10-18-2018, 02:43 PM
(This post was last modified: 10-19-2018, 02:45 AM by Ilma.
Edit Reason: I can’t type late at night, lol
)
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<center><div class="ilmacontain"><div class="ilma"><i>Ilma</i></div><div class="ilmagrad"></div><div class="ilmaquote">And there's a lesson waiting to be learned<br>the firestarters always get the burns<br>and the good guys never get the girl</div><div style="padding-left:10px;padding-right:10px;"><p class="ilmamess">
On the damp, cold, Taigan forest floor, the white-skinned woman hugs herself, tears dried up at the messed-up scene before her eyes. Swaying with fatigue, she’s cold to the touch, should anyone want to test that theory. There might be one or some who would, if they were here. Like the henchman coming up behind her while the other two were fighting to have her live her deepest fears – for her loved ones to fight and kill one another – and the only reason her throat isn’t slashed open by the one behind her, is because Jack has started to work his magic.
Which is something she honestly just doesn’t notice for a while.
The moonlit clearing is no longer moonlit, but eerie; if it wasn’t eerie before, that is: with the sea mist between the trees, or the ravaged scene with dead bodies and pumpkin mash and a destroyed display of treats. It is certainly eerie now. Now, the moon is hiding behind a body of dark clouds, casting irregular shadows over herself and the frozen figures that surround her.
Finally, she looks up and around. Takes in the changing scene.
More fog is surrounding her; more than it had before, more than was to be expected, even in Taiga. The thick mist hides the shadows, as they are retreating. But she has the feeling that it’s not over by far.
It’s only just beginning.
She shivers, though not from the cold; she hasn’t felt the cold for a while now, occupied by other events. Something is coming. She knows this in the same way that she knows Llowell is safe and happy, just travelling. She knows it in the same way that she knows that Svedka is trying to master his newest ability. She knows it by the feeling of eyes on her back, the way the hairs in her neck rise slowly.
She doesn’t want to turn around. She really doesn’t. But she has to. So she stands, slowly turning. She doesn’t want the something to catch her off guard.
He still does.
She steps back, almost falling as she does, her newly-human foot caught in the hem of her dress. His head… it’s not natural, she knows it even in this new form of hers. He has a knife (the term is new to her mind, but it is there nonetheless). She instantly knows it’s sharp and dangerous and could take a life. Her life.
The games are done, we’ve had our fun. Now it’s time for you to run.
She’s having no fun at all. But when he comes for her, she frantically doges dodges him anyway. Leaning sideways, the knife nearly catches her fair skin of her arm, but she uses the too-large momentum of her dodge to step aside. ”Fun? Fun? There’s been no fun in what you’ve done!” Oh god, can she really only speak in rhyme now? Honestly, she hasn’t tried speaking yet, so perhaps it’s true… she just has to test it, she supposes.
Her side-stepping had her dodge once, but obviously that’s not enough. He had wanted her to run, however, and that is the one thing she refuses to do. Perhaps she can distract him long enough, or grab the knife from him, or…
She ducks at the very next attack, stretching her arms forward and pulls on the thin sticky legs. She’s not sure if he’ll fall down at all, but at least he’d be distracted enough for her to speak to him. ”A game you say, it is we play? Excuse me if I’m not that swayed. From home you took me, far away! All this, to kill me? I say nay!” Rolling through the pumpkin-and-fruits mess, she scrambles to hands and feet again. ”You’ve no idea of what you’ve done! This is your mess, not mine, moron!” At that, she gestures over the area, but the minions have already vaporized, so there’s not much more of a mess to show for than the scattered treats.
And herself, of course. On her hands and knees, she looks up at him in anger, as he advances a third time. But it will be the last. She’s done. ”If you must kill me, make it quick. Take a mother from her kids... know it’s you that makes me sick.” She hurls the worlds at him, and for good measure, she adds the first best thing that her hands can grasp.
</p></div><div class="ilmaquoterepeat">and shooting stars cannot fix the world</div></div></center>
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<center><div class="ilmacontain"><div class="ilma"><i>Ilma</i></div><div class="ilmagrad"></div><div class="ilmaquote">And there's a lesson waiting to be learned<br>the firestarters always get the burns<br>and the good guys never get the girl</div><div style="padding-left:10px;padding-right:10px;"><p class="ilmamess">
On the damp, cold, Taigan forest floor, the white-skinned woman hugs herself, tears dried up at the messed-up scene before her eyes. Swaying with fatigue, she’s cold to the touch, should anyone want to test that theory. There might be one or some who would, if they were here. Like the henchman coming up behind her while the other two were fighting to have her live her deepest fears – for her loved ones to fight and kill one another – and the only reason her throat isn’t slashed open by the one behind her, is because Jack has started to work his magic.
Which is something she honestly just doesn’t notice for a while.
The moonlit clearing is no longer moonlit, but eerie; if it wasn’t eerie before, that is: with the sea mist between the trees, or the ravaged scene with dead bodies and pumpkin mash and a destroyed display of treats. It is certainly eerie now. Now, the moon is hiding behind a body of dark clouds, casting irregular shadows over herself and the frozen figures that surround her.
Finally, she looks up and around. Takes in the changing scene.
More fog is surrounding her; more than it had before, more than was to be expected, even in Taiga. The thick mist hides the shadows, as they are retreating. But she has the feeling that it’s not over by far.
It’s only just beginning.
She shivers, though not from the cold; she hasn’t felt the cold for a while now, occupied by other events. Something is coming. She knows this in the same way that she knows Llowell is safe and happy, just travelling. She knows it in the same way that she knows that Svedka is trying to master his newest ability. She knows it by the feeling of eyes on her back, the way the hairs in her neck rise slowly.
She doesn’t want to turn around. She really doesn’t. But she has to. So she stands, slowly turning. She doesn’t want the something to catch her off guard.
He still does.
She steps back, almost falling as she does, her newly-human foot caught in the hem of her dress. His head… it’s not natural, she knows it even in this new form of hers. He has a knife (the term is new to her mind, but it is there nonetheless). She instantly knows it’s sharp and dangerous and could take a life. Her life.
The games are done, we’ve had our fun. Now it’s time for you to run.
She’s having no fun at all. But when he comes for her, she frantically doges dodges him anyway. Leaning sideways, the knife nearly catches her fair skin of her arm, but she uses the too-large momentum of her dodge to step aside. ”Fun? Fun? There’s been no fun in what you’ve done!” Oh god, can she really only speak in rhyme now? Honestly, she hasn’t tried speaking yet, so perhaps it’s true… she just has to test it, she supposes.
Her side-stepping had her dodge once, but obviously that’s not enough. He had wanted her to run, however, and that is the one thing she refuses to do. Perhaps she can distract him long enough, or grab the knife from him, or…
She ducks at the very next attack, stretching her arms forward and pulls on the thin sticky legs. She’s not sure if he’ll fall down at all, but at least he’d be distracted enough for her to speak to him. ”A game you say, it is we play? Excuse me if I’m not that swayed. From home you took me, far away! All this, to kill me? I say nay!” Rolling through the pumpkin-and-fruits mess, she scrambles to hands and feet again. ”You’ve no idea of what you’ve done! This is your mess, not mine, moron!” At that, she gestures over the area, but the minions have already vaporized, so there’s not much more of a mess to show for than the scattered treats.
And herself, of course. On her hands and knees, she looks up at him in anger, as he advances a third time. But it will be the last. She’s done. ”If you must kill me, make it quick. Take a mother from her kids... know it’s you that makes me sick.” She hurls the worlds at him, and for good measure, she adds the first best thing that her hands can grasp.
</p></div><div class="ilmaquoterepeat">and shooting stars cannot fix the world</div></div></center>
Any fool knows men and women think differently at times, but the biggest difference is this: men forget, but never forgive; women forgive, but never forget.
Robert Jordan, Wheel of Time