Rue
Post by Scheherazade on May 29, 2016 2:44:31 GMT
"My faith is seared into my skin; burned into my worldly flesh with ink as a reminder that I can never give it up. It is a burden that is worth nothing and everything. It is my pain."
Scheherazade Lv1  | Scheherazade gasped for air. Every nerve of hers was set alight. Her throat was as dry as sandpaper, and when she attempted to swallow the slickness of her own saliva, it only made her thirstier, throat burning as if one fire. One of her hands scrabbled for her throat and massaged the organ, her nails accidentally scratching it and making her wince from the stinging pain. It hurts. Her feet must have blisters, burning red sores that sear into her skin with incredible pain, making wind ripple from each of her fast-paced movements. She blocks the monster as well as she can, but she struggles. Tesh must be reeling in shock from her movements, she thinks wryly, but fights on nonetheless. He tells her to move, but she finds she barely can, skidding to the ground as new cuts appear on her palms and knees as she finds herself awkwardly pushed to the ground. She closes her eyes in fury, anger at herself, anger at her limbs. They don't obey her, feel sluggish and painful, the very things that she hates about her body. She can feel her spirit, can feel it flickering like a flame inside, willing her to move and such, to make her actually fight. The blonde grits her teeth and forces her chin up in time to see Tesh land a hit on the monster. She watches in wonder, in amazement, in awe, and then... He hits the ground. Her eyes shoot open in a flurry of panic, and a worried look lurks within her eyes. Her lilac orbs rest on him before she shakily grabs her axe and lets it sink into the earth, her stabilizer as she stands with shaky feet, her hair cascading down her back as she coughs, her voice unstable and hoarse. And then...Kaito happened. She was fascinated, at his sheer power, at the pain and fear that resonated within him. Her eyes closed, and then she let them flash open, new steel and anger coolly hidden, a new resolve beating inside of her. How could a monster be so strong? She had wondered earlier, pathetic and desperate. It was because he was a monster, she replied to herself, much more composed than she'd like to be. Her fingers curled around her wooden shield, and then her axe too, her eyes locking onto her opponent, whose health bar was near depleted. His tusks began to glow, and Scheherazade ignored it, instead closing her eyes. Her fingers thrummed with power, and she threw one leg back, keeping her movements smooth and sure, if slow, and she watched as it charged through her. Not...paralyzed or anything, that was for sure. She paused, licking her dry lips as she closed her eyes, lifting her axe. ""Surah 1. Bismillaah ar-Rahman ar-Raheem. Al hamdu lillaahi rabbil ‘alameen. Ar-Rahman ar-Raheem Maaliki yaumid Deen. Iyyaaka na’abudu wa iyyaaka nasta’een. Ihdinas siraatal mustaqeem." The words slipped out, oddly soft and gentle for the moment, held in reverence. Her skin tingled from the power of the words, the power that emanated from them, the truth. She let them trickle in the air, axe out before her like her hands clasped in prayer, the moment oddly solemn for her. She let out a grim grin. Obviously. She would die in the next few moments, after all. She exhaled slowly. Her blonde hair pressed on her back like a burden, the braid unfurling to become a stream of glittering gold. Her hands shook, and then steadied, and she counted the beats of the monster's feet, counting the tremors in the shaking earth. "Siraatal ladheena an ‘amta’ alaihim. Ghairil maghduubi’ alaihim waladaaleen." She breathed again, sucking in air, fingers, arms, lungs, limbs, legs, thighs, ankles, skin burning as if she were aflame, ashes forming off the edges of her fingers. She could feel her blood heating, boiling her alive. The pain was extraordinary, blurring her vision until a sparkling boar was left, the only thing in her vision, tusks glowing with that extraordinary sword art. "Siraatal ladheena an ‘amta’ alaihim. Ghairil maghduubi’ alaihim waladaaleen." She finished, letting her blade curve in a graceful arc around her as she saw the boar approaching, pure resolve and truth inside of its eyes. It wanted to defeat her. It needed to defeat her. She could understand that. She eyed it with respect, inclining her head gently as it came closer, closer, breath of sticky cloves permeating the air, poisoning it in sweet toxicity. Her fingers closed around her axe's hilt, and as the monster charged, she lifted her blade. It gorged her in the chest, her arm with a clear hole ripped through, just as her blade flashed and hit true, and that, combined with the glittering gold flames that ripped through the air, heating up her skin and charring the edges of her hair, signaling that her opponents' attack had been reflected, was enough to make the boar disappear in a shower of pixels. Scheherazade fell against the grass, on her hands and knees, before she fell over, weak gasps formining in her throat. She collapsed to the ground, and coughed up blood, the red liquid dropping into the grass. She tilted her head up and spotted the sun, and her health bar, and her green crystal. One was turning rapidly into red, and so she caressed it gently with her fingers before listlessly opening her menu, her vision blacking out and then returning, eerie silence ringing through the fields. She could feel blood seeping out and coloring her now freed hair, golden no doubt turning vivid red. She smiled faintly. When she had been young, how badly had she wanted fire-crimson hair? Well, now she had it. She finally grasped a health potion of her own, and with painful, unfocused movements, she let herself uncork it, red liquid passing by her lips, making her choke in a painful mix of blood and sweet health potion. She drank both of them. Her health bar continued rising, and then it filled, mostly, leaving her to smile blankly before her arm dropped and she couldn't breathe for a second, eyes widening in panic before she realized that blood was pooling and her eyelashes were sticky with tears that she hadn't known she'd shed and she was going to be okay. But the bleed effect didn't seem to be stopping, and blood pooled and pooled and she-she was drowning in red. Red. Red. What did she remember about red? She tried, trying desperately to grab at the remains of her consciousness. Blood. Her own blood, from shards of glass, a broken mirror that she had punched in her anger. Shards broken in her skin, cuts along her face from when she had rubbed her face with tiny pieces of glass still in her palms to wipe away the tears. Glass surrounding her, her blankly extracting each piece from her skin, bandaging her skin, cleaning the cuts on her face. Red. Dripping, bleeding blood. It makes her shiver at the thought, if she could. Different thoughts. Different red. Red, something warm and kind. She wanted those memories. Oh, her father. The red shade of the jewel he wore around his ring, his wedding ring, a band that got much thicker in a certain part to let a round, oval-shaped ruby lay, round and smooth and gleaming, gold obviously aged but incredibly well kept. The way it rubbed against her skin when she had come home and broken down, the way he had cradled her face and then brought her in a furious hug, making her startle, eyes wide, recalling the way they never touched. The reason she could never touch her father, her constant fear of infecting him with her imperfections. The love he had said her name with, the heartbreak, the hopes and promises he had poured in her. The obsession that came with his love, his desperation at not being able to fix the world. The kindness he constantly showed, the blind faith, something she herself inherited, the hopelessness he felt when he was unable to help others. The red of his ring gleaming, a constant link between him and his own father, a family heirloom that her brother should have worn on his eighteenth birthday if he had not died. Her father was an aristocrat; a dreamer; a painter; a man of logical philosophy; a practitioner of blind faith; an understanding teacher of religion; a worker who was a part of honest labor; the man who had a violent streak in his family. The man who had been caned by his own father in the burning suns of Egypt as a form of love and knew no other way to express his love and displeasure at once. A man who was too brilliant for the world to procure, one too brilliant for the world to not love, to not hate, to not allow to suffer. A true follower, a practitioner of his own justice, understanding of others, a man who had suffered all too greatly. She remembers walking to him as a little child, tugging on his shirt, noticing bruises and scars on his back, odd-shaped bumps that she instinctively knew were bad. Her heart clenches. He had been a good man. She wonders about the handful of ways she had told him that she loved him. She thinks about the moments on her brother's birthday when he excuses himself and kneels by the altar, face shaded, and doesn't get up until it's been hours. She contemplates his kindness, his devotion. He had been a kind man. Allah had not sought to spare him. She thought that perhaps he would not spare her, after all. But Kayaba ruled this world, did he not? She was going to live. She was. How...sad. She does not know any other way to describe it. She should be elated. But she isn't. Merely indifferent? It's odd. Her fingers twitch, but she's too tired to do anything else. Her blood stops pooling, and instead, it seeps into her clothes, coloring her soul red, dripping, bleeding red. She's tired. She's so, so tired. She's tired and she's going to live. She thinks blearily of Kaito and Tesh, wonders if they're bent over her right now, worried faces at her distant expression even though her health bar is green. She would smile tiredly if she could. They're much too kind. If they are, she wishes she could tell them that they didn't have to worry. She's going to live. It's okay. Now, if she could get up and tell them that...she owes them that much. She notices, absently, much too late, that her shield has snapped in two. How odd. She has to get that fixed soon. She notices a flash of gray in her darkened vision, and murmurs to it. "I hope you're okay." Because she does. If Tesh or Kaito are hurt, it's because of her carelessness. They're much, much too kind. She wants to tell them to take care of themselves. Her voice is hoarse and weak, but she peers at that gray and hopes her eyes sparkle and shine enough to convey her message, and her resolve holds true. She hangs on to her consciousness for a little more, before she absently thinks I'm sorry. And then she closes her eyes and succumbs to the darkness. |
MADE BY ★MEULK OF GS - EDITS BY ANGELO OF SAO-RPG
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