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About oliviaaaahr

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    some idiot

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  1. why do you look like that (little pink thing on the computer)
  2. "I'm scared, Huberta. There is so much blood. . ." The scene she approaches is one that sends her stomach lurching; a friend, so dear to her. . . hunched over. Heavily pregnant. Bleeding. Blood- so much blood. Without any thought, any hesitation, Huberta rushes forth and envelops the woman keenly- ensuring she didn't collapse, as the two men by her side did nothing to help. Fools. They could've helped. Couldn't they? ". . . and the pain-. . ." These whispered words only fueled the worry that seeped into the raconteur; pregnancy, labor... it was all hard enough. Healthy women and healthy babies died from small mishaps. Serious complications- such as this... the chances of survival were slim. To top it off. . . she was panicking. Kindrel had never been one to panic. So openly, at least- she hid her woes behind witty remarks, snark, and anger. She was always so angry, never-. . . never scared. It had never been like this. ". . . it has never been like this. . ." She held the pregnant elf tightly, arms looped under Kindrel's pits. "It'll-. . . you'll be fine," was what she murmured, to comfort. Not much comfort was given. Nasty glares were spared towards both male 'fenn, and she snapped some demand- for them to carry this poor woman somewhere else. No clinic - they settled on an isolated room in the tavern, a room full of hay with a bed made of the same material. Not comfortable. . . no comfort. The best that Huberta could do was her cape, laid under the pained woman. ". . . not with either of my children." The next seven hours went by slowly. Agonizingly slow- and Huberta watched it all; she held Kindrel's hand, whispered praise, and boosted her through moments where they both believed she lacked the willpower to finish the job - the job of motherhood. "Easy- breathe, breathe. . . breathe," she'd chant, Huberta, voice cracking with a slight whine. This was a plea - she knew what these sort of complications meant, what ensued. . . - - - And doesn't she know, too? The blood, the pain, the distortion of her body stretched beyond its limits. And the speed of it all. . . she knows. She knows, and in Kindrel's eyes reflect an echo of that fear Huberta shudders with - but too, there is hope. "Ryunthur," she asks, hoarse and weak. And so Huberta fetches him - with a shout, as she juggles the wailing baby boy in both arms. Eventually, he comes, and his countenance breaks into a proud, overjoyed smile- he spares a proud, overjoyed glance to Kindrel- and is proud. He, a father, a soon-to-be-husband, is overjoyed - as is she. To the trio - to the quartet, a tired smile, and she summons the strength to speak hoarsely; "Ibram." Its name. Huberta leaves the couple - paces only a few steps away, and sits on another sack of hay, her makeshift seat for the hours to come. More people enter, more people leave- that tiny room. They're all smiling - but they know. They know, they know, she knows, they all know- why must they pretend? Why are they all pretending? A line of dust does the trick. Draws her thoughts elsewhere, far away- she can't stand all of this pretending. This acting. It's only seconds to her, that pass, and so suddenly- Ludo exits. ". . . She ain't with us anymore." And like that, the bard is sobered. She rises- jolts to her feet- with a gasp. A sharp inhale, and exhale, all at once. It sends her into a fit. She wasn't surprised, no. . . no shock ran over her visage, no shock morphed her features. It was shock, though, really - or. . . was it? Now, she was still unsure. Without thinking, her feet drew her out of the room and down the stairs- into Dobrov's meek square, down the path, and to the main road. Huberta walked. This was expected, was it not? This was going to happen. She knew- Kindrel. . . they all knew. Even then, it hurt- she couldn't believe. She had... hope. That her friend would live longer - long enough to hear her child's first laugh, see those first steps. . . but it was taken. Why? Where is this GOD, the one everybody loses their minds over? Where? Not here, surely, for if He was. . . He wouldn't allow such a thing. Would He? Why? How could He? It was pointless. The same thought ran over her mind, days, months, and years later. Why? Why? Why, why- why?
  3. The child tacked with this crime spent the day with her family, eating sweets - cookies, cake - and listening to tall tales that a friend recounted. Much better than court.
  4. A young girl, no older than twelve, gazed lazily at the summon. The so-called ‘murderer’ neatly folded it into fourths and set it aside, using a crimson needle as a paperweight. “Oh, well.”
  5. -=- Her brother came up to her, donning dull, dark gowns… a sign of mourning. Immediately, Lavinia knew - maybe not specifically what news he would tell, but she knew. Something was amiss - Amaesil wasn’t a mali who usually expressed his sorrow so freely. If he was this distraught, surely… “Awaiti Sirame has passed on to the Eternal Forest.” Oh, she thought to herself for a long moment, frozen in place. That’s what he wanted to tell them. This news… she felt- well. That elfess wasn’t sure… how did she feel? What was she supposed to feel? Sadness, of course - that was one of many emotions that raged inside of her, bubbling, threatening to spill over any minute. She meant to talk to her, earlier… regarding her dedicancy - but it was too late now. She’d been too late. Who was Awaiti? To her? She hadn’t known her long - that short, elderly ‘ame who told tales of marrying mushrooms and encouraged her through troubling times. Her guide. Mentor. Her friend. A new sister. New kin. Kin. So many of her kin, her ilk - her mal’onnan ehya lari’onnan - had been lost… but Awaiti was not lost, no. She was home. The only reason Lavinia didn’t burst into tears at the statement was because of this realization. The Oracle could finally rest. After all the pain, the suffering she’d gone through for her people, she was finally put to rest in the Emerald Dream. Those around her wept fervently, but she would not. That was for later, when no one was around, her only company the stars in the sky and the singing cicadas in the nearby underbrush. She hoped Awaiti would be proud of her. Once she completed her trials, her tasks, and became a servant to the balance. That was all she could offer, now. Hard work, dedicated to her name. “...Are you alright, lari’onn?” A familiar voice brought her out of her whirling thoughts - such a simple inquiry offered much solace in that moment. “I’m fine,” the ‘ata managed in a somber tone, swallowing quietly. Death was never easy. Even those who claimed to be unscathed by its destructive touch were scathed. “...I’ll be fine.” Nothing more was shared after some time. With a nod, her brother trailed off… leaving behind only the sound of his heels patting against the stone steps during his descent. What now? What was she supposed to do? She wished Awaiti were here, to grant some guidance. What would she say? Many things... most likely - a lighthearted scolding for holding off on her tasks for so long. There was no use in dwelling. She had passed, and that was that… but it still wasn’t easy. It wouldn’t be easy, especially not in the following days - in the following weeks, months, years… centuries, even. For an eternity… Awaiti Sirame; marhaelun, lari’onn, llir… she would be missed. Her name would be sobbed in the night, in the day - spoken like a mantra. A soft sigh was exuded as Lavinia looked to the empty classroom, gaze flitting about - focusing on nothing and everything at the same time. Outside, in the grass, a faint song of cicadas chirping in harmony flowed to her pointed ears, breaking the heavy silence that had previously lingered overhead. How beautiful. Finally… she collapsed, crumpling to the floor, curling in on herself while her hands clutched onto her arms, nails digging deep. The tears came, and oh, how hot they were - pure molten as they streamed down her cheeks, blurring her vision. That mantra was spoken by the sobbing ‘ata; Awaiti... Awaiti, Awaiti. May she find peace. May peace find her. Her death would not be in vain - she swore it.
  6. A certain mali’ata’s eyes fell upon the missive - surveying the drawings and portraits of those gathered ‘thill folk. Her features contorted as she recognized her estranged niece and disappointment swept over her - though this was to be expected with her beloved PIPA. “Let’s speak of something else,” she wearily suggested to her friend after a moment, hand poised on the pregnant lari’s shoulder. “Such as... you are naming your oem’ii ‘Lavinia’, ti?”
  7. “Hell if I know,” the aforementioned ‘ata mused with a wry smile, nudging the surrounding ‘ame whilst watching the propaganda burst into flames. A satisfying sight! One that should be celebrated with a cup of tea.
  8. A heftily sized Huberta DaVeney pat her stomach as she gazed upon said chickens, a bead of drool trickling down her chin at the sight. “Yum...” The oversized minstrel uttered once, quite visibly thinking of ways to pair the avian flock with the cheese she’d been gorging herself with recently.
  9. It was one of many sleepless nights the Orenian court minstrel was suffering through - heavy bags prominently shown underneath those dazzling blue eyes of hers. Endless papers, overwhelming and overflowing her study, stacked in semi-neat piles upon her desktop. Voices rung out in that bard's head; "Make a song about my canons - make a song about the ISA - make a song about my greatness - make a song about a nobleman's daughter who looks exactly the same as all of the other girls in the palace, but make sure it's unique!" These were the petty demands she dealt with - day in, day out. A quiet rapping at the pane of Huberta's window tore her from her mindless scribbling - a welcomed distraction. Raising herself from her previously slouched position, she'd open the window and permit the crow entry to her rooms - lazily taking that letter it had in its clasp. It opened easily, her thumb flicking it open in one swift movement - only for her to freeze upon reading the first word. "Darling," It didn't take long for her to realize the person who had written this letter was her dear friend - and former, brief lover - Solenne Bassot. Solenne... that name had been a slight bit of torture to the minstrel - countless bottles of wine downed in her honor upon her sudden rejection and the broken friendship that followed. She didn't take it personally, however... if anything - she was overjoyed that her companion's silence had been finally broken. Even though it'd been years since their last encounter, Huberta still felt a certain fondness for that barmaid - platonic, romantic... she wasn't sure. Her heart gave a subtle pang with the sudden flow of memories - which were quickly cast away. Not wasting any time with her own overthinking, the brunette continued on... A confused expression pulled at Huberta's features - why was she speaking in such a way? Writing of what could've been - her next life...? As her eyes fell onto the last statement, realization hit that woman; not akin to a horse-drawn carriage, but rather... a slow-acting poison, clawing and thrashing its way into her system before the effects crumpled her body over. A tear drifted down her cheek - and soon, another, and another, and another... until all she became was a sobbing mess, clutching that letter to her chest in a desperate manner. Stifled sobs escaped her - consisting of unheard pleas for that strawberry-blonde strumpet to return to her, and a few curses sent out in Solenne's name for committing something so selfish. It was yet another sleepless night for that Orenian court minstrel.
  10. oliviaaaahr


    Itria was raised into a middle-lower class family; the first of her five siblings, she was expected to stay home with her mother to care after the babies as her brothers spent their days studying in school. She was a bit of an outcast in her village due to the fact that she was much paler than the rest of her siblings, an obvious result of an affair. Nontheless, her father adored her – even more so than her brothers and sisters. Once, she discovered a history book tucked away in her younger brother, Larken’s, book. On an impulse, she stole the book and hid it under her blankets, reading it by moonlight whenever she got the chance. This was a major event for her character – it sparked something in her she never had before. Reading stories of Ibleese... bitter Krug... ambitious Horen... she wanted more – the sudden burst of knowledge was intoxicating. She wanted to go to school, just like her siblings, but her mother firmly disagreed. Her father, however, was fond of Itria, and told her that if she were able to surpass her brothers (who had been in school five years longer), she would be allowed to attend school alongside them. Itria succeeded – though it took two years and three test attempts – and went to school with her brothers. Where Larken and the two twins fell short, she would exceed her teacher’s expectations, and where she fell short, they would do the same. Of course, all good things come to an end at some point. On the way home from school one afternoon, Itria noticed a flume of smoke billowing in the sky; a gloomy, daunting spiral of ash that send her heart down to the pit of her stomach. Ignoring her brother’s cries behind her, she sprinted home as fast as she could, her feet aching and welting over the course of the two-mile stretch. She spotted a crowd gathered around the familiar shack, her mother kneeling over her father’s soot-covered body. From there on, everything got worse – her mother was diagnosed by the local clerk to be under the influence of Sprites – Mania, or... any magical creature he could label as the cause of her mental unrest. Itria never held the cruel words he mother said against her – she became consumed with taking care of her younger siblings and her mother, forgetting anything education-related in her haste. She did well, considering her age, and she was able to see three of her siblings grow into adulthood with families of their own. To this day, she still takes care of her ill mother, telling her stories and easing her pain during her spiels and ‘events’.
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