Lady Anais
03-13-11, 10:24 PM
Closed to Nihjar Yrene
If you're reading this, just stop now.
This isn't going to be one of "those" stories. There's not going to be a good guy, and a damsel in distress, and a bad guy. There's not going to be a big battle for virtue and justice and what's right. The good guy won't save the day. The bad guy won't be vanquished. The girl doesn't get rescued. Save yourself the trouble. Turn back now. It can't end well.
If you keep going, what you'll see could be glorified as a bold woman, a warrior and a noble; torn and conflicted, put at odds by cosmic forces beyond her control, forces even she doesn't believe in. But reality isn't that grandiose. In reality, it's really just barely beyond a scared little girl, confused and lost. No one to lead her. Nothing to guide her. The butt of a cosmic joke, a battered puzzle piece for an interdimensional game played by the gods. A time bomb of unimaginable power wrapped inside a ceramic egg with chipping paint.
The damsel in distress. Only the villain is herself. Her uncertainty, her confusion. Aimless, all she has to go on is cryptic words. Words whispered sweetly to her that now echo inside her like a savage monster, gnashing teeth and spitting blood. Howling, formless noise. And listened to at the right time, they say one thing:
FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT!
The elegant vagrant. Nobility without the wealth. An heiress with no home. A wasted artifact of a different society, a different era. In the rolling sea of Her, there are only the words of another to guide her. She must prove herself against man. They will be watching. The eyes of N'jal are upon her. It is time to show her worth. Otherwise... there is no road. The small tether that gives her some form of direction vanishes. From here, it's nothing but an open sea, swallowing her whole. Tides ebbing and flowing, pulling in every direction. No indication of where land is.
But how do you prove yourself to someone else when you don't even know yourself? How can you show your power when you still deny it?
Like I said: It can only end badly. Turn back now.
What follows is the story of a battle. Where this foolish girl cleared out her room at the hostel in Underwood, took everything she had upon her back, and went to the Dansdel. Where she had to spend three times as long registering to fight as anyone else because she couldn't tell the registrar any of her information and had to resort to a mix of pantomime and slowly spelling it out with fingertracings. Where she- not thinking about anything but the fight- left the challenge open.
This led to her being herded into a room full of other fighters, with a large window along the far wall. Rough men walked on creaking planks; a grease spot in the middle of the floor made from dozens of dirty, sweaty, pacing feet, dark like the mouth of some deep sea monster. Men with knuckles caked in dried blood, weapons dingy and unshined. Slabs of meat, the lot of them. On display through the window, lined up to be chosen by whichever butcher wanted them. Against them, her polished armor seemed to shine. Her clean hair, her unscarred face, she looked almost as out of place as she felt. A porcelain doll amidst a den of wolves.
Beyond here... well, you've been warned.
If you're reading this, just stop now.
This isn't going to be one of "those" stories. There's not going to be a good guy, and a damsel in distress, and a bad guy. There's not going to be a big battle for virtue and justice and what's right. The good guy won't save the day. The bad guy won't be vanquished. The girl doesn't get rescued. Save yourself the trouble. Turn back now. It can't end well.
If you keep going, what you'll see could be glorified as a bold woman, a warrior and a noble; torn and conflicted, put at odds by cosmic forces beyond her control, forces even she doesn't believe in. But reality isn't that grandiose. In reality, it's really just barely beyond a scared little girl, confused and lost. No one to lead her. Nothing to guide her. The butt of a cosmic joke, a battered puzzle piece for an interdimensional game played by the gods. A time bomb of unimaginable power wrapped inside a ceramic egg with chipping paint.
The damsel in distress. Only the villain is herself. Her uncertainty, her confusion. Aimless, all she has to go on is cryptic words. Words whispered sweetly to her that now echo inside her like a savage monster, gnashing teeth and spitting blood. Howling, formless noise. And listened to at the right time, they say one thing:
FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT!
The elegant vagrant. Nobility without the wealth. An heiress with no home. A wasted artifact of a different society, a different era. In the rolling sea of Her, there are only the words of another to guide her. She must prove herself against man. They will be watching. The eyes of N'jal are upon her. It is time to show her worth. Otherwise... there is no road. The small tether that gives her some form of direction vanishes. From here, it's nothing but an open sea, swallowing her whole. Tides ebbing and flowing, pulling in every direction. No indication of where land is.
But how do you prove yourself to someone else when you don't even know yourself? How can you show your power when you still deny it?
Like I said: It can only end badly. Turn back now.
What follows is the story of a battle. Where this foolish girl cleared out her room at the hostel in Underwood, took everything she had upon her back, and went to the Dansdel. Where she had to spend three times as long registering to fight as anyone else because she couldn't tell the registrar any of her information and had to resort to a mix of pantomime and slowly spelling it out with fingertracings. Where she- not thinking about anything but the fight- left the challenge open.
This led to her being herded into a room full of other fighters, with a large window along the far wall. Rough men walked on creaking planks; a grease spot in the middle of the floor made from dozens of dirty, sweaty, pacing feet, dark like the mouth of some deep sea monster. Men with knuckles caked in dried blood, weapons dingy and unshined. Slabs of meat, the lot of them. On display through the window, lined up to be chosen by whichever butcher wanted them. Against them, her polished armor seemed to shine. Her clean hair, her unscarred face, she looked almost as out of place as she felt. A porcelain doll amidst a den of wolves.
Beyond here... well, you've been warned.