oliviaaaahr

R

MC Name: womankisser66 Discord: oliviaaaahr Image: Description of Image: logo for my hookah lounge Dimensions: 1x1

I DO NOT OWN ANY OF THE ARTWORK BELOW. [A young Antigone caring for an injured Aleksandra c. 1953] IN WHAT REALM must a girl sit and watch idle as one parent is martyred, and the other, nearly slain in her desire for justice; true Justice, where the culprit is punished accordingly, righteously, by the servants of GOD, through His word and teachings—that justice. A man taken from his family, a King taken from his people, all in a night’s work by those you so fervently protect. If a man of any house may slay a king and come forth unscathed, with the reward of maintaining his land; if he may come forth unscathed, with the reward of no consequence to match his crimes; if he may come forth unscathed, with the reward of watching the righteous writhe and shriek as his unholy, impious path continues, like generations prior—KINSLAYER! KINGSLAYER! – What is there to stop those with similar ambitions? What punishment, what JUSTICE weighs their conscience? THE ANSWER IS QUITE SIMPLE. None. Blood has been shed, lives have been lost, and yet you stand idle, tail tucked neat between your trembling, unsteady legs. COWARDS. COWARDS. Anonymous, you hide behind papers and exaggerate a story in which my mother’s agony is turned comical for your amusement? Well, I shall not remain anonymous; I am no coward. I share with the realm my name. I am ANTIGONE RENATA VON ALSTREIM and I condemn all those involved—STASSION, and the useless bystanders—to a suffering far worse than what my family has suffered, than what my mother has suffered at your hands. Was my father’s blood not enough to soak them? You, too, desire her life? Does it truly humor you? Does it bring you joy? A Saint’s week has not passed and yet, you sit like vultures ‘round your writing tables, scribbling down your profound, vile words and jests. See—I, too, have a splendid sense of comedy. ONE; a woman warns her Kingdom that impending doom is on their doorsteps. In turn, the woman is verbally and socially crucified, driven out from the land she has given her life & children to. TWO; the woman, and the Dowager Queen (in which her charges are alleged), are imprisoned shortly after – for the act of warning against a traitorous family with no loyalty to any but their own (and only on special occasions may that be the case). THREE; the woman returns home, graced with numerous visits and letters from those in her old Kingdom – a wondrous mix between condemning her actions and begging for her return. FOUR; the PUNCHLINE. The family the woman had warned her council against acts swiftly, SLAUGHTERING the King and the woman’s husband, the King’s most trusted confidant, in movements speedier than one may blink. A trial was held for the murderer, and he received NO PUNISHMENT. The woman acts, as the many times she stood idle and heeded her council’s power and respected such, NOTHING was done; and so, she attempts to take one life in exchange for the two. Those around turn against the woman and BRUTALIZE her beyond recognition. They brutalize her until her face is black and blue, swollen ‘til her eyes could not blink nor open. They brutalize, and let the murderer roam free. As the mob attacks the woman, her children in that Kingdom stand idle – even her eldest boy, her cherished son, her HEIR – the one that is meant to take his father’s mantle and PROTECT his mother, along with those in his Principality. They do not even take the barely-conscious woman to a clinic to ensure she is not harmed more than they intended (despite their intentions being truly GRIEVOUS and GRIM). To the Margrave of Stassion, the PRINCE OF NOTHING; to the blasphemous “MADAME THORN”; and the ONLOOKERS that stood by and let the honorable Aleksandra Milena, my mother, be DISFIGURED and MAIMED. . . I WATCH, AND I WAIT, AND I VY FOR JUSTICE. JUST AS MY MOTHER DID. HER LADYSHIP, Antigone Renata Petra Calliope Margarethe von Alstreim [!] ATTACHED TO THE MISSIVE IS ONE FAMILIAR IN BOTH ITS FERVOR & PASSION AND ITS STYLE; AND ANOTHER, LESS ELOQUENT, BUT EQUALLY AS DRAMATIC.

A young Antigone Renata skims the missive at her poor mother's side, amidst her brief bouts of consciousness and slumber. She lets loose a shriek, and skulks away from Aleksandra's bedside - slamming pen to paper.

“The King was felled, Antigone, and vy know that Father would niet leave his side.” ✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ The words went without saying – or, perhaps, Alexandra simply lacked the strength to say them. “Go to the palace, sestra. Mamej will want to speak to us." ✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ . ⁺✦ Even the most worldly wise-man cannot put to paper the proper words when one experiences loss; even the most courageous knight cannot process the grieving steps without faltering in his strides; and, even the most optimistic girl cannot look past the insinuations of her sister and wish for the best. One Antigone Renata paces through the snow, doll in one small, pudgy hand, and her skirts hitched in the other. Her breaths are quick, shallow, and coated in mucus from a cold she only just recovered. What? Her head is blank, and then it is not. Her imaginative, curious little mind shrieks and curls in on itself, attacking her with horrific sights and assumptions that she's unable to fend off. Her father, injured. Her father, bloodied and bruised. Her father, dead. He did not get to straighten her posture and correct her fencing. He did not get to subject himself to the torture of her flower-crowns and failed dessert-making. He did not get to guide her down the aisle and greet any of her children into the world. How? How, how... how? How did he die? Why did he die? Why now? Why not of old age, when he and mamej reunited and the family could stand as one, once more? When her dark gray eyes - her father's eyes - flutter open, Antigone finds herself on the cobble road before the palace, snow and ice soaking into her dress and sending a righteous chill through her bod. She wipes her face - and finds tears. When did that happen? She couldn't recall. When was the last time she had truly cried? Again, she couldn't recall. Now, the tears trailed freely, and she held her doll close, clutching it for dear life ere each sob and hack. Somewhere in her mind, she imagined it to be him.

yay herbs and drugs!

Billowing gusts whipped ashen-strewn tresses of a familiar dame, as she stood perched 'pon the balcony of her humble, Florentinian abode. A, tap, tap, tap, disposed cinder from a locally-produced cigar, and a rattle & cough expelled the plumes from cracked lips. Pale focals drifted to the sun; the way it began to set 'pon the horizon, dipping below & out of sight for the night to come. "Mój najdroższy Dante. My invitation has long expired. Gdzie? Gdzie jesteś?" Hissed the wretched crone, and cast away was her foul habit; with irritation prone in her visage and stride, she took to paper, etching supposedly cruel things at this unspoken rejection. His absence in the community was expected, given prior communications & schemes; yet, to be uninformed? She, uninformed? A slight not easily forgotten. A gesture that caused the sable-locked dame's foul temper to simmer and boil. "Ah, głupi chłopiec. Nie - coward you are, lowly cur of a proper man. Show your face, now; won't you?" Ah. Through the whirling fury in that lady's conscious, a single revelation came. And later in their time, the insult would be forgiven - face to wonted - yet, unwonted - face. . . in mildew-soaked tombs and catacombs of a primordial thew. Her vehemence would fade, and their work; their bickering & mutual distaste, mutual respect; it all would resume as it would, were he himself, Dante; and now, great things would be done.

people are comparing a minecraft server ban to a genocidal event in history i dont think i can do this anymore

[!] Around churches and other places most Holy were these articles passed about. "beady eyes he watches gather 'round & be gathered as his flock his cattle his heard submit to the higher lower middle power fall into his hooved grasp & be led"

mama

A certain dame of onyx tresses and a piercing gaze glanced the missive; something in her expression faltered at the sight, and she couldn't help but approach, fingers tracing those profound etchings. "..Ah," she'd whisper, breath catching and hitching in her throat. "Seems it all caught up to you, didn't it?" Before any other sorrow could be expressed in front of such a crowd, that bustling street- she swept away and ducked throughout each cloaked figure, each powdered dame, and stalked off towards her humble abode.

She lazily pans aside to her fallen compatriot and barely stifles the snort that escapes her. "The reason this happened, my sweet- my Ysidora," she began to chide, piercing eyes returning to her own reflection which shone in the aforementioned dame's mirror, "...is because of pacifists like you. Mrm. A lovely characteristic- but it's one that shall get you nowhere, in this world." With a clatter, Marion rummaged about for her cigar box- and hissed through grit teeth, ".. something- something must be done."

A raven-haired dame's gaze is locked beyond the panes of her window. Her fingers drum 'gainst a half-written letter, unsent - as she ponders recent news. [reserved]

why do you look like that (little pink thing on the computer)

"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?

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.

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.”

-=- 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.

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?”

“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.

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.

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.