Briza

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Hider

You are able to see into the future. How does the avatar above you die?

Dying after eventually developing endophthalmitis due to a depressed blinking rate.

Lóchrann

𝓛 ó c h r a n n

_{𝓦 a r}

“𝓦ords can be used to declare war, and words can be used to declare peace.”

◈ ◈ ◈

𝓞𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒖𝒑𝒐𝒏 𝒂 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆...

𝓘𝒏 𝒂𝒏 𝒂𝒈𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒈𝒐, 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒇𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒔𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒇𝒐𝒍𝒌𝒍𝒐𝒓𝒆, 𝒍𝒆𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒔, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒔 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆, 𝒂 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅 𝒆𝒙𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒔𝒇𝒖𝒍 𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒚. 𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒍𝒐𝒓𝒂 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒇𝒂𝒖𝒏𝒂 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅. 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒂𝒏 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓-𝒇𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒃𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒋𝒐𝒚, 𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒆, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒊𝒔𝒅𝒐𝒎 𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 𝒂𝒍𝒍, 𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒍 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒅𝒂𝒚, 𝑩𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑮𝒐𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝑾𝒂𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑫𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒂𝒘𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒚 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒊𝒏𝒉𝒂𝒃𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅. 𝑯𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒅𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒖𝒑𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒛𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒏 𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒆𝒔, 𝒔𝒂𝒘 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒆𝒙𝒂𝒄𝒕 𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒊𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒔. 𝑯𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔, 𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒃𝒆𝒅.

“𝑨𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒅𝒊𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒔 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒊𝒏 𝒂𝒄𝒄𝒐𝒓𝒅?” 𝑯𝒆 𝒂𝒔𝒌𝒆𝒅, “𝑨𝒍𝒍 𝑰 𝒔𝒆𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓. 𝑰𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒚 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒍𝒚 𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒚 𝒊𝒇 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒊𝒔 𝒐𝒏𝒆, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒂𝒍𝒍? 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒈𝒓𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒇𝒂𝒓 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒂𝒔 𝒐𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒓𝒐𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒂𝒇𝒂𝒓. 𝑺𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒃𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒊𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒇𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝒔𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒎𝒂𝒚 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒓𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒐𝒈𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒊𝒏 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒐𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓? 𝑺𝒖𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒚, 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒔𝒆 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒆𝒏𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒈𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒐 𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔, 𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒍𝒚 𝒊𝒏 𝒑𝒖𝒓𝒆, 𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒊𝒄 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏?”

𝑨𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒆𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔 𝒔𝒑𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒏 𝒃𝒚 𝑩𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒔, 𝑻𝒆𝒓𝒓𝒂 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒏 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒓𝒐𝒓, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒉'𝒔 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒈𝒂𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒕 𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝑩𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒔' 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒑 𝒕𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒈𝒂𝒏 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒓𝒆𝒅𝒆𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒖𝒕𝒐𝒑𝒊𝒂𝒏 𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒑𝒊𝒆𝒄𝒆𝒔. 𝑬𝒂𝒄𝒉 𝒑𝒊𝒆𝒄𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒈𝒂𝒏 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒕𝒔 𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒏 𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒉 𝒂𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆𝒔 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒆𝒅, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒂𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒇𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑩𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒔 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒅𝒐𝒏𝒆, 𝑻𝒆𝒓𝒓𝒂 𝒃𝒆𝒈𝒂𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒖𝒑𝒐𝒏 𝑨𝒒𝒖𝒂 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒇 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒎𝒆𝒅 𝑬𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒉.

𝑭𝒐𝒓 𝒂 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆, 𝑨𝒒𝒖𝒂 𝒓𝒆𝒊𝒈𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒖𝒑𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒉. 𝑯𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒑𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒇𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝑬𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒉. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒂 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒂𝒘. 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒈𝒆𝒅 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒅 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆 𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒄 𝒍𝒊𝒎𝒃𝒔 𝒖𝒑𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒈𝒆 𝒊𝒔𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒐𝒖𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒔. 𝑰𝒏 𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒗𝒊𝒗𝒆, 𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆𝒔 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒄𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒊𝒏𝒉𝒂𝒃𝒊𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒌𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒑𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒆𝒔.

𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒍 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚, 𝑭𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒖𝒏𝒂 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑮𝒐𝒅𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝑩𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑭𝒖𝒍𝒍𝒇𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒆𝒏𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒅𝒆𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒇𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒖𝒑𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒊𝒕𝒚 𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒉 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒏𝒚𝒎𝒑𝒉 𝒅𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒓 𝒎𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑰𝒏𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑮𝒐𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝑭𝒊𝒓𝒆. 𝑯𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓, 𝑰𝒏𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒐 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒏𝒖𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒂 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒍𝒖𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓 𝒅𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑨𝒒𝒖𝒂'𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒊𝒈𝒏, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑫𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝑭𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒖𝒏𝒂, 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒆, 𝒔𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒌𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒃𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒄𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒍 𝒎𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔 𝒂𝒄𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑫𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒑𝒓𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒅 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒇 𝑰𝒏𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒐. 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒔𝒆 𝒃𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒆𝒓𝒖𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒗𝒐𝒍𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒍𝒂𝒗𝒂. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒂𝒗𝒂 𝒅𝒓𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒄𝒆𝒂𝒏, 𝒐𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒛𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒅.

𝑨𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑩𝒐𝒐𝒌. 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒔𝒑𝒍𝒊𝒕 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒗𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔 𝒇𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔, 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒂𝒔 𝑩𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒔 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒅. 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒅 𝒅𝒊𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒔. 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒎𝒆𝒅 𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒃𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒔, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒔𝒆 𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒊𝒈𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓, 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒅𝒊𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒄𝒖𝒍𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒔.

Шᴀшᴋᴀ

_{S I B E R I A • T H E R U S S I A N E A S T • J A N U A R Y}

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Like long, lost karakul sheep, the Cossacks wandered all too ceaselessly through the dry, cold, harsh weather of the Siberian terrain. Winter was rustic and rude, yet in themselves, they still found deep fondness in respecting such a creation as their dirty, felt boots, soiled by tough, untrodden roads, padded their merciless journey of footprints into a distinct trail of white shadows, dipping almost unnoticeable into the thick, hard snow, which stretched for ages and ages against the Holy Russian Empire’s Eastern Territory — spread with mountains and valleys in mystery and majesty like a fortress and her army praying respectful tribute to the traditional rituals of the Eastern Landscape.

The East's bold face of the wilderness, uncharted yet ominously controlled, held whimsical tales of terror and triumphant victory, could be heard whispering through detailed winds, aridly bashed and haunted all at once, laid its muscular body forward in taunt and stoic, uncouth warmth. Brash winter misery unfolded for an eternal memory and taught the fantasmic history of her folk stories as something only vaguely understood by daring wanderers who humbly marched to the sound of the muted, unspoken hymns, which rung like leaves that shook on the wrinkled trees, grown and twisted in penitential jubilation, sacrificed in prominent silence underneath their modestly pompous foliage attire. However, in the wake of a dying year, a deep shadow cast along the tops of this land with a copious, gray cloak, curtaining tremendous lengths across the arid sky and spreading anteri draped arms towards the horizon, yet despite the dreary darkness, so brilliantly the large daytime star had managed to shine during the day as he permitted a small slivers of his face to reflect on the land. His vain reflections skipped the tiniest of dances to the commands of their owner, while his dominance over the land, still verily solemn in the parting of times, offered the faintest breath of hope, clouded from the lips of the nomadic like taciturn smoke, dispersed to invisible ash as would the fog when the Triodion should, once more.

Twofold warfare wove the stories of these travelers. Outside perfumes clung to their strong bodies, unbound by the permissible freedom of a predated procession. Veils of memories and longing tribulation, communed through generations and generations, pulled timeless noetic strings through the hearts of the Cossacks. These silk threads were too tough and inexhaustible to be sliced or broken by the sharp metal edge of a Shashka. The universal truths of glory and splendor were far too great to dismantle and abandon in this highly noble life, despite the rigorous sin stained in blood with scars of demons upon their very crosses, often elaborated as monstrous shadows cast in various directions, solely dependent on the morning star's mood.

In the name of Holy Mother Russia, their piety pierced through their rib cages like needles, stitching ribbons of honor through their bones and veins, and relentlessly tied into a braid that rested in guard upon one shoulder. It was believed, the Triune Godhead would bestow such tender mercies, sweeter than the honey sap that dripped in comfort along the Paschal Season, at the knowledge of their victories. His hand would plunge into the dark, heated, murky depths of the Dead, and as a spider dwindling on his thread, He would pull each one of them from the unbearable fire — for courageous battles had been won, tainting of spirits and souls in order to keep the Holy Empire under His command. The sacrifice, which caused much grievances of tormenting guilt and self-taught anguish would not go unnoticed. After all, a lowly Cossack was worth more than a Russian noble. This lesson was forged into the young ones’ minds before they learned any horsemanship, but for as a criminal, still being sculpted by the brute knowledge, Annushka Yuryevna Golitsyna had trouble swallowing this supposed truth.

Annushka had escaped the pompous moral of finely lit candles adorned in expensive icon corners, set up so meticulously by the servants of her father’s household. Her mother had placed a small but expensive token of opinion on this matter, draped with pearls, off-white like an evening wedding gown. Other faces, painted in colored egg yoke, recollected themselves across the various rooms in the place Anni used to call home. The ornate fixtures, twirled into beautiful mantle pieces and furnitures so delicate yet sturdy that the young woman often pondered in disdain over how the youth of Natalya, a servant of her father’s house, had grown in comparison to the coarse bitterness that dwelt in her own eyes. The midnight crows, so lofty and crafty in their shadowy steamed nature, had plucked the virginity from her amber eyes and left brown dirt, uninhabitable with nothing but death decored with thorns and rotten fruits caught in the sharp, terrible weeds, not even a desperate man would bother plucking for himself.

It was very well this way, Annu often told herself. The luscious scents of gold and fireplace burning could easily be replaced with blood and campfire. With open terms, the Cossack had taken her in, twice, now – a rescue each instance, and she never stopped being thankful to the Hetmen. On all fours with knees bent beneath her and her forehead pressed into the ashy dirt of the ground, she gave them her life and gratitude. How could she not? They were like bears, they protected their kind; burly and upright and with courageous hearts pumping barrel chests of conquest into the healthy color of their skin; nothing scared them. For this reason, Annu felt relief in Dmitry Krepchenko’s deep wisdom. His bellowing voice carried years of hard earned experience no man without true honor could ever master. His wisdom was well-built and long like the stark brown roots, which motioned through the deafening, lucid shield that had frozen fragments of ice against the Siberian earth. His word meant well as low and deep and trembling with truth as they were. His seriousness could slide caution as he held tightly the handles of responsibility. He was not all terror, though, despite the steepness that molded his face and drew serious precision into the center of his eyes and was dramatized by the ascetic contemplation of years afoot. Merry dashes peaked through his wild nature. It was most noticeable during evening feasts of alcohol and folklore, curved upwards and under his gray mustache.

Annu learned hastily that medicine for the soul came in two forms for the Cossacks: Communion and Vodka. Communion, as some sort of mystical symbol to heal the soul, and Vodka, to lift their spirits, worn in pain from the constant carrying of heavy, eternally sickened souls who carried more weight than their hoofed comrades. Her stomach was weakest when she had first arrived. It may have been a fever of guilt and abrupt lust, sickened in her spirit like a sour fruit she could not stop consuming, but the truth was her gut had never been exposed to such a ritual. As well, the sourness rarely left her bosom; it had cradled securely in the only place she had ever been able to find warmth and slowly wrapped its shackles around her soul. She often felt cold like the winter; dry with lips that occasionally split from torment and constant hissing airs – the gossip around the Cossacks were far more knowledgeable than the city dwellers at times, and even with mouths that cracked with cold, their discussions rarely ended except during meditative moments that were encompassed by the dark world with only a slight campfire to remind them that they were not yet dead even if the day was.

A grunt and then a carrying command settled amongst the Zeporozhian, heeding the large, colorful flock with movements in the sky. A shift of time from day-to-night was painting itself across the horizon, so subtle as the gray hues who dimmed their wealth and retreated back inside their heavenly homes to escape the pitch black wet ink crawling dusky trinkets of gloom to part the hours. A clothed hand, bulky with fabric against thin fingers, pressed cotton to wool and shifted Annu’s papakha. Motioning softly over her hair, the black wool began blending into the night, just as her valenki had blended with the snow. She was only a woman, not yet in her late twenties, but she managed to blend into the clan much easier than she had amongst the schismatic Old Believers — even without a man to claim her. She had stretched her muscles to exhaustion, and if her feet were sore from the day’s journey, there was no use in admitting such a pain. Physical limitations were no discouragement to Annushka. It was the mental ones, unable to overcome the past with forgiveness with which she had the most trouble. The year’s death had only brought more sadness, hidden underneath her many layers of clothing.

At one point, these layers — so bundled with care, unveiled in the darkness of mirth and unlawfulness, brought her much joy, but now, the memories merely bequeathed shamefulness that she never wished to disrobe, again. Frailty of heart in the bitter decay of snow like despair was hard hidden, locked in a bird cage awaiting the Phoenix to consume the worm with victorious fires come Spring. Her soul had ridden many lengths; now traveling by foot with the reins of her horse clenched in want under her closed knuckles. Dark eyes scanned the blank sky. The heavenly hosts were hiding this evening. They had out sung themselves this year during the Nativity, and having outdone themselves in boastful sin were hiding in shame behind the scornful clouds.

Empathy for the heavenly hosts' pride had captivated Annushka for sometime. If by chance she had done the same, she had full faith, larger than a mustard seed, that they would shine once again. Even her storms of doubt measured nothing against her knowledge of the seasons. They marched onward with Time like a never ending Service. No one could so as much control how these things went about Time except for Him, alone. And so, their punishment for being so proud was to hide until winter had breathed her last breath. Hopeful thoughts, breathed like incense from her trembling lips at night that God, too, would let her shine, again.

With the same hand that had adjusted her papakha, Annu pet the ebony chin of her Karabakh horse. The long lashes of her devoated companion bashfully dropped in response, closing her eyes in regards to her master’s touch. A snort bristled from her nostrils, toughness exuding like that of her rider’s; a commonality that reminded them of each other on the outside. After a brief moment, perhaps when the wind finally stopped gossiping about the Great Queen’s orders, Annushka let her mittened hand fall to her side once more. The pinkness of her lips pinched in firmness as orders began in another such litany.

As patterns began reweaving themselves, it was made clear that it would be another silent night, albeit not so holy with the stars in hiding. The tranquility pushed her desire for the muscular arms of her deceased husband to wrap around her once more. The blonde growth of his hair and trimmed mustache and beard tickling her skin, and yet the very thought reminded her of their childish affair — only made sinless by the Old Calendarists, who had renounced the Church and all her ways. And so, Annushka would sometimes weep quietly in pleading prayer that God would forgive him for his carnal sins, the addiction that had enraptured them both like moths to a flame. No, no, more akin to two terrible insects struggling against each other in a sinister spider’s web, and with each movement towards each other, more entangled and shackled in sin they became. Many times, to ease her woes that felt much like heavy, invisible tears dripping down the hollow of her chest from her heart, she would remind herself how wicked he could be. A murderer, an adulterer, an abuser, a fake. No – he could never have been an adulterer if they were never truly married, and his hands were never hard enough to leave prominent mark like his lips had. It was also true that he had not murdered out of plot. It was an accident! Perhaps, perhaps then if he hadn't been so handsome and tall and strong, she would not have dared disown her family for him (or maybe it was the other way around).

It was all vanity, and on occasion, Annu found herself praying to her husband to intercede for her as if it were not for her wicked womanhood, he might still be well and quick today, living in Moscow with his brother still alive. He had been so terribly sorry for the murder. His grievances often showed after a long day’s travel like a secret only they both could really understand. She owed him so much. Why, just look at the Cossacks! Their children were better and more knowledgeable than the children of the Imperial cities. Such enterprise boasted with merriment and cheer from the brace, brute Cossacks. Even with the dirty consciences, their strong spirits refused to settle in their weaknesses. They were a triumphant kind, and in this, Annushka held hope close to the bitter decay nestled in her bosom in hopes that her childish fantasies of freedom would come true this time. If not, she feared for the rest of her life she would wander like some dog without a collar, rapid in craze for the quenching of her thirst. Her mind had settled that this was on the only way even if the campfire, so simply lit in the outer terrains was so meekly decided in comparison to the embellished candles burning in her parents’ icon corner. No, no, again, no, she had her gold cross, resting underneath her garments, protected like the most sensitive parts of herself.

She could feel the metal’s touch. It was warm and heated and matted to her chest. Sometimes, it was the only thing that truly kept her warm – it reminded her vividly of the candles at the Cathedral in Moscow. The long, thin, sculpted wax, pressed securely into the sand and shining brightly in the darkness of the Church and incense. The radiance would tear through the gray layers of reality as angels rushed back-and-forth to save the prayers arising to the dome. There was a time when she had swatted the flame, yes – this time, just like a moth. Her skin had been hurt by the small fire in her over-zealous curiosity for knowledge. And, here, she mused, the symbolic gesture of her fate: to cause herself inadvertent pain as she struggled to find the truth. Her gold cross never burned her, though, but it did shine through the gray veils with angels protecting her heart’s innermost desire along the way.

They had traveled along way today, gathered in the body of a forest to keep the violently cold, night winds from whipping death into their bones. Annushka’s eyes tonsured over her peers — prompt together like an army. As her mind registered and acknowledged each face swiftly, their names prayed through her mind in the circle of a chotki. Her eyes had landed on Dmitry as if he were the tassel of the prayer rope. She was far from pious, but a thought that her mother had brought her to Church enough for her to think like such and convinced her of this analogy. Dmitry was the leader; the soul who knotted them together. Anni even believed Dmitry, in his old age, had become fringed like the tassel of a chotki. There were other thoughts, less pious and more silly. However, she tucked them inside her pocket for the time being.

Despite the struggle of the day’s journey, the shadows cast on them weren’t covered in weary travels. Some winters were worse than others, she knew. However, she only understood the Zeporozhian so vaguely. Cossacks were Cossacks, but to say they were all the same would be comparing St. Petersburg and Moscow as nothing different than merely the names! Enough with herself, selfish as she may act at times, her mind was less preoccupied with her clans differences. It could be troublesome to ponder at times, even frustrating – although, she was too stubborn to get so discouraged. She had a night to prepare, and by the lively looks of everyone, drinks would be pouring forth over rims, and even if her hollowed stare said otherwise, she was content with this nighty affair that was to be held in the near future, shown through the tug of her navy coat, puffed in material around her willowy body.

Bryznut, her horse padded her hooves lightly, and the sounds of other's horses could be heard making soft noises. The trees chimed with the creatures as a cold wind lisped through the forest. Tonight would be nice, as long as everyone stayed warm and did not rely solely on alcohol to sooth their blood. Death was such a thought that began haunting her more and more. It was changing her personality. If it were age or circumstances, Annushka would have felt restful. However, she feared it was in fact that she had not the courage of a true Cossack, "Не бойтесь ничего," she whispered inaudibly, "Господи, помилуй," her body turned, leading Bryznut with her. The large horse flexed her muscles softly and padded her large hooves gently into the white terrain a loyalty to her master who guided her onward to a resting place, alas, "Le Seigneur a pitié," she whispered a bit louder. Life was such a Litany, greater than the Grand Litany of the Divine Liturgy (or was it?). Such rituals, traditions, habits, and patterns came and came and came, and even if Anni was saying it in vain, she knew there was some truth behind it just like the knots on her black, wool chotki — Lord, have mercy.

Sum up your week in roleplaying in just 3 words

Master Elevator Operator

Current Mood in One Gif

>Mrw the co-workers won't let me drink wiff 'em 'cause, I ain't of age, yet.

Current Mood in One Gif

Шᴀшᴋᴀ

“Нет ничего проще, чем осудить злодея и нет ничего сложнее, чем понять его.”

— Фёдор Миха́йлович Достое́вский

——————————————

“Спаситель мой! Ты положил за нас душу Свою, чтобы спасти нас. Ты заповедал и нам полагать души своя за друзей наших, за близких нам. Радостно иду я исполнить святую волю Твою и положить жизнь свою за Царя и Отечество. Вооружи меня крепостию и мужеством на одоление врагов наших и даруй мне умереть с твёрдой верою и надеждою вечной блаженной жизни в Твоём царстве. Мати Божия! Сохрани меня под кровом твоим.”

Digimon - The Parallel Visage

ʀ ᴜ ʙ ᴀ ɴ ɪ ʟ ɪ ᴇ ɴ ᴇ s + ʙ ᴀ ʀ ᴛ ᴍ ᴀ ᴛ ʜ ᴇ ʀ s + ʀ ʏ ᴀ ɴ ᴍ ᴀ ʏ ᴇ ᴢ :

ᴛ ʜ ᴇ ᴅ ɪ ɢ ɪ ᴛ ᴀ ʟ ᴡ ᴏ ʀ ʟ ᴅ : _{D A N T E M U S T D I E}

---

_{@Briza, @Ezekial Wolffe, @RBYDark, & @VKAllen}

A slight hiss knitted itself through the path of the forest, catching Ryan’s angry yet pathetically scared attention. Her eyes shifted quickly towards the sound, catching the briefness of Rubani. Her body cradled itself into Bart’s shadow for safety as the chill in the air crept up her spine. There was no way she was going to make any sound. Bart, on the other hand, God -- he was such a buffoon. Bart the Buffoon. The nickname barely crossed her mind noticeably, but perhaps, if the two of them did live to pick a bone with each other, again, the insult would be hurled from her lips.

Rubani was desperate for either of them to hear her calls. Any louder would mean that they all could be seen by the one who was responsible for the carnage. The boy; however was wholly convinced that the floating creature that presented itself looking like a toy marionette was of the good affinity, “He’s good!” The whisper was silent but vigourous enough for others to hear by an earshot, “I’m not about to lose to somebody who’ll use scare tactics though.”

Rubani was stunned. Was this boy actually planning on antagonizing that thing? Did he not see everything that was going on!? The poor girl almost sighed out loud at his stupidity. She tried signaling again, hoping that at least the girl with him would respond. Maybe she could drag that other kid with her.

Hearing the monstrous thing’s voice had terror-stricken Ryan, and in her poor and vain attempt to protect herself behind Bart had fallen apart all too quickly. Her lower lip quivered beneath her teeth as her eyes slowly met the violet eyes of Rubani. The only comfort she could find in the mist of the situation was a mutual acknowledgement of Bart’s overtly macho behavior, and upon making any such recognition, she quickly shut her eyes tightly and began taking in slow breaths, trying her best not to let them oscillate her body. Maybe the thing would not notice her and just Bart.

No, it clearly knew there were more of them.

In a sudden swift motion, Ryan reached for Bart, pulling him downward, “Shhh…” her eyes narrowed at him in pitiful fear, “Stop being such a boy! This is not a game,” she whispered sharply, pity turning more into a glaring antagonism at the buffoon.

The force had weighed him down -- fingers that pulled his hoodie was followed by Ryan’s terrified and emaciated appearance. It hounded him with her words. As he nervously threw his gaze at the girl he said, “And have me be what? A damsel in distress princess? You’re the one who’s trying to sound like a man! Guy’s inviting us to play games! No good man would deny him that opportunity,” Completely unaware of the death that is surrounding them. Ryan’s lips parted to say or rather, yell something in a bitter retort. However, after a moment of hesitation raced through her mind, her body inclined forward slightly, and her hands pushed against Bart’s chest, shoving him onto his back, “Oof!” Dirt skirted into the air at the thud of the teenager’s body collapsing against the forest’s floor.

A leer escaped his eyes as he landed square on the ground. Anger and frustration enticed him into leaping up from his back and proceed to fight the enemy that he sees in front of him. “What is your goddamn major malfunction?!” He too shoved Ryan as hard as he could.

The fight starting before her eyes dashed any hope of either of them remembering where they were. Rubani could only watch in confusion and frustration. She looked towards the floating mask child in anticipation. There was no possible way that it didn't hear the two of them fighting. Indeed, Rubani seemed to be correct. The masked being was staring at the group, arms crossed and expression unchanged. For a second, it almost seemed like it had forgotten entirely about Dante, still squeezed in an invisible hand and a purple crystal to his chest.

“....that doesn’t really count as coming out to play. What do you think?” The masked being finally spoke up over the fighting, apparently addressing the one person paying him any mind. “Well, I think I gave you guys a fair chance.” The crystal pulled back a few inches, the being raising a hand.

He flicked his wrist.

The crystal shot forward-

And dissolved upon contact with Dante’s chest.

A scream rang out from the trees. “NOOOO!” Rubani shouted.

The being laughed, gentle and sincere and almost reassuring were it not for the scent of charred flesh still lingering in the air. “Oh, that reaction never gets old...” And now he was in the middle of the three, Dante dropped to earth like a discarded doll. The child digimon reclined, still floating in midair as he apparently surveyed the group. “That bit though? Missing the crystal? That’s starting to get a bit old. Cheating, I tell you.”

Ryan had her fist cocked, ready to twist it harshly into the soft, round cheek of Bart. If she aimed it right, his dumb hipster glasses might fall off, too, but before her muscles released her senses came back to her as the slow echo of Rubani’s shriek began replaying in her memory. Her hand arm weakened, fingers tugging at the sleeve of her jacket. Her body moved from the younger boy’s frame. Her eyes heavily scanned the area in terrified lament before finally falling upon Rubani who stricken with grief. They were about to fucking die.
He saw the punch coming and raised his arm in anticipation for it. The pain that he had expected was to sear his muscle did not come, rather his ears were vibrating from Rubani’s screaming plead that reflexively caught his attention in an instant. His gaze pointed towards a horrified Rubani followed instantly to the marionette and his puppet laying lifelessly that was… The other human. “H-He died?”

“H… h…” Ryan stuttered, attempting to repeat verbatim what the boy had just said as a means to articulately register what had just happened. Immediately, Ryan flung herself on top of Bart to hide behind the log. Her right arm writhed against him protectively, “Stay down,” she whispered -- seriousness kneaded in her tone.

She couldn't handle what was happening. That thing had actually killed someone. Rubani been nervous about what might happen, but to have her worse fears come true was absolutely terrifying. Her blood ran cold, and her legs grew weak beneath her. This is where she dies; in a strange forest by a sadistic monster who wanted to see her suffer. Did it even care? It floated in mid air as if they were only boring it. Soon enough, it would grow tired of them completely and kill them all. First her, then Ryan, then Dante…

If she didn't do anything, they were going to be next.

Rubani threw herself forward in a blind panic. If she could reach them and drag them away from that thing, maybe they could somehow survive this. I can reach them in time, I have to! She mumbled this to herself as she reached out to grab the quarreling children.

Ban the Person above you

Banned for beaning in a Banning Thread.