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The capital city of the of Rynmere, here is seated the only King in Idalos.
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Syhera Ki'hadi
Posts: 119
Joined: Wed Apr 27, 2016 2:54 am
Race: Biqaj
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Renown: 42
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"A flower that blooms in adversity is the most rare and beautiful of all."
  • 8th of Ymiden, 702 Arc

    “Mama, wake up…,” a bony hand pushed back dark matted curls from a woman’s face, and a little girl leaned in, kissing her on the cheek, “I have breakfast.” There was some shuffling and the pressure of a tray being set down on the foot of the mattress, “Look mama, your favorite. Bread and honey.”

    Syhera stood patiently at the figure whose eyes opened but whose body didn’t try to move. She smiled optimistically and with gentle hands, grabbed her mother by the arms and pulled her up so that she was sitting upright, “Today’s going to be a good day,” she whispered, and climbed atop the bed, beginning to cut the hardened bread and pull apart the pieces that showed signs of early mold. Her stomach growled, but she said nothing, humming a sailor’s tune as she spread the golden condiment against the brown starch. She held it out and her mother took it, staring blankly at the offering.

    In her eyes was no recognition, no delight. No humor or thanks at the food and a deep, laborious breath escaped her and she leaned back against the head board, cradling the bread in her lap, “Thank you, Syhera,” her mother’s words were monotone, as dry as the food would taste – like ash in her mouth. To the wall she looked, not seeing the mess of the room.

    Around her the small living space felt suffocating to a point of delirium. A pile clothes sat discarded in the corner with a bucket for washing, and dishes were piling up. On the table were a number of papers she assumed belonged to her daughter for school, and she blinked.

    Gwynthera glanced at her daughter. Syhera was dressed in a pale blue dress that was beginning to get too small for her, a growth of her thin legs making the outfit short and tight. Her red hair was combed and pulled back in a neat, white ribbon. Around her neck was a little shell made into a necklace by some old string, but no shoes covered her feet. Hera patted the bed, handing over the last piece of bread and licking the dull parts of the knife, “We’re learning a lot of stuff in school,” she offered conversationally, sliding off the bed and walking across the room, “I can divide now. And multiply. And I asked Ms. Fawcett if she knows about calculating Rynmere’s tax on goods and I think she’s going to show me after class,” Hera went a retrieved a washcloth, and dipped it in some water. Hera moved slowly to conserve energy, and when her eyes dropped to the still untouched food in her hands, she stopped by her side, “Please eat something today, Mama.”

    Nothing in her expression changed, “Maybe later.” Gwyn set the food on the bedside table and before she could allow herself to lay back down – her body was so heavy and her bones ached as much as her heart – Syhera took her hand.

    “Yeah,” Sadness tinted the red head’s words and she didn’t look at her mother’s face, “Maybe later.”

    They both knew it to be a lie. Gwyn looked at where she had sat the food and noticed that the plate from the night before was gone. The food from supper had not been touched by her, and had grown cold and wilted. But the plate she had cast aside had disappeared and in its place was a steaming glass of tea. Gwyn looked at the window where no sunlight yet trickled through the pane. How early was it?

    The wet rag was dabbed experimentally on her skin and she heard her daughter’s voice, once again trying to interest her. She wanted to tell it was a lost cause, to leave her be and that she was tired, but Hera wouldn’t stop, “Ms. Fawcett says I’m one of the smartest girls in the class. Which is why she’s going to show me extra math. For tax, I think you take the sum and multiply it, and then…”

    Gwyn stopped listening, her eyes closing. Hera’s words sounded fat and far away, and faded in and out. Hera still washed her arms and face, promising they could clean her hair tonight. Tonight. If there was a tonight. “I’m tired, darling,”

    She was tired every day.

    Hera’s hands hesitated and she nodded quickly, “Are you sure you don’t want to go… downstairs? Maybe some fresh air would…”

    ’Help you,’ Syhera wanted to say.

    When Gwyn didn’t show interest in moving, Hera lifted her head and smiled, “You’re right. You should rest.” She turned quickly, and her little feet pattered lightly across the scratched floor, and on the quilt where Hera had been sitting was the butter knife, shiny and beautiful against the musty fabric. The older woman stared at it with overwhelming and dangerous desire, her reflection contorted and elongated in the tarnished metal. It ridges were tiny, but sharp like the teeth of an angry and desperate creature and then it was gone. Snatched up and taken away.

    Reality slammed into Gwynthera and she lifted her face to look the young girl that stood staring at her. The first time she saw fear on her daughter’s face, and guilt threatened to consume her. Why was she like this?

    Hera was a withering flower, her cheeks gaunt and sharp. Her bright eyes looked sunken and hungry. Even her lips were dry and cracked, her porcelain skin grey and sickly. It pained her that… she didn’t care, even as her daughter was shriveling up before her. Because of her. What did she look like?

word count: 979
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Syhera Ki'hadi
Posts: 119
Joined: Wed Apr 27, 2016 2:54 am
Race: Biqaj
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Renown: 42
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"A flower that blooms in adversity is the most rare and beautiful of all."
  • Hera spun on her heels and headed for the cabinets where their limited silverware sat. Only a few sets, enough for them and one or two guests. She set it down against the other dirty dishes and tried not to shiver. It was unlikely her mother could feel the chill of the winter, but she tucked the dull blade out of sight beneath a chipped plate, and plastered a smile on her tired face, “I’m going to get more wood!”

    It would be downstairs in the backroom to dry, not far at all. But she still announced it, not quite sure why she felt the need to tell her mother everything she planned to do, she just knew that she wanted a response. Any kind of real reaction. Hesitating for a moment, she struggled not to look for any other sharp objects in the room before running downstairs to gather the wood. As she descended down the stairs and into the dark shop, she moved with care around the display tables and weaved past the window. It was colder down here, with no fires to warm up the morning chill. She shivered, wrapping her arms around her as goosebumps kissed her flesh and she rushed to gather the wood from its pile, the floor ice beneath her feet.

    Climbing the stairs with care, a rush of nausea overwhelmed her and she stumbled, smacking her knee against the steps and crying out in pain. The bundle of wood in her arms fell and clattered downwards, and she clutched her scraped leg. Her body was weak from not eating, she felt sick. Her stomach growled again, another cruel reminder of her circumstance and… Syhera began to cry.

    The noise of her fall was loud enough in the overly silent shop, followed by the strangled sobs of an exhausted child. Fat, hot tears rolled down her cheeks and she struggled to catch her breath as her knee throbbed and no one cared to check on her. No sounds of footsteps rushing to the top of the stairs, no calling of ‘Syhera? Syhera! Are you okay? What was that?’ Nothing. Just her – only her, the only other person in her life a husk of someone she once knew – maybe forever. When would the sun rise?

    Syhera wasn’t quite sure how long she laid there in the frigid cold of the barren shop, but when she pulled her hand from her knee, dried blood coated her fingers. It hurt to move her leg, the skin no doubt already forming a bruise. Her tears had stopped flowing, and her breaths were shallow hiccups. She sniffled, her face congested now, and she struggled to wipe at her eyes. Loneliness was a cruel friend to have, especially if it was your only friend.

    The young Biqaj reached out to gather the wood, a few pieces in her hand when the tiniest sound of creaking made her froze, “Mama?” she called, staring at the top of the stairs with eyes so full of hope. Was she coming to check on her? As much as she knew it was hopeless… she wanted it. Needed it. ’Please. Please. Find me. She grabbed another piece of gnarled driftwood and rose another step, “Mama?”

    Footsteps.

    There were footsteps moving across the floor. Hera swallowed and ascended again, some of the wood forgotten at the bottom of the stairs. The footsteps stopped. A long pause. Hera picked up her pace and reached the landing, pushing the door open further, “Ma-“

    Standing by the table was a ghost of a figure wearing the flesh of her mother. Her long nightgown hung loosely on her wispy body, and her dark curls were dirty and flat. She wasn’t bothered by the presence of her daughter, her dull eyes fixated on the item in her hand – a long silver knife with a black handle. It was not the butter knife from earlier, but one for cutting meat, much sharper and broader. A faint smile tugged at her lips, the first emotion Hera had seen on her mother’s face in seasons, and she hugged the blade to her chest.

    “Give that to me,” Hera whispered, moving cautiously into the room. She suddenly appeared much older than her age, eyes wide with fear and desperation, “You need to go lay down,” a nervous plea that threatened more tears, “Here, give it to me,” she moved closer, reaching out.

    Gwynthera recoiled, as if suddenly aware Hera was in the room. She lurched backwards and a crazed aggression over took her, “No!” she yelled, moving further away. Pain played on both of their faces, and Hera grimaced, on the brink of begging. The daughter cast aside the wood and charged. She began to yank at her mother’s arms, her mother fighting and thrashing about as if the knife was the only thing keeping her going. Let go. Let go. Please. Please.

    It was a desperate display of weak bodies struggling to end the moment. Hera tugged and fought like a wildcat, and they slammed against the table, sending pots clattering to the ground. Finally, Gwyn’s fingers slipped and the blade was released, the smaller of the two females flying back and falling to the floor, now holding the knife.

    Hera was crying again, and Gwyn looked horrified, lip quivering. She visibly deflated again and turned and floated back to the bed. She climbed under the blankets, no apology, and buried her face in her pillow. The child had won the struggle, but she surely didn't feel like a winner.
word count: 948
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Pegasus Pug!!!
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Joined: Sun Sep 11, 2016 1:08 am
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Syhera


Points!:

Story: 5/5
Collaboration: 0/ 5 (solo thread)
Structure: 5/ 5
Knowledge:

Leadership: Taking charge of a situation
Detection: Noticing changes in facial expression.
Detection: Hearing footsteps in quiet buildings
Unarmed Combat: Wrestling whilst trying not to hurt
Unarmed Combat: Disarming your opponent.
Endurance: Keep moving against the cold.
Psychology: Rather than face what we have done, we often simply retreat.

Loot:
NA
Fame:
+1 Good Deed (feeding mother), +1 Good Deed (caring for mother), +2 Good Deed x2 (taking the knife off her!)
Magic:
These points may NOT be used for arcana

Overview:

General comments. Oh what a sad story - poor Hera. You weaved a picture of a child desperately fighting and determined not to be beaten. She seemed to be really teetering on the edge between coping and not and also between being a grown up and not. A beautiful, poignant and sad tale.
Story Well crafted - well written. Lovely, just lovely.
Structure No issues at all.


Please do PM me if you've got any questions
word count: 171
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~~Red in hoof and claw... ~~


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