*COMPLETE* "People don't believe in us anymore. They don't believe that in the end we will do what is right. We can't let them down. We can't let Ben win."
Decisions made on top of the lonely, wind-swept cliff of Lethinor reverberate around the five...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Blood pumps.
Up and down, up and down, jittering, throbbing, running in red, fevered delight through veins and valves, breaking through block points, simmering in flushed fire.
And the drums beat.
It's all in her head, a low, constant thunder, pulsing in timed continuum: this racing, dark thing that sings in voices lost and old along sinew and bones. It hums in each blow, reverberates in the ring of sword against stone, again, and again, and again, and then it keens, low and sweet, when metal meets flesh.
They crumple like paper dolls, these things, not fit for any type of sport, not up for the pulse, the drumming staccato that twists shoulders and shifts feet, the unheard muse to the fatal dance. Too weak to play, too weak to survive.
Her head rolls and the sinuous undulation of her spine follows, because the beat is still there, still tapping, even if her partners have forfeited the field.
A shadow has to suffice, and it at least, blank besides the sudden shiver of fear behind its frozen, leering mask, manages to evade one blow before sinking down beneath the other.
It's a shout, half glee, half rage, and the sword is thrown to the side as the dust puffs up around her feet and her blood pulses, keening along with the repeating rhythm. Mania sneers beneath the scream, running along those strange cracks between fury and excitement, and she relishes the way it shivers down their spines, these docile, ordinary people.
The flecked blood is like another skin she wears, and the cracked grin is another mask.
They follow her, her little creatures, their warped masks fixed in place, something even more ominous lurking beneath them. They don't shiver the way the chattel does; they know what lies on the other side of ordinary.
They strip off the armor when she returns to her chambers, ruined fingers twitching and trembling along clasps, stripping her down into something that should be more human, but is only stranger. They don't see nakedness anymore, not the way a human does, but it's not like it would matter to her anyway. Maybe she doesn't see bodies the same way anymore either.
She Skills at the shimmering threads of minds that are fixed and tucked somewhere in the back of her own, mental fingers strumming along their metal binds, catching flickering sights, smells, tastes. She lingers in some, a hidden face behind their eyes, and sends a little flicker of pain to others, a reminder of the thing that stands behind them.
It's become a fun little past time to trawl back to one: a moldering memory she tucked away. It was only a sharp flash, that quiver that she had quickly learned came before the brutal grip of death. It was the distorted reflection of her brother's face, flat and slack, confused even in this sliver of victory, that transmitted across the smoky whisper of metal and mind. His brown eyes were narrowed, brow crumpled in that lost, crinkled way he did even back when they were children. It was the look he always wore when he was wrong, and he was always wrong.
Their little envoy, her little love letter to lost childhood years, flickered out after that, buried under the weight of rocks and debris, but Isati knows the expression had stayed on little Lei's face, that lost, hangdog look of a loser who knows he's already lost.
Are you coming to see me, little brother? she muses, sitting back on the cold metal, feeling it like another set of skin—stronger, but still malleable to her touch. Are you going to bring me back all your little friends?
And the bell chimes. Mother is calling.
The Imperator sits on a bare throne, eyes set on the sky. To the simpering, untouched courtiers, it's a repose of contemplation, but Isati knows better.
"Did they figure it out, Mama?" she asks, clothed in silks and other, fluttering, feeble things.
The Imperator spares this attire an irritated glance, a warning that speaks of punishment if the mistake is repeated, but this is better than armor. Mother needs her to be someone who still fucks up just a little bit, because someone who still doesn't have it all together is still not a threat. Not yet.
"They are piecing it together," she answers slowly, a twitch of a frown working its way around her mouth. She is bored. They are boring her.
"What do you want to do now?" Isati asks, the white of her teeth catching in the firelight as the smile stretches across her mouth.
When Mother looks at her it's with understanding.
"Blow it all up," she says.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
A/N: She's crazy.
Crazy fun, guys. No, I was not maniacally laughing while writing this, why do you ask?
Also, I think we've hit the point where I might start posting twice a week (writing gods, have mercy on me.) Tentative plan is Mondays/Tuesdays and Fridays? What do you guys think? I want to space it out a bit. Do Sundays work better? Let me know!
