickled at the back of her neck, like a breath, or a breeze. The forest shuddered at the incongruence, and the girl lost focus, pouting along again. - At last, the troupe arrived at the forest’s heart. The home of their quarry. Standing before a Hermit’s earth and timber hut, she noted how its form curled and tangled with the roots of a great willow tree. The cottage was rustic, its simple form well worn by countless seasons. It contrasted neatly against the tree’s weeping bough, lit with the night’s ephemeral light, but it undoubtedly did not fit with the figure standing at its doorstep. The girl was, at once, awed by the mysterious Hermit that they had trekked to meet. Her hair was a shining silver, and her eyes like pools of rosy gold. She had a sharpness to her features that sang of pure blood. Faced with a smile lush with kindly grace, the girl’s aches and weary feelings about the journey were eased. When the Hermit spoke, however, that awe was left rotten and poor. A coolness to her voice frightened the girl, but she could not understand why. A breeze brushed past me– past her?- safe and coddling. It shook the branches, making them grind, and creak, and sing. Her eyes turned upwards to the sound, preventing welled tears from spilling. The croaking of that great tree broke my thoughts, and let the girl’s memory replay in peace. - Her hand ached from the constant work, and the pestle felt clammy in her grip. “Rest your heads before my hearth. Beneath the sun and stars,” the girl remembered a Hermit's words. “Drink of the willow’s sweet dew, and indulge in the good tonic of my work.” Beneath her, the mortar gave a shifting, grating sound, and then a crack of protest at the bang of my tool. I had to work the herbs until they were a fine mash, a paste, for the Hermit’s poultice. The poultice that would be for her fellows, her troupe. “Three days hence, ye weak and weary will be cured. Three days hence, ye will leave,” she watched them from the window, recalling still. “And three days hence, the orphan will remain. He, an heir to my good work. Payment.” The portions of root in the girl’s mortar twitched. She mashed them down again, and dripped more water to the bowl. A salve to stop bleeding. Petals of a rare flower, churned in, to numb pain. Churned, and twisted, and beaten, and ground. The sound of the pestle on wood felt good, its scraping, creaking protests like a tonic of her own for the rage. But the sound was getting quieter, and the girl swore those outside the window were louder for it. “I could not hear them,” I muttered, reminding myself– she was inside. Their smiles and grateful gestures were enough to drown it out. She grinds the salve harder as gifts are given. They shower the Hermit with them, and the muffled words off of their grinning lips are everything. One had turned her way, and the girl had paused her work. The sadness in their eyes is nothing. It would not be spoken of, or carved into wood, or clay, or ink and flesh. It was just a look. Even if she thinks about it too often. Even if the girl agonizes over it, dreams of it. Even if she was the only one burdened to remember that nothing. “It was just a look,” my mortar and pestle whispered. It was a look, and the grinding of these herbs is just a sound. A soothing, coddling sound. A croaking of wood and wind and honest things. As she returns to focus, I look at the mixture of herbs, roots, and petals, all yet to be ground. The girl set herself to work the pestle, and she did not look out the window. A hot exhale of relief brushes past, as warps of wood and wall return to ease. - Bleeding hues of vermilion and marigold shone down, the evening sun washing a girl in waning light and lengthening shadows. Night-glow flowers were in full bloom along the path, their brightness emboldened by the warm season. Flits of their pollen intermingled with fireflies and pale moths, giving a fey air to the quiet wood. She saw none of this, her sight set on a distant glade, and the willow-hut which sat there. The sun stung at her eyes and red-raw face, its dimming rays working to echo to her the day’s hurt. It had been bright enough to burn earlier, and she would recall as much for days to come. A day’s wealth of picked flowers, sweet grasses, and shorn vines of a great-old-tree, were laid before a table at that hut’s side. “Back before sundown to ready and store the supply,” she thought. It had been too long. She had been gone too long. The girl’s hair was an unruly, tangled mane, its frayed ends a tell-tale sign of the months lost. “When was I left here?” Her mind churned. The task had been given to the girl this morning. The dirt caking the nails of my bruising fingers assured her. A great creaking of the watching willow above startled her into motion, hands hurriedly making about binding strands of the sweet grass. Quicker, still, I take a tool to the lengths of fleshy vine, clipping thorns and leafy bits that squeal satisfying crunches. “Crunch. Shwing. Crunch. Crunch.” In her hurriedness, I saw the girl press her blade to her palm, pushing it down with a fervor. “Why did I hurry?” I thought. “I know,” the girl answers, hurrying along, “If I show her a day’s work, the Hermit might let me along to the village for a visit.” “Crunch. Creak. Creak. CRUNCH.” A roll of bone and split flesh shakes the girl’s frame as the blade slips, digging into the joint of her thumb. Green vine, and sweet grasses, and field flowers and sun-burnt skin are washed in blood. The table drank eagerly, crimson red pooling with an impossible sheen. I saw something behind me, shadowed in that reflective ichor. A soft breeze blows, like breath on the girl’s neck, and the Hermit steps out from her willow-hut. The creaking groan of her door distracts me from her words, but does little to draw my eyes from her face. There is something there. “It was a thimble of concern.” - She sits before a low burning fire, offset to the far end of a log-bench that is shared by the Hermit. The night sky about them is bright, and I remember well the sight of the full moon. Its soft light radiated from the midnight blue sea, casting the willow tree above in a looming shadow. The girl does not recognize how the edges of the scene bleed into nothing, how its shadows writhe and warp into a fractal border of the vision at hand. My hand still aches, but some part of me remembers her injury was months ago. She does not mind it. The focus she has is for the Hermit alone, and the tome between them. It will rest at the base of the log, incongruent with the dirt and grime clinging to its binding of silver hide. “Thou have the look about ye of a beast, black maned and ill-tempered,” the tome muttered, discordant and grating. It will be cast in a different light, not of that fire, not of that moment. A hand on the girl’s face steals her focus back, cold, yet gentle. She is turned to look to the Hermit’s face, who speaks in a hush, “If you had told me sooner, Ạ̵̧̣͔̥̘́̾͗̂͒͂̅͆͝͠i̸̞̤͓̯̯̅͑̅͊͜n̵̢͎̰̪̣͉͚̤̩̄́͌̕͝m̷̧̞̙͈̪̝͍͈͚̯͕͋͜h̴̗͓̯̠̞̥̣̼̹̠͎̞̮͐̌̇̕͝í̵̡̛̛͈̜̯͙͚͓́͒̓̈̿͛̋̆͋̿̕͝, I would have listened. You are no less true for your identity.” There comes a sickening crunch and a deafening fear, welling up in the girl’s chest. My chest. The tome has opened, and its writhing texts bring my mind to its knees. A howl of wind, hot and incessant, forces the forest abound to creak. The Hermit’s acceptance, her support of my truth, is torn away to the far back of our thoughts. Like a spectator to her own life, the girl sees her eyes tear from the tome. Toward the tree above, its willow-limbs sway before an ever growing moon. Something perches in those arms of wood and leaf, letting out a rebuttal of its own cries, “CrrAW! CAW!” It croaks, and her vision is taken by– - Darkness. There is a deep shade cast over the girl, as she huddles herself away in the private study. Her eyes shine all the brighter for it, raking over the cover of a tome. It is silver and bright, yet marked by stains of wet earth. “It never leaves her room, how?” The girl thinks, reaching to lift its cover ajar. The door of the willow-hut opened with a warning creak of wood, and she startled away from the tome. A few swift movements and a careful shutting of the door led her back into the front room, the Hermit none the wiser. “Karin’ayla, L̵̛̛̝̔̆̾͗̿̍͌͆͂̈͘̕͝ą̵̢̬̜̃d̵̛̹̗͚͚̯̦͇͍͉͍̣̹̞̓̌̈́̃́͆̆́̅͐̾̉̕̚ỷ̵̧̲̟̫̳͖̱̦͈̫͚̣̤͔̆̓̕͝ͅ ̵̛̱̺̘̊͑̉̒̒̍̕L̵̢̧̞͉̲̟̗̤̤̮̟̥͓̖͌̃̎̇o̵̧̬̗͖͌͛̊̈́̇̓́̈́͂̋͘̕͜͠͝͝ŗ̵̜̥̪̝̪̜̝̹̳̬̹̪̳̔̀́̒́̀͝ͅĕ̸̡̨̙͙̲̼̜̣̣͕̱͛̃̔͆̿̈̀̌̇̚l̶̙͔̱̗̫̲̤̪͈̩͙̥̾͆̌̉̊̂̋̒̏͊͛́͌̚e̶̢̳̥̠̣̿̈́͝ͅȋ̶̘̺̅̑̋̀̐̆̀͂ .” I greeted with a pleasant smile and only a scant, worried glance to the office behind me. This room was brighter, but still dim enough to hide it. The Hermit paused, and for a moment the world stuttered as well. Sweat dripped down my brow, and it felt as if crawling mites. Blood rushed and pounded in my veins, sounding like drums or the rush of some river in my guts. “You aren’t caught, not yet.” The girl thinks, and my breath is exhaled. The Hermit continued, unawares of all of it, “Oh, dear. That…” she trailed off, and turned to light some of the lamps abound. As the flickers of arcane fire left her fingertips, and the lamps bloomed to life, the Hermit turned to continue. “L̵̛̛̝̔̆̾͗̿̍͌͆͂̈͘̕͝ą̵̢̬̜̃d̵̛̹̗͚͚̯̦͇͍͉͍̣̹̞̓̌̈́̃́͆̆́̅͐̾̉̕̚ỷ̵̧̲̟̫̳͖̱̦͈̫͚̣̤͔̆̓̕͝ͅ ̵̛̱̺̘̊͑̉̒̒̍̕L̵̢̧̞͉̲̟̗̤̤̮̟̥͓̖͌̃̎̇o̵̧̬̗͖͌͛̊̈́̇̓́̈́͂̋͘̕͜͠͝͝ŗ̵̜̥̪̝̪̜̝̹̳̬̹̪̳̔̀́̒́̀͝ͅĕ̸̡̨̙͙̲̼̜̣̣͕̱͛̃̔͆̿̈̀̌̇̚l̶̙͔̱̗̫̲̤̪͈̩͙̥̾͆̌̉̊̂̋̒̏͊͛́͌̚e̶̢̳̥̠̣̿̈́͝ͅȋ̶̘̺̅̑̋̀̐̆̀͂ is a cold moniker. Haelun,” a pause, and the world seemed to blur, fixating on her kind eyes. “And ye will be malii’lari. Our years together beg at least that much.” There came a racket, from the back office door. At first no more than a pecking, like a beak on wood, and then a hellish pounding and creaking, and groaning of the room. Something yearned. The girl startled, and looked, as that door tore itself open. Her mother looked on with no recognition. A hush of breath sounded behind her, quieting my protests. With a terrible force, I was dragged into the office. Light was warped and turned to pitch, and the scene before us snapped. - That void of a blackened office, cold with the bite of winter’s air, surrounded the girl. She knew it had been years hence, but the terrible, visceral feeling of the vision left her shaken. “If not by delusion, why this room? I am here to…” I mutter, only to have my thoughts interrupted by a chorus of voices. Their muffled, angered tones seep through the wooden walls with a venom. “To hide.” Something answered from behind the girl, its volume a warm whisper. It was the silver tome, left ajar and unprotected, while the Hermit entertained her guests. A siren song to the starved eyes of her daughter, bright in the biting dark of that chamber. “Don’t.” I beg. The girl quickly padded across the shaded, private office, reaching her hand to turn that tome to its first, damning page. - “The nightmare came about by the curiosity of youthful eyes. She tasted the tang of the mind, and its bitterness was intoxicating,” it breathed out behind me. I can’t turn, and my voice is but a whisper. “And spilled ink? Foolishness?” Something bright stings my eyes, the road ahead cut in crimson. A wretched croak and then a creak, confirming it all, “Tools of vengeance, in fate’s cruel hands. It itched, from the moment she dared look.” There is a flicker of something ahead. - Bleeding hues of vermilion and marigold shone down, the evening sun washing a girl in waning light and lengthening shadows. Dull night-bloom flowers lazed at the edges of the path, denied their blossoming grace by frigid air. There was no life in the forest save static trees and grasses choked to petrification, yet the light of that distant star still managed to burn her pallid eyes. Softened by countless well trodden years, the road stretched on forever. “What are we traveling towards?” The girl asked, her gait beginning to stumble and slow. I could not answer. I cannot answer. “All manner of shame and logic would have ye amble on, without an answer,” something murmurs from behind, its presence familiar by now. “They will tell you to see it for yourself.” I put a hand on the girl’s shoulder, then. We stop. She turns herself about, slowly. Her back to the vermillion sun and its traitorous rays, turned away from the sight of things that lie in wait. “No more ignorant smiles, no more dishonest eyes. No more guilty suns, eager to rob you by their light. And no more empty promises.” “The brightest future is not one seen, but– Built. Carved. Taken.” - A bright moon fills the star-speckled sky, its silver edges consuming the horizon– silhouetting a blindfolded woman. She walks a path of bioluminescent flowers, fireflies, and moths, each alive with a fey kind of grace. Her feet are bare, as she walks sole to soil, arms held aloft in simple celebration of the cool, night air. Unbothered by the light that shines upon her, she takes in each sound and sensation of the truest, most independent hour. No spirit dare tarnish the sight with thought of purpose, or destination, or restraint. Behind the woman, shadows cast by a harsher light are seen. A willow-hut burns in a hungering blaze, giving impossible animation to the tree wrapped about it. Its branches writhe and shift like limbs in the wind, clamoring for escape. Each groan, pop, and incessant creak of the wood brings a pleasant flush to her pale cheeks. A warm wind is blown from those towering flames, like a breath that tickles her neck. Wings flutter, and the form of a raven swoops its way from the burning willow. “Was it gone, this madness? Did it finally cease?” The answer to my question comes by croak and caw, the many winged raven flying ahead. “No. It only began,” it called, and finally I understood. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Come the sun's rise, the woman donned her blindfold again. With an odd kind of smile, she made about the Vale. Her skin was burnt and would ail her for days to come; yet, there seemed a glee about the ailing woman. Her eccentricity drove her to travel about more, and to interact with all the rampant, pointless gesticulation of her like. Many a nights she spent in the tavern, scribbling away at her journal with a renewed, scholarly fervor. A strangeness might be noted by some, however. She did all this while utterly blind, by penalty of the cloth. Years of practice had perhaps worked in her favor. "The emptiness of light begs an abundance of flesh." - The Revelation. - Journal Excerpt - --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Edited June 14, 2022 by thequeennadine 4 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
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