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Post by Deleted on Dec 22, 2018 15:05:43 GMT -6
Riva - Talori - Shoal (Brewer)
She focuses not on the sound of her heartbeat and instead tries to pinpoint the silence that is between them. The absence of her ailing blood, feverish and hot. Around her is the bustle of Torrine’s prisoners, heavy footfalls of training guardians or the shuffle of the clerics, but Riva’s only movement is the slow rise and fall of her chest as she lays, suppressing any shudders of pain that she feels licking at the back of her skull. It is a pain that is threatening to burst behind her ruined and now empty eye socket. Fever eats away at fraying nerves yet she feels lucid, awake only by tenacity and grit teeth.
It had happened in a flash. She had seen the flash of explosions that tore through her brother like he was paper, locking eyes with her and opening his mouth to speak before he had been gone just like that. Shrapnel - iron, her brother’s shattered bones, she didn’t know - had flung into her eye and rendered it useless within an instant. She had ran faster than she thought her legs could carry her, fleeing blindly and hysterically with the sea of bodies that had poured out into the streets their way their blood had. Above them, the jeers of terrorists soaring them to their captivity.
Opalescent teke gingerly reaches for the wound, immediately flinching away from her own touch with a hiss. It felt swollen, hot, crusted shut. It was leaking, and whatever seeped out in a honey slow drag over her cheek smelled horrendous. Riva knew bitterly that it would had to be removed, that the clerics had no choice. She didn’t blame them. There was no saving the lost. They had nothing here but the tools that had been present when they arrived and she had feared not the pain but loathed the aftermath, loathed infection, loathed what would remain.
Loathing came easy to her. She would refuse fear until it turned to hate. Hate entirely.
The teke dissipates and Riva turns her head, looking over the sickbay where she had been since the chaos had died down enough for them all to organize, stares hard with the only eye she had left. And she listens. She listened to the shuffle of feet instead, the coughing and rattling breath, the weeping, and prays for a voice.
WC: 391| Post #1
Set shortly after the events of chapter 3. |
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Post by akitapup on Jan 9, 2019 9:24:59 GMT -6
ARETHUSA | TALORI
There is little enjoyment in Arethusa's life, post-Flight occupation. Smiles disappeared the moment she was shuffled into Torrine, though at the time it seemed she had no choice but to listen to her leaders, the guides of her people. Surely they knew better than her, yes? Surely, she thinks, eyes narrowed at the cobbled stones and muck of the street as she trots on to treat any injured parties.
At least there was an excuse from the government, some reasoning behind it, poor as it may be. The Flight, however, kept her entrapped because she said no. No to war and fighting against her loved ones, all in the name of a false justice. Arethusa is a healer, down to her bones. Sweetness and harsh reality go hand in hand and she is efficient at using both. She is not very efficient at justifying murder for the sake of freedom, and she likes to keep it that way.
She turns the corner, ignoring the new weight of her bones. There is a quiet, buzzing ache in her belly when she thinks of all the victims of those terrorists, all the faces of the innocent, even those that they claim they fight for. She curls her lips. Hypocrites. She too is a pegasus and does not want the taste of blood between her tongue and teeth- she is the one cleaning it up, drowning in it. The Flight believes they are guiltless.
Reaching the makeshift ward, she glimpses patients in pain, moaning, crying, slipping out of consciousness and life. There is so little they can do.
Glancing to the corner nearest to her, her sea wash eyes rest on a bay paint. A hippocampus, to be exact, sharp fins streaming from her face. It is the wound she sees first, her withered beauty after, soiled by the suffering they've endured. Weeping blood and infection drips from the socket like rain off the canopy, hanging on until it can no longer, and it falls. The wound stinks, although Arethusa cannot isolate it from the overall stench of blood, and Cascade knows what else. She moves one hoof at a time, hesitant.
"Miss?" she calls. There is an inevitable cringe at the sound of her own voice. It is not pretty, singsong-like and soft, it is raw and tired. She cannot complain though; there is not a single person that is not tired.
404 | Post 1 |
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Post by Deleted on Jan 30, 2019 14:03:40 GMT -6
Riva - Talori - Shoal (Brewer)
She gets caught miserably somewhere between delicate lucidity and decisive unconsciousness, hanging on by a thread spun in red. She hears the voice she had hoped for, very far and barely louder than a heartbeat that isn't her own and it takes her a moment before he realizes it's an actual voice, actual hooffalls that stopped near her form. It snaps her out of the buzzing fog, snagging her attention fishhook sharp, and she turns her head - all sharp, all angle- to peer towards the girl that had called her.
Her eye falls on the small thing, with her long blonde hair and her white pleated veils. She is delicate pink, gold and cream, and to Riva her voice is gentle and soft and every reason for suspicion for she distrusts and breaks concern the moment it is presented before her. Even now she can see the mantle cascading from her back, a myriad of purple and pink that look like feathers yet no wings unfurl from her shoulders- these grotesque appendages that carry the horrors above.
She isn't sure whether she wants to wince away from her or not. Riva didn't trust anyone right now, a wounded animal that wanted to crawl away and into herself, curling up like a crushed bug. Her voice is low and cracks when she speaks, carefully watching the girl, "What do you want from me?"
Her pupil is a pinprick in the colorless dark of her eye.
"Do you not see I am hurting?"
WC: 251| Post #2
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