Post by Scheherazade on May 13, 2016 1:45:32 GMT
"Sometimes, people pity me because they say I call to an empty sky. If I am listening to the sky, it is alright. The sky is constant. I believe in the sky the same way I believe in my soul. If my god is sheer nothingness, and my laments for naught, then I shall let my cries echo into the sky."
Scheherazade Lv1 | Scheherazade let the quiet wash over her, like a river stream purified by moonlight, her braided hair heavy on her back, golden like wheat and shining like evening sun. It was dawn, and she had washed and prayed this morning in her travels, and now she relaxed against a wall in Var, the thrumming noise of the stone's stories traveling within her. It was a solemn story, one she wished to understand. All things had stories, her father murmured to her as he gently closed her fingers around a pebble. Listen to the story, and there, you would find truth. She tilts her head up to expose the hollows of her throat to the sun, and the gentle warmth touches her core. The blonde relishes it. She listens to the quiet rhythm inside of people's steps as they walk by, ignoring the girl who sits at the alley with her knees pulled up to her chest and her hair laying gently out beside her, the girl who has a soft-tipped smile on her face and quicksilver happiness flitting in her eyes. Her hair hangs like a rope; her woolen clothes seem warmer than usual, and heavier, as well. Her lilac eyes slip shut, her daisy bracelet that she'd made from days past still seems fresh, each petal crisp and pure. She fingers the stem chain before closing her eyes. The exhaustion she's suppressed from days past rushes back into her skin, and she nearly tips over from the force of it. The young woman opens her eyes to spot a pair of cool, intelligent tan eyes to blink back. She returns the gaze in slight surprise, eyes widening, before the other leans back. It's a girl, maybe around eight, and she has hair pulled back into a messy, wild ponytail the color of dry earth and skin the color of warm cream and a dagger strapped to her hip in a standard leather sheath. Her sister, Scheherazade assumes, who seems to be around seventeen, hangs behind her, eyes weary but smile sweet, with silver hair in waves to her waist and eyelashes long enough to brush her cheeks, curvy and gentle-mannered, touching her sister's arm to murmur something before smiling apologetically at the blonde across from them. The blonde merely replies with a gentle gaze of her own, and the younger sibling blinks defiantly at the elder, before plopping down across from Scheherazade. They're both wearing leather boots that come to their knees, worn, dark leather that might be a little too old, dresses delicate but worn. They're one of the poor NPCs, Scheherazade had known from the lack of crystals above their heads. She tilts her head at Scheherazade before poking her in the shoulder, her youthful tone slightly too loud for the hour that it's at. "Tell me a story." "Elis," The other protests, her age and maturity on the brink of breaking as she glances worriedly between the two. "That's not polite. Leave her alone, alright? We still have to work in the port. My supervisor might get mad, and you already know we're short on wages for the month. There's no point in losing more money. I apologize for my sister's rudeness. Elis, come on. Excuse us both, if you don't mind." She tugs on her sister's arm lightly, but with more pressure than before, and the young girl snaps harshly, making Scheherazade and her sibling recoil. "I'm not going! You said your job started at eight, and it's not even six! You never tell me stories anymore, and I can't talk to the fishermen, which isn't fair because they always tell me news." She fixes her strangely intense stare on Scheherazade. It seems like she can see into the truths of Scheherazade's soul, and the blonde woman feels exposed, somehow, to this program designed to yank at her heartstrings. But what harm can a tale do? The other opens her mouth to say something, but the green player merely turns to Elis and begins to talk. Just a story. Just one. "There's a little gypsy girl, and her name is Amya. She has eyes like glittering topaz and skin as dark as burnt caramel, and her hair is smooth like onyx and obsidian. She's born on a warm night, when the sun broils the gypsies whole and birds scatter to the wind in order to escape the heat with powerful beats of their wings. Her mother and father call her illeu, the hearth of their hearts, the sparking little fire bird that gives them strength and purpose, and her mother teaches her to sew and dance. Her father is the leader of the gypsies, and he pulls her aside and tells her stories about truth and lies and honor and anger." "She grows up strong, and she learns how to dance well, how to move like her limbs are made out of smoke and her smile is nothing more than a flickering flame, how to listen to the truth and lies and honor and anger within her. Amya listens to her father and he tells her about her name, how it gives her a compass and a map, and she must find her truth within her name and her soul. She listens and she thinks and she dances, and it keeps her busy from dawn till dusk. Her caravan, her tribe, decides to move to a new kingdom, since the days are getting shorter and the nights colder. She feels the ache begin to echo in her bones, the reminder that she's a child of the sun and not the moon, of warmth and not the cold. Her family moves." "They find themselves in a wonderful town where Amya can dance and her father can tell stories and her mother can sew and get coin in return. They eat until they swell like a rain-fattened spring stream, and their laughter is just as clear. Her father decides to go into town to buy her mother and her a pair of new skirts. He hugs her and calls her illeu, and tells her he'll be back soon, pressing a gold coin into her hand for a treat. She waits on the front step of their small one-room home and seconds, minutes, hours pass, and the gold burns a hole into her hand. She wonders where he is, her father who is strong like an oak and quietly intense like summer rain." "She walks to town on her own two feet, feels the blisters burn and her cuts ooze blood. Her hair's piled up high on her head and gleams like onyx and her eyes shine like fire. She walks to the pyre and sees her father burning. The gold piece in her hands clatters to the floor. She lets it fall. The girl lets her hair fall and her obsidian-dark locks reach her ankles. She reaches for her father, but it's too hot, and Amya weeps like a maiden without a heart. Her tears fall on stone and her father crumbles into ashes and the girl is left with ashes and burning embers. She stands up and picks up her gold piece to buy a jar. She keeps his ashes and embers in there, and she walks back home." "Her mother weeps all day and all night, and then on the second day, she declares fiercely that she's not going to let her daughter slip away as well. Amya stares at the embers all day and all night, and then tells her mother she's going to the river. She brings the jar with her and stares at the still-warm embers. She sees a war-worn horse across the river and wades to him. He stares at her with wise eyes and she asks to tie the embers into his mane. He bends his head down and she braids the fire into his skin, and it should be like smoke but he seems different, somehow." "He nickers at her and she knows that he wants to go, so she lets go, and he runs off, and she thinks he becomes fire and smoke and sturdy oak, but she's not sure, so she turns and walks back. She kisses her mother's cheek and tells her she feels lighter. Her mother asks her, suddenly, if she thinks her father's happy, wherever he is. Amya tilts her head and tells her he should be. She says that she'll dance for him and learn the truths of the fire for him, so he doesn't have to be sad about the fire. She goes out and she dances and she listens to the sun and wonders where her warmth is. Her mother calls her illeu, and she smiles quietly and listens for the summer rain." Scheherazade's left with awkward fragments of a story that doesn't make sense. The little girl across from her tilts her head, though, and nods quietly, and then she thanks her for the story with a thought-quick grin that lingers in the air. She walks up to her sister and the two leave, and Scheherazade is left with the beating of her heart and abstract, worthless words. The air hangs heavy. She closes her eyes briefly, and lets the warmth of the sun replace the cool sensation of the stone behind her back. It's six o'clock, and Scheherazade feels her soul become unsettled. |
MADE BY ★MEULK OF GS - EDITS BY ANGELO OF SAO-RPG