S E V E R E
She doesn’t put too much thought into the lands here.
She knows they have their purpose; their place in history, the way they can behave like a current that pushes everything forward. So much of what has happened in Beqanna centers around some piece of dirt — fighting over its crown, fighting with each other, fading into irrelevance, sinking, rising. For many their identities are tied to where they are born or where they have fought for, but none of them belong to her, and she has never had much interest in crowns to begin with.
Most of them bleed the same whether they wear a crown or not.
Pangea, though, is one of the few with a history that is at least mildly interesting to those such as herself that have never found themselves in the political sphere. Created with sickened magic, lost to the sea and risen again only to be the epicenter of a plague — all events that had happened before her time, but she heard the stories all the same. She had to admit, it piqued her curiosity, when there was so little happening elsewhere that could.
She has no one to blame but herself when she arrives to find that it is, indeed, as uninteresting as all the other places here. Red dirt and steep canyons, with the only greenery seeming to be what grows at the edge of the river. Even the air feels dry, and the quietness that had befallen the rest of the country does little to add life to an already desolate place.
They really will fall in love with anything, won’t they?
At some point during her travels the thoughts of another begin to slowly interrupt her own, and she follows this until she arrives at a stream. There, she finds a woman — beautiful, especially against such a barren backdrop — and she can feel that wretched heart of hers quicken its beat at the possibilities. She has been so bored lately, she wasn’t expecting to stumble upon entertainment so quickly. But before her mind can decide where she wants the interaction to go she notices something so very strange about the woman before her, and the sound the rocks make as they scrape against her skin, and the way the water seems to roll across her skin like beads.
“Glass. How peculiar,” is all she says, tilting her head with a small, serpentine smile.
She knows they have their purpose; their place in history, the way they can behave like a current that pushes everything forward. So much of what has happened in Beqanna centers around some piece of dirt — fighting over its crown, fighting with each other, fading into irrelevance, sinking, rising. For many their identities are tied to where they are born or where they have fought for, but none of them belong to her, and she has never had much interest in crowns to begin with.
Most of them bleed the same whether they wear a crown or not.
Pangea, though, is one of the few with a history that is at least mildly interesting to those such as herself that have never found themselves in the political sphere. Created with sickened magic, lost to the sea and risen again only to be the epicenter of a plague — all events that had happened before her time, but she heard the stories all the same. She had to admit, it piqued her curiosity, when there was so little happening elsewhere that could.
She has no one to blame but herself when she arrives to find that it is, indeed, as uninteresting as all the other places here. Red dirt and steep canyons, with the only greenery seeming to be what grows at the edge of the river. Even the air feels dry, and the quietness that had befallen the rest of the country does little to add life to an already desolate place.
They really will fall in love with anything, won’t they?
At some point during her travels the thoughts of another begin to slowly interrupt her own, and she follows this until she arrives at a stream. There, she finds a woman — beautiful, especially against such a barren backdrop — and she can feel that wretched heart of hers quicken its beat at the possibilities. She has been so bored lately, she wasn’t expecting to stumble upon entertainment so quickly. But before her mind can decide where she wants the interaction to go she notices something so very strange about the woman before her, and the sound the rocks make as they scrape against her skin, and the way the water seems to roll across her skin like beads.
“Glass. How peculiar,” is all she says, tilting her head with a small, serpentine smile.
INNOCENCE DIED SCREAMING, HONEY, ASK ME, I SHOULD KNOW
@
margot