[Memory] A no good double black dog dare day.

Drezda, please.

Open for Play
The Six Kingdom's most prestigious university and the de facto cultural capital of Anaxas.

The Stacks | Ghost Town | Muffey

User avatar
Rhys Valentin
Posts: 262
Joined: Sun Jul 08, 2018 5:06 pm
Topics: 19
Race: Wick
Location: Vienda
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Muse
Writer Profile: Writer Profile
Post Templates: Post Templates
Contact:

Thu Nov 01, 2018 9:17 pm

"Anyone I'd rather prove myself to won't be watching, won't care, and won't change. Not anymore. Not ever." It was an odd admission, perhaps made more odd without context, but Rhys was sure almost all of his graduating class here at Brunnhold knew. Knew about Damen D'Arthe, Patrol Captain of the Seventen, and his raging disapproval of the young Valentin's existence, especially his friendship with his precious, delicate daughter, Charity. Friends no more at his demand, Rhys was a ship adrift, picked up by other flotsam like Nauleth Siordanti and his auburn-haired side-kick and man at arms, Mateo. Older than the ginger, the two had a strange enough assortment of things in common that their camaraderie was only a surprise to those who didn't know them well enough to understand.

The tall blond made acquaintances easily, a strangely gregarious creature who never met a stranger and had a smile that used to be hard to forget, though lately had just seemed largely forgotten. A bitterness replaced his friendliness, and while he couldn't see it himself, his glutton for punishment was simply an extension of his frustrated helplessness at a situation far out of his control.

This situation had quickly unraveled out of his control, too, but the boy from Elmonton simply wasn't one capable of backing down. Too many had tried to put him into a box that he no longer refused to fit, and the cold, uncomfortable retorts of the Hoxian felt just familiar enough, an underlying cruelty in her lack of emotion that reminded him of Captain D'Arthe just enough to be a trigger.

For what?

He didn't know, but he didn't care, either. Not any more.

"I'm not impaired." He huffed simply, not even deigning Drezda with a glare, licking dry lips at how her tone of voice made his skin crawl. He had nothing to prove and no audience to prove it to, but he kept walking, letting the Hoxian lead, hands shoved in the pockets of his green-dyed uniform, the indigo plant used to make the particular color probably from his fucking father's own farm.

That annoyed him further and his crystalline gaze snapped up at the young Ecks' commentary on his ego. He didn't care where they were going, and if Rhys had any ego at all, he didn't think it mattered any more, "Whole is generous. Sufficient is about right. I get by with what I have." He sniggered, unwilling to capitulate to her pithiness. He was prepared for punishment, while she obviously got off on being rude. To each their own.

This wasn't anything he could hope to succeed at, a duel, unless she brailed—

"Who do you mean? Nauleth? He wasn't distracted by a professor when he brailed. The backlash was definitely more personal in nature between Siordanti and the mona, but I wouldn't expect you to pay attention to every minor disfigurement that happens on campus here. Insult my perceived prowess all you want, but I'm quite comfortable with my monic relationship." He thumbed his nose at those words as if in emphasis, reaching for the buttons of his uniform coat as if preparing to take it off under the oppressive heat of Yaris' searing dryness,

"There probably isn't a point, you're right, but at the same time, I'm not just going to back down because you think I'm a waste of your time. I'm here now out of principle—just to piss you off. Nothing to gain. Nothing to lose. A good trouncing on my part, most likely. Maybe a trip to the infirmary for the ticks and tocks of it. What do I care? What else is new? Let's see if you've got as much magical ability as you do clocking ice in your chest."

Devil-may-care, Rhys Valentin shrugged his narrow shoulders and slipped free of his uniform coat, rolling up his sleeves with a methodical motion that implied he was a creature of habit when he allowed himself the time,

"You don't intimidate me, you know," He exhaled, still not looking up while he focused on the work of his fingers and crisp, green cloth, "Between the two of us, the only stain on the history of galdorkind will be erseholes with clocking ugly attitudes like yours. So, show me what a pathetic shit I am so you can go home dissatisfied, Miss Ecks."

Tags:
User avatar
Drezda Ecks
Posts: 188
Joined: Sun Jul 15, 2018 12:10 pm
Topics: 21
Race: Galdor
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Writer: Maximus
Writer Profile: Writer Profile
Post Templates: Post Templates
Contact:

Sun Nov 25, 2018 7:42 pm

Yaris 34, 2711
.
Image
Her eyes flicked to his face, narrowing briefly before the corner of her mouth twitched.

"Oh is it Charity D'Arthe that you're concerning yourself with? Is that what this is about? And yes, I know about your infatuation with Miss D'Arthe. I imagine everyone in our year does and likely those in other years besides," she pointed out. Hadn't she associated with Charity on quite a few occasions? Hadn't everyone seen the way he fawned over the girl? Didn't everyone know how he'd fallen out of favour? Now that the Hoxian actually thought about it, she could see what the bravado was about, why he'd approached her in the first place most likely. If she was meant to be a rebound then she was an odd one indeed. She thought that there were likely rumours of her predilections drifting through her class group that would prove what a poor choice she'd be for any man.

"Do you think that dealing with me publicly would do you any favours in that regard? Personally, I highly doubt it would. I believe that Captain D'Arthe considers me to be... suitable company for Charity, exemplary even, and if news of an altercation between us were to reach his ears... Well, I certainly wouldn't come out of it poorly. How do you think that you'd fare?" she questioned softly, a distinct lack of malice in her voice. It was surprising how neutral she sounded, even to herself. She didn't feel sorry for him or anything although he was certainly pitiful.

She double checked the spikes in her hair, searching for any loose strands and getting momentarily distracted by the texture. It was nice hair, it really was and the colour... well, you didn't tend to see anything so dark on an Anaxi head. Her own wasn't quite ebony but it was close enough to pass as such, especially from a distance, and was definitely better than all that unfortunate red that so many of them seemed to possess. The thought of the red made her shoot Rhys a thoughtful look, perhaps for the first time registering the significance of his blond head.

His looks marked him as an outsider, his field adding to the sense of abnormality. Where was he from again? She remembered the odd derogatory remark about him being a 'farm boy' so while he might come from money, depending on how well his family did, some galdori would never consider him good enough. Those who made their money in the land or the sea tended to be looked down upon. Her only family was a few steps up from that - business - and so she assumed that her status was better than his own in the eyes of all, even the truly old monied families of Anaxas. Not that she cared about their opinions of course. She was a cut above them all anyway. Even the oldest Anaxi galdori families were adulterated, whereas her own bloodlines were guaranteed pure.

But yes, Rhys felt himself to be the underdog in many respects and he probably was. The problem was that he really felt it. It was likely a weeping sore to him and while it'd be better if he left it well enough alone, he obviously felt the need to continue to worry at it. If he went into the Seventen like that... it might go poorly for him, that chip on his shoulder, or it might drive him to prove them all wrong. Either way, she suspected that it'd come back to bite him in some way.

But oh, how tempted she was to utilise the mona, to dip into the Perceptive and read him. Could she dip into him, read his emotions and motivations like a deck of cards? Shuffle them into some new and mysterious configuration? Oh, she could possibly scramble things a little but she wasn't strong enough to do so without him protecting himself in some respect. Even a minor, temporary mental scramble could be countered by someone with awareness and Rhys had Perceptive mona in his field. She certainly couldn't fix him but she probably wouldn't be lucky enough to mess him up either.

"I'm not saying that Mr Siordanti was distracted. I'm saying that interruptions are distracting. Distractions can lead to brailing and depending on what you're doing, how fast you react, a lot of factors actually, that can lead to backlash. Similar to your friend, not the same," Drezda retorted briskly, some irritation in her voice as she rolled her eyes, annoyed at his inability to understand the simplest of things.

She led the way outside, grimacing a little at the heat, so unlike that from her homeland although she had to admit that she was slowly becoming acclimatised to Anaxi weather. Her pace became brisker, making a beeline to the nearest copse of trees that she thought would be deep enough and far enough away from the main thoroughfares to allow their activities to go unnoticed. It took a few minutes and then she was slipping between trees, navigating with care now that she was well-off the beaten track.

"Do you know just how whiny you are? Do you know that you'd do yourself more favours if you actually worked out how to filter your speech? Especially that sense of ineptitude. I mean, really! It makes you seem weak, far more so than the size of your field could suggest. If you weren't so bothered by people's remarks then whether you have a glamour or not shouldn't make a difference. It's not like you're a wick," she pointed out, saying the name with obvious distaste. "At least act as if you have the pride that comes with being galdori. Don't be such a zjovrash," she spat out.

Drezda didn't care that the Deftung word was difficult to translate or that Rhys probably wouldn't know it; the obvious disgust and venom that it was charged with would be insight enough. In her own culture, they were expected to be strong, at least outwardly. Solid, dependable, unshakeable like the mountain. Except that the mountains weren't always stable. Sometimes, with little to no warning, stone could collapse or slide leaving destruction in its wake. There was treachery associated with stone that acted in such a way, Bash questioned at such times for allowing this illusion of stability to be maintained when it could bring death for those who never expected it. People could also be unpredictable, it was true, but in Hox, it was expected that one would be strong - inside and out - and to reveal one's true emotions, to show weakness and insecurity or to allow anger to spew out like lava from a volcano was unacceptable. Such things could simmer beneath the surface of course but when they weren't visible, it was socially acceptable. To do otherwise... well, that was why the insult existed. In her eyes, Rhys was as unreliable as the thin crust that formed over magma and just as liable to break.

The Hoxian put some distance between them, dropping her bag neatly at the edge of a small clearing. She reached up to check her hair one more time, making a snap decision to utilise Living Conversation rather than the Perceptive as he might be expecting. One could definitely use the Perceptive offensively in a duel but what she was aiming for was meant to be more brutal, lacking the finesse that she associated with her chosen Focus.

Drawing her field closer, she called the Living mona feeling it rush eagerly, happy to be called somewhat unexpectedly and perhaps a little miffed of her under-utilisation of it of late. However, in spite of that and the rapid fire use of Monite, the mona felt right, the spell seeming to have the right strength as it streaked from her. The mona in the surrounding area moved outwards to make way, rippling as if a stone had just been skipped over their steady waters.

She could have waited to see if he'd spew up his latest meal but the young woman wasn't one to leave the opportunity for a parry so she sent a lashing pain spell after the first one, designed to smack across his belly, raising a weal on the skin hidden beneath the fabric and likely to leave its mark well judging by the feel of the mona. Her monic relationship certainly wasn't a poor one, especially when she was dominating another.
User avatar
Rhys Valentin
Posts: 262
Joined: Sun Jul 08, 2018 5:06 pm
Topics: 19
Race: Wick
Location: Vienda
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Muse
Writer Profile: Writer Profile
Post Templates: Post Templates
Contact:

Mon Dec 03, 2018 2:22 pm

"Infatuation. Like you have any clue what we shared. Clocking step off there." The Hoxian's taunting received the most guttural of knee jerk reactions possible, Rhys' expression twisting in to a pained sneer despite his best efforts otherwise. She didn't need to see that, but he gave himself away almost helplessly. His pained expression was quickly replaced by resentment and chagrin, field shifting as if it were a cloak he longed to hide all his raw emotions behind,

"I don't care a chrove's erse what Damen thinks of me." The taller blond refused to use the man's title, his eyes narrowing. Did he even care what his classmates and peers thought of him anymore? What difference would their sympathy or pity matter now, after years of their judgments? Did he want more of their mockery? He would prove himself more than capable, with or without their approval of his choices, with or without their decisions about his worthiness. Drezda Ecks was no exception, "But I'm not some fuck up farm boy unable to get by on my own in society, thank you."

He'd survived Brunnhold, and the end of the long ten years of being told how less than he was was almost over. Not that life outside of the insular culture of education would be any easier, that much he was vaguely aware of, but it wasn't as though he was going to go crawling home to Elmonton, either. No clocking way. He had more to prove, or so he told himself. More to prove not just to his peers anymore, but all of Anaxas it felt like some days.

He wasn't going to roll over into some shitty desk job here at the university or in Vienda proper. He wasn't going to be someone's gopher for the rest of his clocking magically inferior life. He'd proven his understanding of theory, he'd proven his tow-headed mind worked just as well as his ginger classmates. He'd also proven he could run faster, hit harder, and often times talk louder than half of them because he didn't feel pressured to conform to their expectations when he'd already been told he could never meet them anyway.

"Monic theory has proven that distractions are only part of the problem, as far as I've read. I'll give you that, but we both no triggers for brailing are often far more subtle. We've read all the same books. Don't threaten me with such consequences just because I don't feel up to par, Miss Ecks." Rhys almost grinned at her irritation, keeping his tone of voice aloof and academic, ignoring the citations that came to mind and felt warm against the tip of his tongue.

But she chose to admonish him like he was a child, to pretend as though she could see his whole life spread before her, to pretend as though she was above him. Somehow. He'd been told for so much of his life what he wasn't. He'd spent so long fighting to prove what he was. The truth was that beneath the spit-polished, loud bravado was emptiness, Rhys lost at sea without the anchor of friendship he'd come to define himself by. It was a precarious existence for someone with his sharp mind and nothing to lose attitude.

Instead of finding some faded old response to such a typical admonishment, the tall blond focused on the vague awareness that the Hoxian was defining the space between them and as experienced in dueling as he was, even if it was most often on the losing end of things, his body moved out of muscle memory to find an appropriate amount of distance from the other galdor.

He had no plan and no idea what Drezda's preferences were in magical combat, other than that she was far more proficient than himself with Perceptive conversation. It was with no small amount of surprise that the young Valentin realized she was already casting, recognizing the Monite she spoke and feeling the motion of Living mona in the small clearing.

ABBC3_OFFTOPIC
SidekickBOT 11/25/2018
Muse: 3d6 = 6, 5, 6

Counter to Nausea is a 6. He takes the Lashing (no roll). Depth perception (5) and Dullness (6) combine to make Drez feel very off-kilter and extremely sluggish or whatever similar effect you want to aim for. Needless to say, casting is hard unless countered.


He spoke the counter spell on the heels of her first phrases as if almost casting in chorus, familiar with nausea, his own field a liquid barrier that washed in the opposite direction. He unraveled what she wove before it could reach him, but it was as he finished the last few syllables that he realized she was still casting. And it was too late to bother with her second spell.

Lashing was not an uncommon spell thrown around among young galdori, especially boys. It was an easy spell with painful results, a pain that could be light and taunting or deep and serious, depending on one's intention. It was easy to surprise your enemies and tease your friends, and it was a very common way of adding injury to insult on the Lawn and in duels. To say that Rhys was very familiar with the sensation of pain would have been an understatement, given his pecking order in Brunnhold competitive culture and youthful galdori society, but that didn't mean he didn't whine and wince at the hot, stinging sensations that erupted under his uniform.

His expression twisted with his unfiltered suffering, but he simply used the impetus to gather his wits and focus on his own Monite, sticking with the familiar Perceptive conversation he was so comfortable with. He sought to level the playing field in his own way, distorting senses by asking the mona to ripple through Drezda's ability to perceive reality as if someone had given the Hoxian too much to drink far too soon, weaving in a second spell to not only warp her depth perception as if she was guttered and spun about but also dull the connection of her synapses, literally slowing her down as if she'd grown sleepy and tired.

Much like their Living conversation counterparts, Rhys was sticking to the comfortable familiarity of the unofficial schoolyard grimiore. He had no real desire to delve off the beaten path just yet, testing his boundaries and flexing his talents, so underestimated as they were. He'd either have another moment to really show off, or he wouldn't, but at least he'd not get his ass handed to him without a token show of resistance.
User avatar
Drezda Ecks
Posts: 188
Joined: Sun Jul 15, 2018 12:10 pm
Topics: 21
Race: Galdor
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Writer: Maximus
Writer Profile: Writer Profile
Post Templates: Post Templates
Contact:

Mon Dec 03, 2018 5:56 pm

Yaris 34, 2711
.
Image
Oh so touchy about the subject of Charity. She'd guessed that he might be but did he honestly believe that he was the only one who knew Charity? As if Drezda hadn't found her sobbing over him, drank in her misery and- No, now wasn't the time for such thoughts. She needed her wits about her, not to go thinking about pretty girls. Still, the blonde girl was an oddly welcome distraction, even if she wasn't actually here. Honestly, she didn't want to be here and while she was going through with this, she was simply going through the motions.

Or so she thought.

She'd deadpanned through his rather academic topic, eyes glazing a little as she idly wondered if he ever shut his mouth but then she'd had her chance to cast. The first one, the nausea spell, didn't get near him but the lashing one... He let it hit him. There was absolutely no effort on his part to counter it at all. Maybe it was the thought of Charity so recently beforehand. Maybe it had been too long since she'd duelled last and caused someone pain. Maybe it was just the sweet passivity of it, the beautiful submission coupled with the total suffering in his face, oddly the sweeter because of his sufferance of it in silence. Whatever it was, it sent a bone-deep shiver through her, her core seeming to flame with such intensity that spots of colour actually appeared in her cheeks like badly applied rouge.

It was elation, it was joy, it was genuine arousal that actually made her legs feel that tiny bit weaker. Perhaps it was the wave of it that she was riding, high emotion making the mona sing towards her as she unravelled the depth perception spell that Rhys flung her way. However, when it suddenly crashed down, it was definitely the reason behind her fatal distraction.

The first counter had been practically automatic, hardly having to think and then she had thought and it hadn't been about the new syllables issuing from Rhys' lips, the new spell that he was casting. No, instead she chose that beautifully ill-timed moment to think about that sensation that had zipped through her. Consciously thinking about it in relation to Rhys, whether it was sadistically caused or not, filled her with incredible revulsion.

A man, a man, a man, no, no, no, no, she didn't want men like that. She never wanted men like that. She could never want men like that. The young woman suddenly wished that she could drop dead, purged that feeling so that it had never happened. She just stood there stupidly, the duel actually forgotten for a few precious seconds and boom!

It was like having something poured over her head, seeping into her pores and spreading numbness through her. It might just be a mercy, slowing the process of her synapses enough so that she no longer had to think that, dulling the sensations within her as well, dousing her. It was shockingly strong, the woman taking a half-step back as the leaden feeling took over her. Drezda twitched, reminding herself that although her senses felt duller that she still had control of her body and motor functions. She wasn't incapable.

Slow.

Sluggish.

Leaden.

She tried to retaliate, clearly not in her right senses when she thought that she was capable of such a thing.

Stupid spells.

An anaesthetic aimed at his legs in an attempt to deaden the feeling.

A spell to jangle the nerves in the same area, intended to make him jerk.

A Perceptive that attempted to scramble his auditory processes, mess with what was reaching his brain, to change it to false signals.

Every one of them fizzled out, the mona buzzing irritably around her as she tried and failed to connect with what she was casting. It was like... when you were so exhausted that you couldn't function at all and when you tried, you were more likely to cause some major fuck up. It was definitely something that she was dealing with right now and so the mona just wasn't responding.

It saw her as weak.

It saw her as useless.

It didn't think that she could do this.

No, she wasn't trying to use it as a bludgeon. She knew that she could do this and the mona knew that she could do this. Fuck it! It fucking knew.

The conviction blazed through her, burning through her foggy synapses for long enough for her to reach for the mona again. She would help - herself that was. She used a Perceptive spell to liven up her processes again, to send electrical impulses flying at a normal speed again, feeling things zip up to a sensible speed again.

But she took the time to inhale deeply, to steady herself, to murmur soft placating words to the mona. She wanted him in a heap, she wanted this over, she hadn't even wanted this in the first place but he just couldn't back off like a good dog. He was bloody unshakeable, maddeningly so and she just wanted him to be flattened so she could go back to her studies in peace.

He just wouldn't stop shadowing her. He hadn't even let her eat in peace! Why? Why couldn't he just piss off? Was it her fault that she was Hoxian? Beautiful? Dedicated and promisingly brilliant in her chosen field? It wasn't like she'd singled him out because he was weaker than the average. She tried to wound to hurt, to repel and he just hadn't gone! It wasn't fair, it wasn't fair, it wasn't fair.

Why did every Anaxi have to be so bloody in the way all the time? Why had her Kingdom ever opened its borders at all? Why had she ended up in this pissant little Kingdom instead of Bastia like she'd wanted? Why had her parents been so bloody resistant? Why did they have to treat her like some useless little child when they would always give Rozr what he wanted? They would have given Tsia anything before her accident and Drezda had often thought that they would have preferred if it was her than their darling girl. Better to keep the sweet girl than the ice bitch.

Except that she wasn't sure that Tsia was dead. She suspected that she was a passive squirrelled away at Frecksat. She thought her parents would have preferred that fate for her too. The changeling, the cuckoo in the nest that had leeched resources from them, demanded from them and yet intended to give back nothing in return because she knew that she was alien. Knew that she didn't belong.

So much rage left to fester beneath the surface, so much rage that she was ready to use in a moment of complete abandon. Rage that wasn't truly directed at Rhys and yet which she was willing to fling at him. And she could feel the mona react giddily at her thoughts, at her intent.

She wanted to kill and she knew a spell that could do it. A spell that she had managed to get ahold of but of course had never used. Conquest and knowledge in one fell swoop, coupled with the greatest intent she'd ever mustered. The mona would sing for her, sing for this ultimate conquest or it would kill her and she knew that it would go along with it. How she knew it wasn't clear but something in her stepped back, appeared to see what the rest of her brain was doing.

No, no matter how superior she tried to think she was, she knew that she wasn't. Not racially superior, not personally superior, not in any way superior and why? Because she didn't belong to her own people. She was no true Hoxian, not likely to be genetically pure if her sister really was a passive and in the pecking order of her family, she'd always come dead last.

The dance around her, the sheer power. It was intoxicating but terrifying. What was subtle about this? There was no beauty in it, only ugliness - her own. And it wasn't Rhys' fault, none of it.

By the Circle, had she really been willing to kill him scant seconds ago?

"No. No!" It was a moan, a denial that almost sounded pained, her eyes opened incredibly wide, a mute shake of her head. She turned her back on him, still shaking her head, doing her utmost not to cry.

She liked pain but she wouldn't kill- Not someone who- By Bash, what was wrong with her? What was wrong with her?

Sickened. It seemed to bubble in her belly. The horror, the disgust, the shock of it. She'd been ready to kill him or die herself in the backlash.

She turned back to him, uncovering her mouth in an attempt to speak, something wild about her eyes, which would likely be more frightening than anything else the ivory-skinned woman could ever do, no matter how intimidating. "I wouldn't have cast it. I wouldn't have," she told him cryptically, something almost pleading in her voice.

Please, believe me.

She'd studied Living Magic in part, had seen dead bodies and she knew that sometimes in death, they could stare and the image arose in her mind - Rhys' open-eyed corpse - an image she'd been so ready to make a reality and she couldn't cope.

The self-revulsion rose, what little of her lunch she'd managed to eat driving its way up her throat. She managed to clamp her hands back over her mouth as her body heaved, spasmed, a guttural retch forcing its way out through some minute opening between her lips. She turned, half-dropping, half-falling to her knees and threw up.

Oddly enough, she hadn't expected to end up in a secluded copse of trees on her hands and knees vomiting her guts up while tears rose from the ducts, spilling over. It was the force of getting sick that was causing the salt droplets to flow, that was all. Not the sense of her own failure. Her own permanent failure.

She could bury it. She could always bury it.
User avatar
Rhys Valentin
Posts: 262
Joined: Sun Jul 08, 2018 5:06 pm
Topics: 19
Race: Wick
Location: Vienda
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Muse
Writer Profile: Writer Profile
Post Templates: Post Templates
Contact:

Wed Dec 19, 2018 11:30 pm

There was a moment of pause, Rhys' last syllables of monite still hanging in time while the young man was caught between intense, unavoidable pain and the very unique rush of magical success. There was something indescribably satisfying about the realization that the very sentient particles that held the universe together not only listened to the pathetic excuse for conversation he managed to string together with the breath in his lungs but also deigned it their moment to obey his somewhat less-than-humble request to bend the reality of another being not to their will but to his own.

The Perceptive mona that now all but hummed in his weaker field seemed to sharpen his senses and the sting was so very sharp for a heartbeat or two, blurring his vision and forcing a sharp inhale. Something not unlike adrenaline danced in his veins and raced with his pulse, anticipation and an unavoidable unspoken sense of need already brought more spell ideas to mind. He could cast more, seize the opportunity while Drezda seemed to succumb to the dulling of her senses in a way that he certainly hadn't expected.

Always fancying that his connection to others was somehow heightened because of his choice of conversation focus, the moment of stillness felt like a struggle, a struggle the young Valentin couldn't at all entirely understand because he hardly knew the Hoxian (and had never cared to anyway). There was the prickling of anger or frustration or something elusive and far stronger that he couldn't quite interpret despite their belike mingling, but whatever it was in the girl's mind, it soured and so did her expression.

Had he dulled her senses enough to confuse her?

She shouted at him, whined at him, and the tall blond tensed, regathering his field and shifting his feet as if some motion of his body was at all a good idea at the moment—

And then Drezda Ecks threw up.

There was a moment of obvious horror, but the worst of it? Tears. There were godsbedamned tears.

Had Rhys been the gloating type, had he been the kind of galdor who gloried in the ruining of others, had he been hungry for the kind of power his peers seemed to thirst for, a feast had just been laid before him, but, alas, he was not. No triumph warmed his chest, no sense of superiority pooled in the base of his spine to supersede the fuzzy, tingly sensation the momentary high of such unusual magical success had left in its wake in his body. No, for he hadn't worded any nausea into his Perceptive words and his counter hadn't been a deflection.

He blinked, unable to entirely contain the smirk that tugged at the edges of his confused expression, a tumultuous mix of emotions rattling through his mind, wrestling,

"Like it clocking matters what you would've cast. Looks like you're all bark and no bite. Who'd have thought? Your secret's safe with me. Tocks—er—I mean—"

Sarcasm: the young Valentin's sharpest weapon, and yet, oddly enough, there was no judgment in his tone. He didn't give a chrove's erse. He hadn't even wanted to be here, not really, but he'd stuck to his guns. He'd seen this through. He'd stood his ground for once.

And look!

Not even a drawn-out duel. Not even a decent flavor of victory. Just ... this. Kensershit.

Fingers curled into the unkempt hair he should have kept trimmed more neatly but didn't, knuckles pressing against his skull for a moment as he exhaled slowly. His other hand was shoved into the pocket of his uniform coat as if placing a palm near the hot stinging of his skin would at all assuage the pain. It did a little.

He had no idea Miss Ecks could feel anything other than contempt for anything that moved and yet so many strange feelings seemed to writhe beneath the surface of her expression, rippling through her field that was unfortunately (or fortunately) so similar to his own. Being witness to a Hoxian crying felt oddly uncomfortable and Rhys let an awkward silence hang in the air for longer than would have otherwise been polite,

"—uh. Sorry. That was rude, I guess. Or deserved. Both, maybe? Whatever. Um. Look, did you overstep a little just now? Should I walk you to the Infirmary?"

The last bit wasn't in mocking. It was genuine. His gluttony was for emotional punishment and he knew no bounds when it came to his appetite for unwanted assistance.
User avatar
Drezda Ecks
Posts: 188
Joined: Sun Jul 15, 2018 12:10 pm
Topics: 21
Race: Galdor
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Writer: Maximus
Writer Profile: Writer Profile
Post Templates: Post Templates
Contact:

Sat Dec 22, 2018 10:45 am

Yaris 34, 2711
.
Image
Tears, treacherous tears, so un-godsbedamned-Hoxian.

Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong.

She couldn't control it because she was wrong.

Now that the dam had burst, the torrent of emotion did not want to be shoved back into a tiny space where it couldn't come out. It gushed, it flooded, it drowned her.

Her field was pulsing, something erratic about it as frustration and self-hatred and despair and everything else ebbed outwards.

Kneeling on the ground sobbing, deep, unhindered and ugly sobs, almost animalistic in their agony, the tears choking her, the burn and unpleasant taste of vomit seeming to clog her throat. Oh such a pathetic creature she was.

If her parents could see her now...

Some Hoxian matriarch she would make when she was so obviously weak, completely crumbled before the young man who she had honestly forgotten in the agony of her own suffering. His field was there, his presence undeniable and yet she didn't seem capable of processing it, even in spite of the belikeness. Oh there were words coming out of his mouth certainly and even though she looked in his direction, the black eyes didn't appear to see him at all, a definite lack of focus as she seemed to look through him. Her lips were moving, an almost constant motion as she whispered to herself, externalising her inner turmoil. If he came close enough, he might catch 'zjovrash' and 'weak' dropping from her lips but she didn't appear to be aware that she was doing it.

Being accustomed to seeing Hoxian rigidity and even having seen the girl's earlier composure, Rhys might find the alteration - the near lunacy on her features - a disconcerting and uncanny one.

She was still crying and knew it although the tears were merely streaming now without the guttural sounds that had gone with them, the spluttering and the choking.

Drezda needed to get a grip, she needed to (zjovrash) act as if she still had some semblance of control and wasn't (weak) completely gone in the head. This wasn't the first time that this had happened over the years but it was so much worse than usual, all of the thoughts flooding in simply combining with all of her anxieties about graduation (pathetic) and what came after. The Seventen, as if she wanted to be part of the stupid bloody Seventen. If she wanted that sort of life then it should be the Karmine in Hox, a true police force that didn't have to deal with the trash (the dead faces, blank, expressionless, emotionless) of the lower races. But she couldn't go home, couldn't bring herself to return to her parents and their disapproval and her inclinations and try to explain to them that she would not marry a man, she could not marry a man, could not produce heirs, could not be a matriarch.

Imagine you as a mother. Think of what you'd do to children, her mind roared at her, a cruel clarity to the thought that broke through the buzzing, emotional flooding.

She sat back on her heels, twitching shaking fingers finding the point where her blouse tucked into the band of her skirt, grasping it, pulling it free, dragging the blouse up on one side, part of the way up her ribcage.

The Hoxian was so fussy about her skin, so careful with it in the sun for fear that a single stray beam of Alioe's Light might mark it, darken it in places, burn it. She was so particular about it being kept flawless but of course that mattered when it was her face, her arms, even her legs as anyone might see them but her abdomen...

Her belly was marked but nowhere near as much as her sides beneath her rib cage. The flesh was scarred, thick and ugly and rough as if it had been gouged out, the skin forced to knit together unevenly as it found gaps that were too wide. They shouldn't have been there, the girl knew Living Conversation and wasn't bad at it but they were reminders that were allowed to heal slowly, horribly. They were marks of her weakness, her total inability to be what she needed to be.

Drezda pressed her hand against her side with a sigh, feeling the ridges and while it returned her a little, it wasn't enough. Her fingers bent inwards, the prick of well-tended nails touching the scarred skin before she pressed hard. It took a fair bit of nerve to continue to press, to move her fingers, scrabbling so that she scraped and tore her own flesh rather than shying away from the signals in her nerve endings. You're in pain, they said, you're really hurting, and she told them to fuck off.

She gasped, tears standing in her eyes anew, expression crumpling but it was helping. It centred her. It gave her control. Now she had a physical pain that diverted her from her mental one, allowed her to box it and push it back into the dark. There was clarity in pain, a grounding that let her return to her senses.

She allowed the pressure to ease, glancing down to reveal the rivulets of her own blood that she'd released, much of it smeared across her skin from where her hand had gone through it, one hand now completely stained with it while the other remained immaculate, still holding her blouse out of the way. Even so, the wounds were still bleeding freely, sliding down to the band of her skirt which they were likely to soak.

Still holding her blouse free of the mess, she used her bloodied hand to help her get up on slightly shaky legs, the young woman moving almost dreamily to her bag, kneeling to root through it awkwardly, using an elbow to keep the blouse out of the way so that she had a clean hand, glancing constantly to make sure that she didn't inadvertently bloody the garment at the elbow either. She found a handkerchief - white and silken - and pressed it to her side; it quickly went scarlet.

"Did you mention the Infirmary? No, I don't need to go there, why would I?" she questioned Rhys, seeming to be genuinely puzzled. He'd said it before she'd done this to herself, hadn't he? So... why would she need the Infirmary? She wouldn't go with this anyway. She needed to suffer.

She took out another handkerchief, using it to wipe most of the still wet blood from her hand although it had still dried into the skin in places, fused there. It was better than it had been. She placed this handkerchief over the already bloodied one, pressing firmly as she watched to make sure that it wouldn't soak through her blouse when she covered up again. The band of her skirt had absorbed some of it and she simply rolled it twice with a great degree of calmness.

She felt better now.

"I don't suppose you have any water handy, do you? I seem to have left mine somewhere," she remarked with the barest of pouts.

It was like everything was normal, as if nothing had happened: the farce of a duel, the vomiting, the apparent hysterics, the self-harm. However, although her face was largely impassive again, there was still the pulsing in her field and the bleeding of emotions, a mere trickle compared to before.
User avatar
Rhys Valentin
Posts: 262
Joined: Sun Jul 08, 2018 5:06 pm
Topics: 19
Race: Wick
Location: Vienda
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Muse
Writer Profile: Writer Profile
Post Templates: Post Templates
Contact:

Fri Jan 04, 2019 11:47 am

To say that Rhys Valentin had been born unprepared for the life which he'd been shoved into would have been a kindness, though at this point in his youth, he was so thankfully ignorant of his human mother, of his halfbreed wick heritage. This lack of knowledge, however, only further served to define this particular moment in which the tall blond realized just how horribly unprepared he was for a person like Drezda Ecks.

Sweat pooled against the lowermost curve of his spine beneath his uniform in the Yaris heat and he watched tears dribble down cheeks no one in all of Brunnhold's halls would ever believe could cry. He blinked, awkwardly standing there with his entire self—body and field—tense as if he felt as though he should take action somehow.

But couldn't.

None of this had at all been his intention. He'd just wanted his friends to shut their clocking heads. He'd just wanted to the younger Siordanti to do his clocking homework. He'd just wanted Mateo to remember the less-magically-inclined blond was content in his fearlessness. Bravado. Stupidity. Rebelliousness. Anyone could have called it what they wanted, but for Rhys, he just longed for someone, anyone, to see him for who he really was. Only Charity had bothered to look past his less-than field and his lower-class rural home, and, as far as he could tell, she was the only person who ever would.

The Hoxian before him sobbed and then gathered herself, albeit strangely, and just when the tall blond thought to open his mouth and offer more apologies, he realized she hadn't at all pulled herself together. Scratching as if runoff from their casting and from the mona's refusal to hear her words had caused her to itch horribly, it took Rhys a heartbeat too long to realize what Drezda was doing was more purposeful than accidental.

He took a step back.

"Listen, I'm sorry. Really, I—" Raising a hand as if to stop her, his blue-eyed gaze was drawn without his mind's permission to the red stain of blood that began to creep slowly through the fibers of her uniform blouse, the dark color overtaking the carefully dyed greens from plants he grew up running through back home in Elmonton, "Oh gods—you shouldn't—it wasn't—what the clocking hell are you doing?"

Rhys couldn't have said he was a stranger to the unexpected pleasures of self-destruction. He'd certainly allowed more than one student to land a swing first in various dorm-hall arguments and contests of strength just to feel the focus the sharp sting of knuckles against his flesh brought to his senses. He'd certainly drank himself beyond sloshed in the Stacks on more than one occasion just to stop thinking for as long as possible. He'd allowed his mouth to get him in a lot of clocking trouble simply because trouble was a strangely more attractive state of existence to be in than being alone.

But this was far beyond his personal boundaries and far outside of his personal experiences.

He stared, unmoving, heart a heated vessel beating against the back of his throat, dizzy and disgusted, confused and concerned. He wanted to reach for his bag. He wanted to take a few more steps backwards and then break into a run. He wanted so desperately to walk away.

But he stood and stared instead.

"Water? N-no. I don't have any. You need more than water to fix all of that, that's for sure." The young Valentin blurted with a pained, frightened sort of vehemence, finally willing his limbs into motion, reaching for his bag to toss it over his shoulder and shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers, "You're right. Why in Alioe's timeless name would you need the infirmary? You just ... do ... whatever it is ... you feel is best. And, I, uh, well, I probably have a study group to go to. Or something. And. We can just. Erm. We can just forget any of this happened. I'll just. Not talk about any of it. Yeah? Yeah. That sounds clocking wise to me."

He took a few more steps back as he said that, unable to hide the pained confusion from his chiseled features, concerned but way to afraid of who the Hoxian had revealed herself to be to have any idea how to help her. If he could help anyone at all.
User avatar
Drezda Ecks
Posts: 188
Joined: Sun Jul 15, 2018 12:10 pm
Topics: 21
Race: Galdor
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Writer: Maximus
Writer Profile: Writer Profile
Post Templates: Post Templates
Contact:

Mon Jan 14, 2019 7:00 am

Yaris 34, 2711
.
Image
His field might have been smaller and weaker than her own but his answering distress was quite tangible. The Hoxian might act as if everything was all right but it most definitely was not, neither for her nor for Rhys. His distress was verbally evident as he began to stutter out words, veritably tripping over his own tongue as he struggled to cope with the display before him, this mode of self-harm either unseen by him before or so utterly unexpected from the girl or within this situation that he simply couldn't cope with it. Drezda's concentration, the steely resolve that was necessary to complete such an act, meant that she didn't respond to his choked exclamations, didn't even appear to acknowledge them.

She had other concerns.

Only when she was calmer, more in control, negative emotion leeching out of her as if contained in the blood that she was losing, did the Hoxian engage with him. The young woman would have preferred for him not to have witnessed such a thing but there had honestly been very little choice in the matter. It had been necessary, very much so and having Rhys as a witness was unfortunate but something she was simply going to have to deal with. Even before he issued a statement that he would not talk about it, Drezda had had a feeling that his silence was guaranteed; he was too freaked out to ever want to think about this situation ever again, never mind discuss it.

"The water isn't to fix it. It's just so I can tidy up a little. No matter, I can deal with it in awhile," she informed him, giving the slightest shrug. No big deal.

Under normal circumstances, she might have used a spell to coagulate the blood so that it wouldn't flow quite so freely although in truth, she needed it to run down her skin. This was one of those times when bleeding everywhere would be rather inconvenient but she wasn't inclined to reach for the mona right now. There was an unhappy buzz in the magical particles, a buzz that seemed to follow her, its displeasure lingering. It was a warning more than anything else, a warning that it was irritated by her aborted cast, even if she had backed out of it correctly although without a certain grace. No, best not to do any magic for awhile.

"If I wanted it fixed, my own magic is sufficient, thank you, I don't need to go to the Infirmary. Why would I? They'd only fuss needlessly. They wouldn't understand. I'm not sure anyone else does," she admitted softly, her expression growing distant at the end. The true depths of her misery and pain showed through for the briefest of moments as she was reminded by how alone she was, no one to support her in this but herself, and then it was gone, closed over again, hidden as if by a returning tide.

"You do whatever you have to Mister Valentin, it's no concern of mine. I wanted to be left alone in the first place so if you leave for your, ah... 'study group' then I'll finally get my wish, won't I?" she shot back, the iciness returning to her demeanour although there was something resentful in her black eyes. This was his fault as much as anything else. It was he who had pushed her over the edge so needlessly, he who now wanted to run the other way and leave behind the mess that he'd made.

It wouldn't be the first time that he had, she knew that. And that little bit of knowledge bubbled up, the acrid taste of her agony on her tongue as she flung words at him that were designed to spread some of it. Foolishly, uncaringly. Why should she be the only one to be in pain after all when it could be spread around? Sometimes she felt like sharing.

"Off you go, Rhys. It wouldn't be the first time that you've left a broken and crying young woman in your wake, would it?"

The words were spat out with all the velocity of bullets from a human's ugly gun but lacking the fire. Clipped and cold, they were simply delivered with precision and then the woman turned from him, doing her best to make herself presentable, hiding bloodstains until she could get back to her room and changed, sending the stained garments off to laundry.

The Hoxian collected her bag with a wince and the gritting of teeth, placing it carefully while she tried to keep her composure intact. Pain was good, she told herself. Pain kept her in check, just as readily as the scars helped her to remember.

In this moment, Drezda was just as happy to retreat as Rhys was.
Post Reply Previous topicNext topic

Return to “Brunnhold”

  • Information
  • Who is online

    Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 4 guests