Round 2 Veteran: Monster Vs Roht Mirage [Archive]

Roht Mirage

01-22-14, 10:02 AM

“How do I look?” Astarelle said awkwardly to the back of one wizened -weren't they all?- Ai'Brone monk.

He stopped with his hand hovering over the ominous door's handle. “Miss Set'Roh?” he rumbled as he turned. His expression was as blank as the Citadel's polished granite, but there was mirth in his eyes. Restrained laughter, like a little boy giggling under the austere facade. “Are you trying to seduce me? This is a worrying trend.”

She huffed and planted hands to hips. “For the spectators, sand-brain,” she said with snark, though she mumbled the insult. A flash of regret crossed her face; one moment too late. However, the monk just stared into her eyes. His were as brown as mud at the edge of an oasis, hers as grey as steel. Steel bowed first. “Sorry,” she muttered, lowering her gaze. The monk hummed his wordless acceptance, to which Astarelle -needles in her pride- glanced up slyly and said, “Hoak is the cutest of you lot, anyway.”

Finally, a crack. It was only enough for a single, pent-up guffaw, and then the monk's face was back to stone; a softer, smoother sandstone than before. With a critical eye, he looked her over from toe to top.

Her shoes appeared soft, but their bulk hinted at the metal plates secreted within. Her leggings, in contrast, kept very little secret. Over the tight black fabric, sinuous lines of grey sand marked and emboldened the picturesque shape of her legs. From the front, they were hidden only halfway up her thighs -and as deep as her knees in the back- by a skirt as blue as crystalline water. Then, back to black with her “battle corset” as some around Ixian Castle had taken to calling it. The armor bands were secreted within, but the form it squeezed her into spoke of battle well enough... in so far as certain parts of her anatomy appeared ready to march to war. Decorating the bare flesh above -almost consuming it- was a sand-tattooed mural of the desert. Dunes of burnt gold, bone white, and dusty brown rolled with her body's lines from bust to shoulders to fingertips, obscured only by the bracers laced to her forearms. Upward, the art spread to consume her desert-kissed cheeks and melded with the only permanent piece of the work, an elegant 'V' mark above the brow, shepherded by spots of ivory and ebony. Her hair, dark as melted chocolate, was held back in a braid that had been woven with blue ribbons. The same tone as her skirt, as if they were a promise of rain over the sands.

The monk, in a tone of utter professionalism, pronounced her, “The very avatar of Fallien.”

Astarelle smiled and thanked him, but cringed inside. The teasing pageantry she wrapped herself in -during the Cell and now the Magus- was not honest to her homeland. Fallien's beauty lay in its subtlety; the nearly imperceptible variations of gold as the sun lanced over the dunes, the ever-so-small promises of shelter or water just waiting for one who knew and respected the land, the quiet pride of people who survived the worst and gratefully took one more day as their prize. She did not know how to represent the desert's alluring mix of cruelty and kindness. So, ever the compliant actor, she wore the veil of Fallien as these outsiders saw it. It certainly pleased the fans -assuming the fawning and sometimes creepy letters were an accurate measure- yet she couldn't help but feel like a faux-Fallien jester.

The monk made a sound in his throat like a mountain shrugging far away, then drew the door open. Astarelle slipped into a crowd-pleasing smile, leisurely braced her reed staff over her shoulder, and stepped through without looking.

For a moment, she was blind. “Bury me,” she muttered aloud as she waved a hand before her face. Blink by blink, it came into focus. The scene began to emerge as well, but the smell of it struck her first. Burning tinderbrush. Blooming cacti flowers. Air strained through high plateaus until it was as crisp and clean as those mountain streams the Coronian's idealized. This was definitely not Corone.

Before Astarelle could even see past her toes, she took her first step. It came down on soft, shifting resistance. Sand, she gasped, then took another step to confirm. And another, just to be certain. Starlight winked down from a thousand eyes in the sky. Dunes came into view, painted by the silver light of a crescent moon. In the pit of her stomach, children capered about. Her steps quickened to match, bearing her over a high rise with soft, cascading strides. At the wide crest of the dune, a campfire waved to her. Its jagged heart of burning brush pulsated, visibly losing mass. It must have been some time since the last rain.

I should wait here, Astarelle told herself as she stepped into the fire's aurora. Her staff, she planted on its end, fervently twisting it into the sand until it stood on its own. After giving it an affectionate caress, she stepped back to the edge of the light and looked around. So much silver. It looked as if a king's wealth lay across the desert in waving ribbons, only broken by the dark, man-like silhouettes of cacti. Beyond, the blanket of stars -there seemed to be more and more with each glance- reached for the desert floor but was broken on the rounded, herbivore teeth of distant plateaus. I should wait. Any minute now, she thought again. The hungry crackle of flames wasn't enough to hide the sound of her shoes fidgeting under her. The sand shifted and whispered sweetly. I should...

A dune wolf cried in the night. The fallieni woman answered with a laugh, unbidden and unstoppable. Her feet became wings, bearing her into the dark with a high, keening squeal of glee. From her skin and clothing, the tattoos of Fallien -as foreigners saw it- fell away, becoming a streak of colors behind her. She spread her arms to let the wind steal it all. Bare skin to the cool night. She wanted to strip off her shoes as well, feel the sand burst between her toes, but that would mean slowing down. Her feet, like her laughter, could not be stopped.

As recklessly and joyously as a child, she swooped through a dip in the desert's many swells, and she put her hands forward to help her climb the next rise. The sand that had fallen from her body -colored just slightly off of the native hue- swept forward and underneath her as a crisp carpet. Stride by stride, using both hands and feet, she bounded to the top like a lunatic gazelle... and found the other side a very sudden and very steep drop. She landed on her knees, twisted, and rolled on her shoulders. Her hands instinctively went to her face because even the threat of a mouthful of sand could not cap the laughter. It had been too long. She hadn't realized how much she ached for the desert, even if the desert saw fit to roll her roughly down its back. Finally, dizzy as a mouse in the heart of a sandstorm, she found the next valley with a combination of splat and floof that made her giggle out the last of her breath.

Chest heaving, she looked up to the crowded sea of stars. She blinked once, then again. Slower. The desert floor swaddled her half-buried body in a way that no mattress ever could. She closed her eyes, determined to fall asleep in her mother's embrace, when a spout of wind found her burrow. It plucked with cold fingers at the sweat over her brow and bosom. She shivered, then reluctantly opened her eyes. I really should get back to the fire, she informed her limbs.

Slowly, she began to extract herself from the sand-angel impression.

I'll leave the timing of dawn (and whether or not it even occurs during the battle) up to you.