July 18th, 17,982 BC.
Cold. It was so cold. How long had she been out for?..how long had she been here?
Chrysanthos felt her eyes fall back into consciousness, the rest of her body hardly reciprocating the same blessing. The glass was cold beneath her knees, the breeze of the night air outside dropping the temperature of the glass box that she had been isolated in. The small girl scrambled to a corner, frantically letting her eyes linger around her temporary prison, releasing a suffocating breath as no centipedes were found.
Chrysanthos lifted herself to her feet, stumbling around the inhumane box to search for a hopeful exit, a limp following in her path. She wanted to scream, to oh so desperately cry for help, but it was impossible now. Her voice box had been feasted on by centipedes earlier that same day. Her throat had been infested and they had found it an idealistic home to lay their eggs. Her once secure bones held a sensation similar to that of being tossed to malnurished canines. She coughed harshly, painfully spurting out centipede eggs, the pressure in her chest creating an irritable dizziness to her head as she stared down at the eggs that nested in her throat mere minutes ago. Chrysanthos' ears rang at an agonizing pitch, her vision coated by splotches of white as she staggered a few steps backwards, her scarred back meeting the glacial-like glass walls that still trapped her like a sickly animal.
Punished. She had been punished in the center of Heiraint's main city for the public eye to see all for protecting herself. Maybe if she hadn't slaughtered Varlost's son, if she had just ran back "home" yesterday night before he could catch eye of her, she wouldn't be trapped in her very own personalized hellscape currently. Chrysanthos began to question..would anybody ever let her out? Had her parents ever shown any symptom of enough appreciation for her existence to come save her? No..because the same beings who seemingly cherished her had left her to rot, the same who had taken her in as soon as her soul arose from the residual bloodshed amidst the aftermath of fury and loathing on the battlegrounds of Heiraint's war with a close by plane by the name of Nortia, one that, to Chrysanthos' knowledge, was a plane inhabited by a diverse variety of mortals and immortals. After that war, after the blood had still been fresh, the corpses still occupying flesh, Chrysanthos' soul was crafted with the remnants of broken ancient weapons and bones that once belonged to men and woman who had feared for their lives on those very grounds, crafted by the confusing enchantment and charm of Heiraint's fifth eclipse, something that had never happened before, which must have been why her self proclaimed parents had been so hasty to make her their own. She was comparable to an exotic foreign animal.
Heiraint wasn't simple to any mortal to ever study it, but what could be understood was that souls there were never born, but instead made by the sun and the moon by whatever materials they saw fit. Children of the sun, their souls were vibrant, expressive, they were loud, reckless and shamelessly themselves. And on the other side of the spectrum were children of the moon, their souls were quiet, modest, delicate they accompanied traits of wit and quick thinking, a sense of calmness and natural guidance. But a child of the eclipse..something never seen before? That was a soul that managed to be everything at once, any everything at once was too much to maintain for a mind as young as 2 million years old most days. Yet Chrysanthos managed her way through it, because it was her, and she was the only being who could tolerate herself and her depth.
Chrysanthos tried again, she tried to find any way out of this suffocating space. She kicked at the glass walls, she formed wails and screeches that never escapes her throat, she tried everything that she could, and eventually she collapsed in defeat and exhaustion, doubling over on her knees as a strand of aggressive coughs and gasps, please for air left her lungs again. Her heaving had been to an intensity where blood had began to pour from her throat, only this time, it wasn't blood..it didn't even taste relatively similar. Confused and horrified, the young being looked down at the glass floor beneath her, the lingering taste of some sort of wax and maple coating the inside of her mouth.
And under her exhausted and exerted gaze, where there should have been blood was only a puddle of liquid gold.
Burned. This time it burned.
