10-11-2025, 08:51 PM
sirin;
Her eyes widen imperceptibly as the portal grows in front of her, the only hint of anything more than apathy showing on her face. Why care when there is nothing she can do about it? Why bother when it is clear she cannot truly escape whatever is ahead of her? Maybe the others tremble with trepidation or gnash their teeth with the uncertainty of it all. Sirin, however, will not give whomever led them here the satisfaction. Not because she is brave or strong or ready for a hero’s journey to save the world (isn’t that what usually happens here - their world is in peril and only a chosen few can pull them all from the darkness?). She is quite certain only a complete and utter fool would want to potentially throw their life away for accolades that would be lost to both time and the next threat on the horizon. No, she will not quake because her pride is all that she has ever had for her entire existence.
She has earned nothing more and nothing less.
A guttural howl and the smell of damp earth assaults her senses from within the tear in reality. It is clear they are meant to go through. It isn’t clear, why, of course. She cannot imagine what answers any of them will find in a place beyond their own (if it even is beyond Beqanna; hadn’t there been an island kingdom before?)
Her feet start to move of their own volition again, dragging her towards that small glimpse of the unknown. Sirin tilts her head towards the stranger to her left, ready with a sultry, luring grin before she is swallowed by the portal. But as her head passes through, then her shoulders, then her hips, it is clear that there will be no alliances to be found through wit or strength or seduction, even.
The jungle faces her and she faces it back, alone.
The hold on her slips at the same time this realization washes over her. Without it, she has no compass, no way of knowing where to go next. She cocks one foot against the ground and her lips push into a pout. “Pretty fucking rude, really.” She has half a mind to stay where she is and see how long it takes the Powers That Be to come get her. Maybe they don’t realize what they’ve gotten themselves into with her. She is no damsel, but neither is she meant to save one. What will happen if she just…doesn’t participate?
The roar of a likely monstrous beast rattles through the thick trees and silences the birdsong that had just woven through it before. Sirin catches her breath but remains rooted to the spot, unwilling to move. It’s not real, anyway, is it? This is all just a dream, or in their heads. All great stories are just that - stories. Allegories and fables, not actual accounts by actual beings. All of their so-called gods were just delusions made up by those that trekked up the Mountain before, she is certain.
The ground softens under her no sooner than she thinks it.
She flails to remain upright as the loamy earth becomes even finer, like sand that is being sifted out beneath her. Sirin attempts to go airborne, flapping her wings as quick as she can, but it is in vain. The ground is disappearing too fast and it is trying to take her with it. All too soon, she feels the sand embrace her ankles, then her knees. It holds her like a vicegrip, even as she struggles against it, bucking and thrashing wildly. It draws her deeper into the pit of it, sucking her down, down, down.
And then it gets worse.
There is a gnawing she feels on the parts of her body where the sand has completely gripped around her, like something is tearing into her flesh. Pain and panic are new to her, but inexperience does not dull either of their sudden intensities. She only wonders how she will die: if she will drown on the sand cascading down her neck first or if she will be eaten alive instead.
When the hole is almost closed and sand clogs her ears, (and then suddenly, she has no ears, as she feels them chewed away) Sirin sees the last bit of dampened light blotted out above her. In one last starburst of pain, her eyes, too, are taken.
All goes still, for a moment. But the pain is gone.
Sirin exists in her tomb, comfortable in her cradle where pain has become a memory she never wants to revisit. She is sure she is dead, anyway. The ground had feasted on her - who could survive that? But this doesn’t feel like any sort of afterlife, she thinks. In fact, is that muffled birdsong starting back up just above her? She flexes one foot and finds that she can move it. Panic builds in her again. The need to GET OUT rushes like a flood through her until she is scrambling against her early grave, digging and pushing and wriggling until she is somehow free.
It is when she pulls herself up from her knees in the loose sand that she sees that her knees are only that - pure bone - and a scream cuts from her.
Sirin takes off into the gloomy jungle, no longer caring about her pride or propriety. She’s not even sure if she is alive or not; damn her blase attitude to hell at this point. She screams like a creature without the imposition of lungs because, well, there aren’t any. Maybe she’s been holding it in her whole life, anyway. But as she crashes through the strange forest, neither poison-dart animal or toxic-hued plant stops her. It is only the fat, swollen river that finally stops her in her tracks.
She has earned nothing more and nothing less.
A guttural howl and the smell of damp earth assaults her senses from within the tear in reality. It is clear they are meant to go through. It isn’t clear, why, of course. She cannot imagine what answers any of them will find in a place beyond their own (if it even is beyond Beqanna; hadn’t there been an island kingdom before?)
Her feet start to move of their own volition again, dragging her towards that small glimpse of the unknown. Sirin tilts her head towards the stranger to her left, ready with a sultry, luring grin before she is swallowed by the portal. But as her head passes through, then her shoulders, then her hips, it is clear that there will be no alliances to be found through wit or strength or seduction, even.
The jungle faces her and she faces it back, alone.
The hold on her slips at the same time this realization washes over her. Without it, she has no compass, no way of knowing where to go next. She cocks one foot against the ground and her lips push into a pout. “Pretty fucking rude, really.” She has half a mind to stay where she is and see how long it takes the Powers That Be to come get her. Maybe they don’t realize what they’ve gotten themselves into with her. She is no damsel, but neither is she meant to save one. What will happen if she just…doesn’t participate?
The roar of a likely monstrous beast rattles through the thick trees and silences the birdsong that had just woven through it before. Sirin catches her breath but remains rooted to the spot, unwilling to move. It’s not real, anyway, is it? This is all just a dream, or in their heads. All great stories are just that - stories. Allegories and fables, not actual accounts by actual beings. All of their so-called gods were just delusions made up by those that trekked up the Mountain before, she is certain.
The ground softens under her no sooner than she thinks it.
She flails to remain upright as the loamy earth becomes even finer, like sand that is being sifted out beneath her. Sirin attempts to go airborne, flapping her wings as quick as she can, but it is in vain. The ground is disappearing too fast and it is trying to take her with it. All too soon, she feels the sand embrace her ankles, then her knees. It holds her like a vicegrip, even as she struggles against it, bucking and thrashing wildly. It draws her deeper into the pit of it, sucking her down, down, down.
And then it gets worse.
There is a gnawing she feels on the parts of her body where the sand has completely gripped around her, like something is tearing into her flesh. Pain and panic are new to her, but inexperience does not dull either of their sudden intensities. She only wonders how she will die: if she will drown on the sand cascading down her neck first or if she will be eaten alive instead.
When the hole is almost closed and sand clogs her ears, (and then suddenly, she has no ears, as she feels them chewed away) Sirin sees the last bit of dampened light blotted out above her. In one last starburst of pain, her eyes, too, are taken.
All goes still, for a moment. But the pain is gone.
Sirin exists in her tomb, comfortable in her cradle where pain has become a memory she never wants to revisit. She is sure she is dead, anyway. The ground had feasted on her - who could survive that? But this doesn’t feel like any sort of afterlife, she thinks. In fact, is that muffled birdsong starting back up just above her? She flexes one foot and finds that she can move it. Panic builds in her again. The need to GET OUT rushes like a flood through her until she is scrambling against her early grave, digging and pushing and wriggling until she is somehow free.
It is when she pulls herself up from her knees in the loose sand that she sees that her knees are only that - pure bone - and a scream cuts from her.
Sirin takes off into the gloomy jungle, no longer caring about her pride or propriety. She’s not even sure if she is alive or not; damn her blase attitude to hell at this point. She screams like a creature without the imposition of lungs because, well, there aren’t any. Maybe she’s been holding it in her whole life, anyway. But as she crashes through the strange forest, neither poison-dart animal or toxic-hued plant stops her. It is only the fat, swollen river that finally stops her in her tracks.
