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In Camp Athens - Closed → 1 yr ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay


#A8516E ....|..... Louisiana, New Orleans, Louis Armstrong International Airport
Rosalia stalked from the security line, tightly gripping her passport and the ticket tucked within. This was an awful time to fly. Why hadn’t she left earlier? Why hadn’t she just missed Christmas? With two hours to go until her flight, she took her place in line at Starbucks. She needed coffee. Then she needed to sleep at some point on the plane. Delta and ITA Airways had already devoured over two grand. A hotel in Athens was unconscionable. Insulting. Mortifying.

Well, it all was, since her own so-called father had seen exactly fit enough to summon her and pay not a single damned cent for the whole thing. And that messenger—whom she had practically needed to wring every bit of necessary information out of—had offered no indication that whatever was so important at this Camp Athens was going to involve reimbursals. So here she was, preparing to burn more money at Starbucks, with no promise of a job on the other side. Was the home she’d bargained for worth it? Was it even there? She couldn’t have been crazy; she knew very well what she was capable of doing. Yet this messenger for Zeus made her feel crazy. Was it some innate property of divinity that they needed to be unnecessarily obtuse? Why not just get everything set up, get her headed in the right direction, and, oh, maybe give her the details without her having to practically hold him back as he tried to fuck off back to Olympus—a place which, mind you, was already in Greece.

And here she was, drinking a large mocha cookie crumble Frappuccino at the Louis Armstrong International Airport. A large—not a fucking “venti”, you ridiculous jabronies.

Here she was, drinking an overpriced drink, flying an overpriced flight that she had to pay extra for in order to have enough space to breathe and not lose her legs from lack of blood flow. Not to mention the extra bags. Rosalia’s jaw tensed as the final tally for the extra fees she’d been accosted with flashed involuntarily through her mind. Just thinking about it was going to give her a headache. No, wait, she needed to stop drinking so fast. That was going to give her a headache. Rosalia’s eyes darted towards her carry-on. She pulled out a small box and stared at it. Another $70, down the drain. She plucked out a piece of the fruity nicotine gum, then a second, and popped both in her mouth. She stuffed the box back in her bag, and reviewed her ticket briefly, before sighing. All of this frustration wasn’t going to change things. And she had a whole day of sitting on a plane that she could either stew during or find something better to do with her time.

Well…that was the problem, wasn’t it?

What the hell were people supposed to do with that much time?

Somewhere over Mississippi or maybe Alabama
Rosalia slumped in her seat. She kept feeling like there was something she needed to be doing. Like there was something left undone that she was irresponsibly abandoning.

Of course she was. Her life as a human was there, fading away into the horizon. Would she ever know it again? Did she want to? Was what she was leaving behind a life at all?

She stared down at her phone as the question sunk in. It stung. Here she was, swiping idly back and forth across her home screen, locked in digital pacing like a stressed-out zoo animal. Opening and closing apps, simple little games, and even reorganizing folders. It was like looking in a mirror and seeing nothing looking back. She had a ball sort puzzle game that she’d burned through over two thousand levels on. She’d done much the same for crosswords, sudoku, some off-brand bubble blast, and several variants of candy crush knockoffs. And at this point, she realized she’d managed to sit this far into the plane ride without choosing anything to listen to. She had earbuds in, and wasn’t listening to a damn thing except the dull roar of the air whipping past the airplane’s cabin. It sounded deafening now, even though it was objectively fairly faint through her earbuds.

This was maddening. Finding entertainment felt like a massive—no, damn near insurmountable chore. But she couldn’t sleep. And staring off into the endless expanse of clouds either hurt from the glare or otherwise made her want to claw her eyes out from the sheer monotony of it all. God, would the stewards let her put on a uniform or something and do some work?

Rosalia huffed and shook her head at the thought. Obviously it was a ridiculous idea. And she’d splurged on breathing room already. Why not sit back and enjoy it? But that’s exactly what she’d been trying and spectacularly failing to do for the past couple of hours! Rosalia fidgeted, scratched her nose, then her chin, then brought her hand to scratch her hair before hesitating, remembering that she’d put her hair in a tight braid to keep it from being too awful by the time she landed.

The stewards were approaching. Shit. Right. She was a whole, real adult. She could definitely find a way to relax and be entertained on this flight. She just needed to drink enough to make what she had available to her easy to enjoy.

“Yes ma’am, I would. Could I please have some tequila?”

Over the Atlantic, Probably
Rosalia felt a peaceful smile settle on her face. The world made sense again. Well, it wasn’t like she could think hard enough to talk herself out of letting the world be as it was. The duty-free store at the JFK International Airport was a blessing, really. Was two bottles of Rosé too much? Probably. But as she held one bottle in her lap like a precious baby, each little sip said otherwise. The in-flight entertainment was enough. Movies could be fun. The miserable atmosphere of air travel was almost lost on her, for how her senses had been lovingly drowned in the beautiful miracle of wine. Moonstruck, the Count of Monte Cristo, the Birdcage, and Joker: Folie à Deux got her to Rome.

After trudging through Italian customs, mumbling just enough half-remembered Sicilian that the officers there caught on to the fact that she was from the American Diaspora and waved her through indifferently, Rosalia was confronted with the fact that she had neglected to eat. Unfortunately, there just wasn’t enough time. And the half-bottle of Rosé would tide her over on the flight to Athens, wouldn’t it?

Greece, Athens, Athens International Airport
Rosalia jerked awake as the plane’s wheels met the tarmac. Had she actually slept through that whole flight? The little stream of drool sneaking under and through her shirt seemed to say so.

Yeah, this was Athens.

Rosalia massaged the bridge of her nose for a moment as her wits came to her.

Well, at least she wouldn’t need to put the empty bottle back into her bag now. Not that either option made her look like less of a drunk to the other passengers. Hell, if they were in such a position, they’d be drinking too. Air travel was bad. Family Christmas was worse. Being a daughter of Zeus? Well, what she’d read of the myths suggested Zeus’ children had pretty awful destinies. Jesus, why did people on airplanes always have to take absolutely forever to get their asses in gear?

Rosalia found herself glaring across the cabin at a group of middle-aged folks who seemed to be having a bit of trouble with the baggage compartment. Even after they finally figured it out, she kept staring at the same spot, in the same direction, until her peripheral vision finally caught one of the people nearer to her fumbling with their own bags. She pulled her carry-on out from under the seat in front of her and prepared to push out at the earliest opportunity. Her moment came, and she bolted upwards and to the side, cutting off the nearby people preparing to go after their bags. The only thought that dominated Rosalia’s mind was how badly she wanted off the plane and out of the airport.

Like a businesswoman running late for an important meeting, Rosalia stalked off the plane and hurried along towards the baggage claim.

Greece, Athens, Tempi Hotel
After a quick lunch, Rosalia made her way to her hotel. Tempi Hotel had about the cheapest listing she could find save for the hostels, while seeming decent enough. It just had to be enough to get her through one night. Then, it was a matter of getting to that damned Camp. The directions to which, Zeus’ little messenger had so generously defined in terms of fucking paces from the Olympieion. Paces which, after converting to real units, led her from the center of Athens to clean off of any paved road or apparent trail. She knew she needed sleep, and needed it badly. Even though it was the middle of the day, she was already exhausted. Once she had showered and prepared for bed, she took some melatonin, just to make completely certain that she would get her sleep. And sleep she did.

At 4:00am the next morning, she awoke. Time to get started. Denim mom jeans and steel-toed work boots for durability, then a sports bra, tank top, flannel, and zip-up hoodie for layers, hair in a bun, sunglasses on, and she was dressed for the day.

She got some food from the buffet breakfast, got her bags, checked out of her room, and flagged down a cab. Rather than begin from the Olympieion itself, Rosalia gambled on spending far less time bartering with the driver to drop her off at the furthest paved part of her route. And so it began.

…

‘Right, hills. They rule from a mountain. Why wouldn’t I have to climb a ton?’

…

‘Snow?! In Greece?!

Rosalia groaned under the weight of her bags and chucked them into the thin blanket of snow. She lunged after one of the suitcases, and opened it. She pulled out a scarf and a long peacoat. She couldn’t button the coat anymore, but it’d have to do. She wrapped the scarf around her head to cover her ears and to tuck her chin in, put her oversized backpack on again, then put one huge duffle on each shoulder, and finally lugged a massive suitcase in either hand. All in all, it was about as heavy as she was—and it felt like it too. She hissed as her joints remembered the weight they were demanded to carry, and then shakily checked her cheap little pedometer watch. Halfway there. The sun was out. Hopefully it’d start getting warmer.

A Gate? Camp Athens?
Rosalia had long ago passed the point where any coherent thoughts were replaced with a vague yet intense sense of exhausted frustration. Time lost its meaning. Each breath was its own eternity. Each pace was a heartbeat in her ears. Rosalia had never been keen on hiking even when it was nice out; but snow? Unfamiliar terrain? Frustratingly, incessantly vague instructions her only guide? Rosalia seethed at every remaining step. Until at last, the numbers dwindled into the thousands. Then the hundreds. And at last, it came into her sight. The alleged Camp Athens existed, and so too did it have campers coming to fill its numbers again.

With a sputtering breath, she pushed harder again, reinvigorated her march, and at last made her way to the gate. And as she marched on, growing redder in the face as she scarcely remembered even to breathe, she heard it.

"I’m Blair, and this—You, no doubt, already know—Is the hellhole that is Camp Athens."

Rosalia groaned and buckled into a belaboured, wheezing laugh. She relaxed her arms, and started dragging them along behind her as she approached. Each breath came in and out of her mouth with the force of a steam engine. Her gaze, though obscured by her black sunglasses, rested squarely on Blair, with the others present hardly even registering to her as she approached.

“Please,” she sputtered, “Tell me ya’ fuckin’ jokin’. It can’t be a fuckin’ hellhole.”

She let go of the right suitcase and wiped the trail of snot streaming from her nose into her mouth with her sleeve.



Interactions ....|.... Blair ............... Mentions ....|.... Ace, Lochlan, Osée, & Blair ............... Collabs ....|.... None
In Realms of Sun & Shadow → 1 yr ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Where Grief Sings and Prays
Part 2
Location: Seluna Temple | Collaboration with @Qia
Ramona sighed softly. She nodded, her tight-lipped smile forming a sort of hesitant, if warm smile that suggested, whatever her intentions were, that she had scarcely expected anything like what she was seeing to come from her actions, and that this surprise was very much welcome.

Quickly, she hoisted herself up and stood with Elara, if the slightest bit behind her rather than directly alongside her.

“Guess we’ll learn together,” she offered as they began to exit the little room, “Want me to hang by you for a bit before I get back to work? I still got a bit of time…”

Elara paused at the threshold, shifting slightly at Ramona’s offer, feeling the urge to say yes war with the ingrained reflex to decline.

“I'd like that,” she said eventually, the words small but genuine. Rather than moving immediately, however, she leaned lightly against the nearest column, letting the solid stone cool the last of the tremor in her hands.

“You know...” Elara said after a moment, her voice low, reflective. She studied Ramona from the corner of her eye — the veil, the muted posture, the way she somehow seemed both solid and half-faded at once. “I used to think you were just another ghost in the palace,” she admitted, her thumb brushing the edge of Aliseth’s cloak. “Not invisible, exactly. Just... easy to overlook. Like you were part of the stonework. ”

Elara tilted her head back against the column, her gaze tracing the worn arch of the ceiling above them. “I think... I just never looked closely enough.” Her voice carried no bitterness, no self-reproach, but only the quiet surprise of a curtain pulled back on something she should have recognized far sooner. “I’m glad I finally did.”

Ramona stood patiently a short distance from Elara, not quite at attention, but in a position that suggested a certain awareness that was anything but casual. Truthfully, the entire thing was still a surprise. In theory, they definitely did have enough in common to reach an understanding. Ramona had herself never imagined it would have been enough. Her mouth pulled to the side in a more easy-going smirk as it all clicked into place. Neither of them had really thought. But wasn’t that the way of things, back at the palace?

Ramona had gotten furthest by not asking questions. By pretending she couldn’t see anything in front of her other than her express duties. And maybe Elara had been the same way after all. Maybe it was just the right of the servants of Lunaris, that they should be at their best when they should know so little of others that they might barely even know themselves. And here they were, finding a camaraderie to grow so easily, as if it had been destined from the start. Wasn’t it all a bit…stupid?

“Heh…heh…” she let out a few little chuckles. Ramona brought a hand to her chest and snorted. Her smile grew, until it cracked past a smirk into a plainly warm, good-humoured expression, even as she shook her head, like the whole thing was all too much.

“I, uh, heh—I kinda figured the same thing about you,” she remarked, “I mean, it’s the whole job, right? Sorta like, I get to be a piece of the palace that cleans itself, and you get to be a shadow that dresses the Princess. Only other real person I ever knew who worked there was my husband. Until now, anyway.”

Ramona let out a wistful sigh and put her hands on her hips, shaking her head again, like she was laughing at herself.

“Dunno why it never occurred to me back in those days to—oh, why am I talking like we’ve been here years! And like this for years! It is all that different here, and now, isn’t it? It feels like a thousand years ago when he and I watched that last sunset on the palace walls. It could have always just been us, and I would have been fine with that. I’d never really thought that much about you, or the Princess…or, if I’m being honest, even the King. It was always just a job. But now he’s gone. Now all of this is just…life. Which I guess…is the way it’s been for you for a long time, hasn’t it? And now I’m here too, because of the Princess. And I’m talking to you...”

Ramona started to trail off. As she’d spoken, her expression slowly sank, without even really realizing it. As she spoke, half to herself, she finally closed her eyes, reached up, and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Sorry. I’m hearing myself; that sounded kinda bitchy. I mean…it’s crazy that I never thought to do it before. And now it’s all like a whole different life,” she concluded.

“It’s not crazy,” Elara said.“It’s... easier not to look too closely. Back there, it’s…it’s different from how it is here in Dawnhaven.”

She glanced sidelong at Ramona again.

“In Lunaris, you learn to survive by keeping your eyes down. Everyone’s too busy fighting the cold, the dark, their own hunger, to notice anything they don’t have to. People are hard-edged and careful. Even in the palace... maybe especially there. You’re not meant to be seen. You’re meant to serve and endure.” Her mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile, more a recognition of a bitter truth. “But Dawnhaven...It’s too new. There aren’t enough walls to hide behind yet. Here, everyone’s survival is tied to each other’s, and no one can pretend otherwise for long.”

A dry laugh escaped the handmaiden. Endure. How many times had that word been hissed at her by stewards and seamstresses? A mantra for a kingdom built on scarcity and silent compliance. Her shoulders lifted in a half-shrug, the gesture at odds with the seriousness in her tone.

“And anyway... if it helps, I’m fairly certain I sounded much….bitchier yesterday. You’d have to ask the princess about that, though.” The self-deprecation, especially with Ramona’s chosen profanity, was armour, polished but transparent—an invitation to laugh, to deflect, to pretend the admission didn’t cost her. Yet beneath the levity hummed genuine uncertainty. Had her bluntness with Amaya been necessary, or merely a reflex honed in colder halls? The doubt coiled in her chest, familiar and venomous. Old habits, she chided herself, or survival? The line blurred these days, and she no longer trusted her ability to distinguish them.

Elara shifted, the urge to say something easier tugging at her, before she pressed forward instead.

“So…you were married?” Elara asked then, changing the subject. Of course, she was not married, hence the curiosity. “I’m very sorry for that loss. I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you.” The words were careful, stripped of the court’s performative pity. Empathy, she’d found, required no embellishment, and only the courage to meet another’s gaze and hold it.

Ramona nodded solemnly as Elara responded, her expression sinking into a grim, stalwart frown that affirmed all Elara was saying. It was a different world here. One where none of the old rules made sense. In another world, perhaps that would be terrifying. But it wasn’t as if the old rules were all that worth missing. So what if things were strange and unfamiliar, then? It had to be good for everyone, save for maybe the…Princess.

And here Elara was confiding that she’d been somehow…bitchy…with that Princess? Ramona’s eyes opened wide and her mouth narrowed for a moment at the shock. Elara had done or said something, and was able to speak about it this way? Able to think about it this way? Able to stand here at all, alive? The very notion, Ramona imagined, would have been utterly insane to even fathom back at the palace. But here she was, standing before another servant, commenting that something like this had happened. It was completely different.

Ramona did not have long to sit with the surprise, however. Elara asked about her husband. Ramona’s face shifted, first to a grave expression, and then to a weak smile which bore behind it a clear, deep yearning. She let out a soft, drawn out sigh as she drifted from standing free to leaning, not far from Elara.

“My sweet Nico…” Ramona murmured. She gingerly brought one hand under her veil and held her cheek.

“I—mmm. Thank you for your…condolences,” Ramona responded. Her voice wavered as she spoke, crackling still more than it usually did. Ramona let out a weepy laugh as her fingers drifted up to her eye.

“He—oh…it’s only been…a few months,” she sputtered, “And yet it feels like an eternity.”

Her voice cracked at the word eternity.

“He was so warm. And then he…wasn’t. I hate the blight. I hate it…so…much.”

Ramona’s state had quickly deteriorated, as her voice wavered more and a contingent of hot little tears escaped her. Her hand drifted down from under the veil and pulled close to her chest, joined by the other. She started to hunch, bending towards Elara.

“I could…I could never tell you what it’s like,” she continued, “It was supposed to be us together. Together forever. W-we w-were going to do so much…build something together…be something…together.”

Ramona shook softly. Her voice nearly cut out as she half-sputtered, half-whispered, “I’m sorry.”

She whimpered for a moment. Then her muscles tensed as she tried to rally. She reached into her dress roughly and shakily tugged out a small silver locket with a ring sitting atop it, threaded through the chain. Her hand quivered as she clutched it tightly in her hand.

“I don’t know if it will ever stop. I don’t know if it can,” she whimpered. She shakily inhaled again, then concluding, “I-If you ever find someone, promise me…as a friend…you’ll pray you won’t outlive your love. Nobody deserves this. I don’t know how my father did it.”

Ramona slumped against the wall, clutching her locket, and slowly began to sink towards the floor, still breathing shakily and whimpering.

Elara remained motionless, her stillness not born of indifference but of reverence for the unbandaged truth between them. Some sorrows defy salves. They demanded the open air, the sting of unfaltering witnesses. She lowered herself onto the stone beside Ramona, the chill of the floor seeping through her skirts. Her hands stayed folded in her lap, resisting the urge to reach out, to mend. Instead, she let her shoulder rest against Ramona’s, a bridge built not of words but weight. The contact was featherlight, a counterbalance to the locket’s iron grip in Ramona’s palm. I’m here, the pressure whispered. I won’t shrink from the shape of your grief.

When it came, her voice was quiet enough to almost be lost in the tremor of Ramona’s breathing.

“I want to,” she breathed, her shoulder pressing harder, an anchor against the riptide of shared despair. “I want to promise you.” The words hung suspended, a vow half-forged. But the silence that followed thrummed with the unsaid, the unbearable arithmetic of love and loss.

“But I can’t.”

Her hand lifted, trembling, toward her sternum, a reflex to clutch the phantom weight beneath her ribs. But the motion aborted halfway, fingers curling into a fist as if catching the ghost of a name she couldn’t utter. “There’s someone—” The sentence splintered, sharp as a bone breaking. Amaya. The name lodged in her throat, a shard of obsidian: beautiful, lethal, hers to carry. “Someone I’d cross mountains for. Someone I’d tear the world apart to protect.” Her jaw tightened, the prophecy coiling in her veins like frost spreading through the tributaries of her blood.

Nine months, a countdown etched in nothing but borrowed time.

“And I know…” Her voice cracked once more, fissuring with the knowledge she had and wished that she didn’t. To live in ignorance, yes, but also bliss. “I know there might come a day when all the fighting, all the wanting, won’t be enough to keep them here.” She stared at the floor. How many had knelt here before her, bargaining with gods or fate or their own failing hands like she’d done only moments ago?

“If I can’t even keep them... I don’t know how I could ever promise not to outlive someone I love.” For even she was here, and her mother was not. Amaya would simply be another love she would outlive against her will, wants, and desperate desires.

Ramona clung tightly to her locket as Elara spoke. She let a part of her weight rest against her as Elara joined her on the ground, coming shoulder to shoulder with her. In a different state, Elara’s words might have prompted questions in Ramona’s mind. But here and now, Ramona couldn’t bring herself to think. She began to fight back against her own tears, blinking vigorously to bat them away. She fumbled again, stuffing the locket back down into her dress. She opened and closed her hands quickly, as if trying to physically grasp her thoughts. There was no strength here. There was no strength in being alone. And here they were, weeping together. Together.

Ramona didn’t think. Not really. Her spine straightened, just for a moment. She rallied, just for a moment. Her mind tried to tell her to leave. To go before things got harder still. That this wasn’t worth it. But every other fibre of her being overrode those quiet thoughts and doubts with action. She had never really wanted to leave people. Not before. And again, she was up against another person she couldn’t bear to part from. It just wasn’t right. Not to either of them.

Ramona reached around with a sudden burst of speed and strength, and pulled Elara into a tight and warm, almost bordering on hot, side-hug. She was strong, still, just for a moment. Her muscles tensed and shook as she embraced Elara. But her head needed something different than the warmth and connection of a tight hug. It couldn’t be strong, not now. Her brief bout of silence broke again as another, quieter sob erupted from her.

“I wish I could take that away for you,” Ramona sputtered, beginning to almost rock as she spoke, still embracing Elara as she did, “It—it’s the worst feeling in the world. You don’t deserve it. Nobody—n-nobody in the w-world dese-erves it.”

Ramona made a little sound, like she was trying to speak more, but couldn’t get anything else out in that moment, either for failing to put the words together in her mind, or for failing to produce them from her mouth. All she could offer was a brief tightening of her hug, and a shaky inhalation through the hot tears which streamed from her face, through and past her veil, onto Elara’s shoulder.

Elara’s breath shuddered as Ramona’s embrace enveloped her, strong yet trembling, fierce yet achingly fragile. She hesitated for only a heartbeat, instincts warring again: the ingrained habit to pull away, to guard herself, against the simple human yearning to be held. In the end, it was the warmth and honesty of Ramona’s grief that won out. Her own arms lifted, slowly at first, then with some certainty, wrapping carefully around the other woman as though afraid of disturbing a fragile peace.

Ramona’s words, whispered through tears, resonated deeply within Elara, unravelling something tight and knotted inside her chest. She closed her eyes, her forehead pressing against Ramona’s shoulder, feeling the tremors and heat of the other woman's grief against her skin.

“I wish the same for you,” she murmured. “You don't deserve it either.”

The words held no illusions of ease or immediate solace. Instead, they were an acknowledgment of the shared burden, the commonality of loss that now bound them as surely as the embrace did. For the first time in too long, Elara allowed herself the grace of leaning fully into another’s support, letting her tears fall silently, joining Ramona’s in quiet, mutual understanding. She let herself be held, offering and accepting comfort in equal measure, as the warmth of their shared sorrow gradually softened the cold edges of grief. No words could erase the pain they carried, but in this moment, neither woman was alone with it. That, perhaps, was enough. It had to be.

Elara allowed Ramona's tears to continue falling without interruption, feeling the warmth seep through the fabric at her shoulder. The embrace was fierce, desperate, everything she had felt earlier but had been unable to express aloud. It was humbling, she realized, to hold another's grief, to accept it without promise or deception.

When Ramona’s breaths finally evened into something resembling calm, Elara spoke.

“That song you sang earlier,” she began, her voice thoughtful. “I'd never heard it before. But it felt like I had.” She hesitated, the silence stretching briefly before continuing, “Was it yours?” The question was gentle, careful not to pry open wounds too harshly, yet holding a quiet invitation for Ramona to share more, if she wanted, if she needed. “It sounded... like something that came from deep inside. From somewhere that hurts.”

Her gaze flickered to Ramona’s profile, tracing the damp trails on her cheeks.

“I’m sorry if it’s hard to talk about. But it felt important.”

Ramona was quiet for a moment, her head still resting against Elara as the stillness overtook her. She loudly sniffled, then swallowed. Another breath, another exhalation, and another breath went by, then she at last spoke again.

“It’s…an ol’…uh…ol’…” Ramona trailed off briefly, clicked her tongue, and then continued, “I dunno if anybody else sings it. But my folks…people in my village…it’s, uh, one of the songs we used to sing. For worship.”

Ramona sniffled again and cleared her throat as she lifted her head.

“Some of the old ladies at temple used to say it’s a song to sing for if you have to leave home, for when the winter’s getting too cold to bear, for when you have to leave something…even if you never got a say in it,” she explained, “I usually don’t like to sing it when there’s a full temple. It’s for longing, for grievin’ something that had to end even though you never got a say. It’s about growing up, as much as anything else.”

Ramona sighed. Her hug loosened faintly.

“I just…never know how to say the right words. How could you say what you need to say here? So I pick a song I remember—one of the ones we used to sing—and I hope Seluna’ll take it.”

“Maybe there aren’t any right words,” the handmaiden said softly.“Maybe... a song says it better, anyway. There’s something honest about music, isn’t there? It doesn’t try to fix things, but somehow it does.” She lifted her gaze, meeting Ramona’s eyes through the gauzy barrier of her veil. “I think Seluna heard you,” she murmured, conviction gentle but genuine. “I know I did.”

Her eyes lowered. “I remembered a moment I’ve spent years trying to forget. Amaya and I, in the gardens back home. She laughed, barefoot, and I—” She broke off, swallowing. “It was nothing. A summer day. The kind you don’t realize is precious until you can’t get it back.”

She didn’t elaborate further. She couldn’t. But her next words emerged steadier, almost reverent.

“Your song made it feel like it had just happened. Like, I was still there. And also like I’d never get to be again. I hated that. But I think… maybe that’s what makes it sacred and I…” The confession scalded her tongue, unable to finish it aloud.

And I wanted to burn it down. And I wanted to kneel.

Her hand drifted to her sternum, pressing as if to stanch an invisible wound.

“Seluna is cruel, to let beauty linger where joy cannot.” The words were an accusation and a prayer. “But cruelty, too, can be holy, I suppose.”

Ramona smiled softly at first, letting a brief moment of calm interrupt the tears in recognition of Elara’s compliments. It wavered and faded, returned for just a moment, until it once again melted into the tears at Elara’s assertion about the Goddess.

Again, Ramona remained silent for a spell after Elara spoke. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft—barely above a whisper.

“When my father died, I looked up at the sky for days. I wanted to study it. Find where he was. He had to be there,” she began. She spoke slowly, like a woman defeated.

“I used to bundle up in the winter and lay in the snow, looking up at the sky, till my face went numb. I feel like I know it well… And now. Ever since I lost Nico. I look up. Every night. He has to be there. How can there be no new stars in the sky, shining so brightly that I cannot imagine it to be anyone so beautiful as him? I just hope he’s well. Up there. If Seluna hasn’t accepted him, then I can only hope she’ll reject me, too. I hope she’s not so cruel as to separate us when the time comes. My memories are still so vivid, I can pretend we’re in that moment. That’s why I do it. To have a moment where it’s us, even if it’s pretend. I don’t know if Seluna will let me have anything more real.”

“If Seluna has any mercy in her, as I’ve always thought she did... she’ll never let you forget what it felt like to be that known. That held. You were both…greatly blessed,” Elara conceded, the admission tinged with a envy she refused to name. “To hold and be held is Seluna’s rarest sacrament. Most of us only ever kneel outside the temple.” She paused, thinking aloud now.

“I hope... that if I’m ever loved like that, I’ll be brave enough to let it stay. That I won’t mistake it for something that needs to be outrun.” Elara let her gaze drift upward after this, toward the window’s panes that obscured the night sky. She imagined the constellations anyway—Seluna’s Crown, the twin arcs of the goddess-sisters drawn across the heavens. Aelios and Seluna. Light and shadow. Creation and undoing.

The myths painted their schism in grand strokes, Aelios’s anvil versus Seluna’s loom, ambition versus compassion, but Elara suspected the truth was much subtler than that. A disagreement over how to mend a cracked vase. A withheld apology after a petty quarrel. Mortal failings, magnified by divinity. She envisioned them in their primordial workshop, Aelios’s hands calloused from hammering continents into shape, Seluna’s fingers stained with the ink of star charts. Partners, once. Sisters, always. Until the day Aelios declared survival demanded sacrifice, and Seluna replied that survival without grace was mere prolongation. The world bore the scars of their stalemate: mountains split by Aelios’s chisel, valleys drowned by Seluna’s tears. Elara had once read that the stars were their scattered regrets, remnants of what they could have built if they'd remained united. Another tale, called the moon’s phases, Seluna’s silent mourning for the bond she'd lost. And now the blight…whatever it truly was.

Sometimes, Elara wasn’t sure which she was in essence, despite being born under Seluna’s waning crescent, swaddled in her mother’s lullabies of resilience. Silverglen, her birthplace, had been Aelios’s domain once, too, for a short time each year. She remembered how her father’s laborers sang as they scythed the wheat, their bodies glazed with sweat and sunlight. How the small harvest festivals blazed with bonfires, sparks spiralling upward like offerings. Strength and sorrow weren’t opposing forces there; they were the twin pulleys that hoisted life forward. We honoured both, in our own way, she realized then. Until the continuous war between the kingdoms made it impossible to see anything in both light and shadow. Until the world that had demanded a side be chosen decided that reunification could be the key, no matter how arduous the path.

Her throat tightened. Flynn’s face and the faces of his people appeared in her mind—pale, gaunt, skin starved of sun. The priests called it a necessary purification, this eternal gloaming. But Elara knew the truth, had swallowed enough holy lies to choke a saint: Seluna’s grief had swollen into something possessive, a smothering embrace. She closed her eyes, and suddenly she was younger again, chasing Amaya while their laughter unspooled beneath a honeyed sky. Sunlight had streamed through the leaves like liquid gold, dappling Amaya’s hair as she spun, arms wide, revelling in the simple and rare miracle of warmth. They didn’t know to call it a gift then, of course. They didn’t even know how to pray, to want. But they’d had each other, and it had been enough. After all, time and Seluna had a way of teaching her people how to live in shadow.

With Ramona’s grief anchoring her in the present and Amaya’s laughter echoing faintly in memory, Elara found herself staring into the space between myth and moment, between what was lost and what remained. And with the other’s grief still pressed into her shoulder, Elara wondered:
Was it mercy that the goddesses no longer touched?
Or had they simply learned the cost of looking too closely?

And if even the divine could drift apart, what hope did mortal love have?

But then she remembered Ramona’s voice, cracked and fervent, singing into the silence, hoping for an answer. That had to be it. That was faith: not the absence of doubt, but the decision to sing anyway.

Maybe, Elara thought, that was the point.
Not reunion, but remembrance.
Not answers, but endurance.

Just two sisters, still watching from opposite ends of the sky.
Still holding the world between them.

And maybe…. that was love, too.

The moment lingered, suspended like a breath between verses. Elara allowed it to remain this way, knowing it wouldn’t last. Grief never did, not in its purest form. Eventually, even pain had to move, to rise, to return.

So she exhaled, letting go not of what was shared, but of the stillness that held it.

“We should…really return now, ” she said. She didn’t move just yet, though. She looked at Ramona, and the words that followed came without hesitation.

“Will you still walk with me?”

An invitation.

One that meant: You don’t have to return alone.
One that meant: I won’t pretend I never saw this part of you.
One that meant: You matter, now.

Ramona shifted her head slowly on Elara’s shoulder. She let out a gentle, tragic sigh as a weak smile returned to her lips. She swallowed.

“Of course,” she responded, “Of course I will.”
In Beyond The Veil Interest Check → 1 yr ago Forum: Casual Interest Checks
@TokyoPewPew 100%! If you’re on the discord, I’d love to chat and figure it out!
In Realms of Sun & Shadow → 1 yr ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay

Location: Eye of the Beholder > Alchemy Chambers| Collaboration with @Echotech71
Nesna’s smile drifted back into a wide grin as Nathaniel affirmed her presumptions as entirely true. A small giggle escaped her lips as he recalled the parchment stuck to his face. Though her eyes could scarcely show it, she caught his smirk and felt herself smile all the same. What a joy it was, to be a person, if only for a moment.

Then, Nathaniel commented on the time. Nesna shot a glance towards the doorway, and then to the potential debacle that was unfolding with Sya needing to attend to some rather eccentric blightborn fellow. In the moment, she felt the urge to find any excuse to get some distance between herself and whatever affair was brewing there. And to say nothing of the high of simply speaking as a decent person about decent and charming things!

Nesna stammered for a moment, rifling through her mind for some excuse to continue the conversation and walk with him.

“O—Of course!” she chirped, “I’d hate to keep you!”

With a bit more conversational stalling, she found the winner and began to walk towards the door slowly, doing her best to allow Nathaniel to take the lead.

“But if you’d oblige me, I’d gladly walk with you there. I was curious, even if it happened that I was of little use as a Sage, if I might be of any help as a test subject?” she asked.

Nathaniel's lips curled into an inviting smile at Nesna's request, yet a subtle tension flickered across his features. "You can accompany me," he replied, his voice warm and inviting. As he moved around her, his eyes shifted to lock onto hers, a truth that he had to reveal that could dampen the young Blight-born.

"Unfortunately, it's not my decision regarding the role you can play." he confessed, his tone earnest and sincere. "You'll have to consult the Lead Sage about that, Lady Hightower." A strange feeling washed over him, it felt odd addressing Eris by her title, her nobility. He made a mental note to try not to refer in that way.

With a swift motion, he adjusted the lapels of his elegant coat, the fabric shimmering faintly in the dim light as he prepared to step into the frosty expanse outside. The chill of the climate was a foreign sensation to him, but he brushed the discomfort aside, confident that his magic would provide a shield against the biting cold, as long as he didn't push the boundaries of his magic capabilities. "Are you ready to go, Nesna?" he asked, a hint of anticipation in his voice as he gazed out into the winter landscape, the sounds of the merchants selling their goods to the citizens while cold being merry in the activities as they engaged in conversation with other citizens.

Nesna, having already been wearing her cloak, simply affirmed her readiness, following him from the door with a cheery “More than ready!”

As she made her way to his side, Nesna paid little attention to the broader world around them. Her bottom eyes shut as her main pair glowed yet brighter, squinting from the breadth of her smile. Unbothered by the Sage’s cautions, she continued, flicking her hand downwards as if dismissing the entire notion.

“Ah, but I’m certain I can find something useful to do here,” she suggested, “I simply cannot thank you enough for bestowing me the opportunity to see it all. And to meet the dear Lady who is pioneering our care, what an honour!”

Nesna’s wings pressed down against her cloak, keeping it wrapped comfortably around her body as she kept pace with Nathaniel.

“Or rather, have the chance to meet with her,” she conceded, “I would imagine she’s quite busy.”

Nesna cleared her throat and swallowed. The sound was wet and heavy, like that of someone who had been faced with a lasting cold and was trying to clear out their throat well enough to get a few words out.

“Pardon,” she mumbled. Nesna clicked her tongue, and then introduced another thought. “Well, you know, I can’t help but ask, then—if I would not be prying in doing so, anyway. Whyever would someone such as yourself trouble yourself with the research of blightborn?”

As they travelled through the brisk, charged air, a light chuckle slipped from Nathaniel’s lips at Nesna’s excitement about the chance to meet Eris. "Indeed, she is a busy person. Like all sages, she often becomes so engrossed in her work that the world around her fades away." A warm, inviting smile danced across his face, a brief reprieve from the biting chill that enveloped them. "I had the opportunity to glimpse her once, utterly absorbed in her craft," he continued speaking softly, letting the memory wash over him before refocusing on Nesna, anchoring himself in the present moment. He cleared his throat, the sound cutting through the icy air.

As they walked, he rubbed his hands together vigorously, his fingers warming at the gentle touch of his magic coursing through his veins, a soothing balm against the gnawing cold. When Nesna’s voice broke through the frosty silence with her question about his interest in researching the blight, Nathaniel took a deep breath, the weight of the moment settling heavily on his chest.

"I..." he started, his throat tightening slightly, lips feeling parched against the chill of the air. "It's a deeply personal matter for me. I lost someone dear, someone who was dedicated to studying the blight, and they vanished without a trace." Each word was laced with the poignant ache of memory, reverberating in the stillness around them.

Nesna’s smile vanished in an instant, her cheery expression replaced with a dim solemnity like a candle smothered into an ember, reflected both in her lips and in how her four eyes sat together half-open and scarcely letting out more than a faint glow. Her right hand clasped tightly around her left hand, as if one gloved hand were holding the other in place.

“I see…” she murmured, hesitating in her words for how she’d managed to so suddenly sour the mood. She should have known better than to pry; of course nobody would simply study the Blight out of fascination alone. It was a tragic miasma that spread and touched countless lives, never in any shadow of a good way. And yet she’d so readily forgotten that there were many others who had fallen victim to it and never came back at all.

Nesna never imagined there might be a graceful way to overcome such a blunder. Not that she wouldn’t try, but it was some small comfort knowing that the biggest mistake was in the past.

“You have my sincerest condolences,” she softly offered, “Be they blightborn or otherwise, none deserved such a fate as to be taken by the blight.”

Nesna shook her head, softly and solemnly. It couldn’t be helped.

Even as the frigid air kissed his cheeks, transforming them into a delicate shade of rosy pink, Nathaniel remained a portrait of unease, a ghost of colour in a pallid visage. Deep within, his stomach churned with a tumult of emotions, twisting and tightening like a coiling serpent. The wound of his sister’s absence gnawed at him, a festering reminder of unhealed regrets. Unlikely, he mused, that it would ever mend. His stride faltered momentarily as though he were tethered by a forgotten weight before he pressed on, each step echoing his struggle.

In a voice barely above a whisper, he offered, “Thank you, Nesna” the name hanging in the air like a fragile promise.

Flakes of snow adhered to his tousled hair, glistening like tiny stars against the dark backdrop of his thoughts. He shook his head, attempting to dislodge the haunting memory of their final confrontation, a storm of harsh words exchanged in the heat of anger. He remembered how he had accused her of being a glory-seeker, unable to accept the fact that he was chosen to confront the blight in its nascent stages. In return, she labelled him nothing more than a hollow echo of her own ambitions. Eventually, he had relented, granting her the position she desired, unaware that their bitter exchange would be the last.

“I hope you get everything you deserve,”

Weeks passed, and then came the news that shattered his mother as she wept for days holding her two younger children. His father organised groups to help find out what happened to her and if they could find her. Nothing came to avail. Her group had met a grim fate, with Isabelle now missing.

As he grappled with the surge of grief, streaks of lightning began to flicker across his skin, vibrant and wild as if his own magic had awoken in protest. His body warmed under the manifest energy, simmering just beneath the surface. He cursed under his breath, noticing what was happening. With a focused breath, he centred himself, coaxing the tempest of lightning within back to a tranquil slumber.

A sigh of relief escaped his lips once he regained control over his chaotic magic. His gaze latched onto Nesna, the tension ebbing ever so slightly as he sought to navigate their conversation toward safer shores. "My apologies. he ventured, attempting to cast aside the darkness. “How did you become Blight-born?” he inquired, his tone shifting to one of genuine curiosity.

Nesna’s gaze had remained fixed on Nathaniel, only temporarily averted at several moments out of a hope to remain polite by pretending his distress was not so noticeable. Whatever it was specifically that had happened, clearly he had no desire to speak about it. Nesna certainly had no mind to go prying, especially not with someone who seemed somewhat endeared to her already, and with whom she would hopefully be working.

Then he asked about her condition, and she suddenly froze in place for a moment. She felt pressure in her throat and in her chest, as if a breath were trying to force its way out, despite her wrestling against letting anything out at all. Her fists clenched. As suddenly as she stopped, as the memories flashed through her mind, she let out a small squeak as the stalled exhalation won its battle to be freed.

“I—” her voice cracked.

“I—er—It was a long time ago,” she began. She cleared her throat again, and forced herself to begin speaking. He had asked, and it was salient to her potential for work. She assured herself that it was something she’d surely need to get used to.

“And so, euh…pardon. It’s all such a blur, these years are. Yes, ah. I must have been…oh…just shy of fifteen? Mmm…that sounds right.”

Nesna began to trail off, before shaking her head and cutting herself off.

“Oh, what am I saying? That’s not so important. Anyway. I was just shy of fifteen, and had fled home. Foolishly, I imagined the Blight might spare me a long death of cold. And that it wouldn’t, eh, wouldn’t take its price, so to speak. It was agony. And then it was this warm, peaceful embrace. The kind one isn’t meant to rise from. But then I did. I rose and found myself…changed. How can I even describe it? Goddess, it was like…it was like…being reborn. Only somehow wrong, unnatural. But nonetheless relieving compared to life, if only for the moment before I realized that I was not to awaken from a surreal nightmare-turned-dream. My mind knew it was wrong, even as my own body felt intimately natural, if without practice at having any use for my new appendages. How—how else can I describe it?”

The pain was overwhelmed by the depths of the puzzle. Nesna’s right hand had drifted to the side of her jaw. She scratched it slowly at varying pauses, as she tried to assemble the mess of impressions and sensations into coherent speech.

“I learned to fly like a baby bird. My wings are…part of me, in that way. Though I needed some practice, I gained conscious control quickly, and then needed only to become more coordinated. All these years later, I’m still learning. My tail, if you can believe it, is the more alien appendage. It takes some fair effort to coax it into behaving according to my wishes. But when I’d first transformed, it was scarcely a priority. I flew back, and took up residence in the abandoned, walled-off servants’ quarters. And that’s about—Is it? I’m sorry, I feel I’ve perhaps drifted from the question. Does that answer the question well enough?”

Nathaniel cast a discreet glance at Nesna, the flicker of acknowledgement barely perceptible in the chill of the air. "No, that’s a commendable explanation,” he replied thoughtfully, mentally cataloguing Nesna's response, intrigued by its potential significance. "It's often said that all Blight-born individuals possess distinct powers and unique transformations. We already have a few residents with such origins in Dawnhaven,” he mused, taken aback by the revelation that she possessed a tail, a detail she had only divulged moments ago.

"Returning to the subject of the Sages, I'm uncertain how the others will respond to your presence. Honestly, I can’t predict how they might react to me being there either,” he continued, his tone laced with uncertainty. "However, it’s best not to let it weigh on you; strive to be the better person." As they walked, the crisp snow crunched beneath his boots, each step echoing softly in the stillness of the landscape, with the Alchemy chambers looming ahead in the frozen tundra. "Almost there. It’s likely that the Lead Sage is already deep in her work or preparing for the day ahead,” he pondered, wondering if Prince Flynn was present as well or if he had chosen to be with the enigmatic Queen of Lunaria instead. Her name danced on the tip of his tongue, elusive. "Are you feeling nervous about your upcoming interview with the Prince regarding your residency here?” he inquired, studying her.

Nesna offered an awkward, if gracious smile at Nathaniel’s compliments, and glanced towards him on a few occasions as he spoke. As the Chambers came into view, Nesna’s attention somewhat drifted from Nathaniel. Her lips pulled inwards, almost pursing as her eyes widened and shined at the sight of it, her expression betraying her feelings as a mixture of eager, intimidated, and impressed.

“Without a shadow of a doubt…” Nesna murmured. She drifted off, staring at the chambers for a moment, before shaking her head, as if clearing away the thoughts so as to return to the conversation at hand.

“I, heh—Oh mercy me—” she sputtered, holding a fist tightly to her chest, “I was so beside myself just yesterday about appearing a mess before royalty! A—and now? Here I am in one of my very own lovely dresses, so kindly refitted for free by…er…by a delightfully gentlemanly guard!”

Nesna brought her other fist to her chest as she gasped, as if she’d been holding in a breath behind her expressions.

“I—I—Oh, how could I not be? He isn’t even my King or my Prince, and yet I’m mortified to appear before him in—in—in such a state! Goddess, I do know it all can’t be helped and that if it weren’t for this—this—” Nesna shook her hands up against herself before gesturing rapidly at her own body and face all at once with both hands. “This utter state I’m in, how I wouldn’t even be here, how mother would still have me b-betrothed to that little brute, but—”

Nesna stopped herself, and took a breath, bringing her hands in and holding them tightly.

“Excuse me,” she stated, “I just never in all my dreams or nightmares imagined I’d be presenting myself before a—a royal, of any sort, in such a state as this. Moon over me, I’ve done my best, but I still can’t fathom how that Prince of yours—pardon, His Highness Flynn of Aurelia—would ever see fit to tolerate blightborn. Ah, you know, a rabid animal given a bath and nice clothes is still an animal, you know? And yet the guards, not even that detes—that Guard Kain—did not oblige my offer to don a muzzle. I confess! I’m terribly nervous and ever so utterly confused, really, I am. Goddess, would you listen to me babbling on!”

She offered Nathaniel a deep bow, and concluded, “Really, I thank you for your concern, but I feel I’m right to be nervous, especially given all that has so recently transpired here in this town…”

Nathaniel listened intently to Nesna, nodding in agreement as she recounted the harrowing tale, though he had not personally witnessed the guard's brutal murder or the subsequent disappearance of the Queen. He was only familiar with the aftermath, a chaotic scene that still echoed in the halls of the castle.

"Yes,"he replied simply, his voice steady, yet tinged with the weight of the situation. "The events of last night were nothing short of a complete disaster." A shadow of concern crossed his features as he noted the unspoken worry there had been no word on whether Prince Flynn had managed to locate the Queen.

However, a flicker of hope ignited within him as he continued, "It's in Prince Flynn's hands now, but he's genuinely a good man." He leaned slightly closer, his expression softening as he recalled his parents' stories.

"While I haven't had as much interaction with the royal family as my parents have when I was living in Aurelia. They often spoke of Flynn’s willingness to extend a hand to those in need." Nathaniel couldn’t help but smile at the thought a glimmer of optimism in the face of uncertainty. He wanted to mention the Lead Sage, but it's the same situation; he's had little interaction with her as well.

Nesna’s expression deescalated as she rose from her bow and took in Nathaniel’s balanced response. It was unconscionable—these Aurelians, it seemed, had such an unshakable optimism about them. Was this the case for all of them? A curious, pensive smile grew on Nesna’s face as she listened to Nathaniel comment on the Aurelian Prince’s apparent benevolence. Certainly, his perspective would be different than hers would end up being, if for no other reason than the differences in their stations, but the notion was reassuring all the same. The facts of the situation—the fact that it seemed a fair amount of effort had been put into this town—did suggest this to be the case.

“Thank you, again, for your sentiments,” Nesna reiterated, “And for the privilege of meeting you Sages so soon!”

She let out a pleased-sounding sigh, and concluded, “Such an auspicious time I’m having here; it makes one feel…almost as if…yes…all might be well. Yes, I think that’s the sentiment. As if all will be well…”

The crisp sound of crunching snow underfoot punctuated the air as Nathaniel and Nesna engaged in muted conversation, their words barely audible over the muffled whisper of winter. The towering silhouette of the Alchemist Tower loomed ahead, its weathered stone clinging to the promise of ancient secrets. Nathaniel felt a gnawing hesitation in his gut, a reluctance to divulge the depths of his research a rare opportunity that beckoned them toward a daring expedition. He grappled with the thought of laying out his ambitions before her, fearing the sting of rejection should she turn away from what he had to offer. The very idea twisted uncomfortably within him. "Don't worry," he simply said to her.

As they approached the grand doors of the Alchemist chambers, he paused, taking a breath to steady himself. A woman stood in the entrance of the door to the Alchemist Chamber. His heart beated, as he acknowledged her. ”There, he whispered ”That woman in the main door, that's the Lead Sage. Eris Hightower.”

Nesna leaned forward and squinted to try and make out her features. In doing so, she was able to get an impression not only of Eris, but of the man she was inviting in. Was that…Zeph? Her mouth cracked open into an excited little smile. Her ears perked up as she searched what she was hearing for any indication of the guard’s identity. His breathing sounded right. His voice sounded perfect. Oh, it was him! Nesna let out a small, involuntary chortle as her thought was confirmed. How could the day get any better! Here she was, being escorted to meet such an esteemed researcher by a dashing academic, and standing before them was not only that very researcher, but surely in the flesh stood that charming man who’d been so darling as to defend her against the brutish Guard Kain, extend the warmest of greetings to her, tailor her clothes with care and creativity, and even had the magnificent chivalry to behave as if she were some lovely beauty he had laid eyes upon, rather than what she was.

As Nesna stood straight once more, her smile widened such that it even forced her lower eyes shut entirely.

“Isn’t that wonderful!” she chirped, “Perhaps we’ve caught her at just the right moment!”

Her expression sounded so chipper and excited, it would have surely suggested insincerity were it not for the fact that she was practically bouncing.

Mentions:
Eris, Zeph @The Muse
In Beyond The Veil Interest Check → 1 yr ago Forum: Casual Interest Checks
@TokyoPewPew Seeing as you mentioned me, would that blooded of yours be able to have an assistant?
In Beyond The Veil Interest Check → 1 yr ago Forum: Casual Interest Checks
Gonna put out my interest for either playing a young vampire or a Fae. In the case of the former, if anyone is up to being a mentor, please do let me know!
In Beyond The Veil Interest Check → 1 yr ago Forum: Advanced Interest Checks
Colour me interested!
In Camp Athens - Closed → 1 yr ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay

In Camp Athens - Closed → 1 yr ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay


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