Author Topic: A Truly Divine Spark  (Read 2208 times)

Pav

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A Truly Divine Spark
« on: February 06, 2016, 12:46:23 AM »
♪ ♫ ♩



"Can we buy that doll, Bastien?"
"No, Élise."
"Why not?!"
"...Because we got you one last week, and besides, you are fourteen. Practically a woman grown, now."

The two's conversation was drowned out by the sounds of the market, the roar of merchants exchanging insults and yelling out their not-so-cheap prices for products no one necessarily needs, and no one necessarily understands; Rokuman bird talons, supposedly charms of incredibly good luck, though likely just a butchered rooster's claw. Or Kartakan liquor, rumored to improve one's singing voice - though it is likely only going to sound such after you intoxicate yourself with it. The doll in question was apparently made in Dementlieu, one of the only items to not be falsely advertised as magical. Just a plain old doll, though it likely held some form of shady background.  And it is not as if no one knew of the nature of this gathering. Everyone knew that this market day was a sham, and yet they still graced it with their presence. The merchant beside the two cried out deafeningly, distracting them for but a moment. "Fifty Scandals! Fifty Scandals! Just fifty Scandals for this amazing trinket from Nova Vaasa, said to improve your work efficiency! Whatever it will be, farming, tailoring, weaving, smithing, you will work faster, you will work better! Come get it! Fifty Scandals!"

The blazing summer sun washed over the massive crowd, a crowd almost forcefully stuffed into the small city square. The old cobble that made the pavement was littered with various ruined items, torn shoes and pieces of cloth, spatters of alcohol and other fluids. The old apartment houses on all sides seemed to lean in, as if to get a better look at the merchandise in question, but the truth was they were simply old and poorly built. The market stalls were scattered all over the square, disorderly placed and inconveniently so for some, and the statue of some unknown man, perhaps a former mayor or prominent aristocrat stood in the centre, covered in avian excrement on the top and chalk writings closer to the base, scraped into the marble in the High Mordentish script.

The two were not that much different from most of the crowd. The girl was young and her frame was thinner than most, making her seem malnourished. A floral dress worked to counteract that, suggesting to her higher than average stature in society. Her pale visage sported a wide grin, despite the negative answer of her companion just then, heavyset bags under her eyes, which for her age seemed almost unnatural. Her dull green eyes were alight with playfulness, as she constantly teased and pushed the man beside her to frustration, which was evident through his speech if not through his light expression. The light brown, almost orange hair atop her head was curled purposefully and adorned with daisies, flowing down to her shoulders.

The man was older, perhaps twice her age. His black hair was greased into place, appearing shorter than it is. Equally dark eyes glanced to the girl at his side every now and then, a small lopsided smile at her comments. His fair complexion betrayed a long life indoors, and the stubble that decorated his jaw was rugged and uneven. His tunic was evidently of high quality, though a long dried wine stain could be seen on his undershirt.
The two lithely moved through the crowded square like a graceful dove, diving and gliding through the dense alleyways of the city. Absent-minded of the chaotic nature of their surroundings and the throng of people, as if only the two of them existed, and all else faded into the background...
 


...And in another, not so distant place, and another time, a group of four men made their way through a dark alley, with only the light of the moon and the distant lights of street lamps as their guide. Conversing quietly between themselves, their steps light despite the copious amounts of garbage littering the alleyways' cobblestones. Reaching their destination, an old door in the side of an apartment building, they all nodded in silent agreement, as the largest man, Arno was his name, broke down the door with a powerful kick, his boot bearing down on the old, rusty hinges and simple carpentry with ease. The four quickly entered, brandishing knives and clubs, just in case, though they knew the home was long abandoned.

The dusty old furniture stood in the room as silent, stationary guardians, though they have failed to ward off the arachnid intruders that weaved the massive cobwebs over nigh everything in sight.  A portrait hung just above the fireplace, a remarkable feat of art only achieved by the most meticulous and skillful of painters. The girl in the painting looked young, perhaps fourteen, a wide grin on her face and a glint of glee in her dull green eyes, somehow captured by the artist. She wore a floral dress, just barely noticeable in the painting, but whatever was there was put down into the canvas with incredible detail. Her bright brown, almost orange curly hair cascaded down to her shoulders, and her pale visage slightly worked up to appear healthier. The painter saw it wise to not depict the bags under her eyes, and decided to make her appear more plump than she was.

The four men wandered about the room, looking for anything valuable they could grab and resell. Francois, the youngest of them and Arno's son, a skinny man of just over twenty years, nervously split himself from the group and went to search the upstairs, while two of the others, Jacques and Louis, both older and burly, muscular men of a sour nature, decided to invade the kitchens and bedrooms, while Arno remained in the main room, staring up at the portrait in silence, squinting at the image, before calling out towards the stairs in the High Mordentish tongue.


"Francois! Get down here, boy." A moment after, the man rushed down the stairs, looking to his father questioningly. "What is it? I found this... big bowl upstairs, it's a bit dirty but we could sell it for some good Scandals."
The older, bigger man frowned and swatted the bowl out of Francois' hands, frowning. "That's a chamber pot, you imbecile. Look--"He grabbed the young man's chin and tilted it upwards, toward the portrait. "Remind you of someone?"
"That's... That's Élise, right? The girl that cured mother? I recognize her face."
Arno smiled, nodding very briefly. "Yes, it's her. Younger and less ruddy, but it's her. Didn't know she was a Descoteaux."
As they spoke, the other two men came in the room, both laughing heartily, filled sacks of loot hefted over their shoulders.
"..Ah, feels good taking from these gone by merchants, doesn't it, Louis?"
"Sure as Ezra's sweet teats. Remember when all those rumors started circling them, twenty years ago?"
"The ones about Bastien and that courtesan? Hah! Ruined the reputation of these fops for years. Siring a child with some lowly commoner, out of wedlock, and the poor woman and child were nowhere to be found, not two days after the fact. No wonder he never moved out and settled down, no one would take him after that sort of debacle. Girl in the picture was born just then, too. Probably doesn't even know a time where her family wasn't the shameful talk of the town."
Louis shrugged, grinning toothily. "Mm, and those 'bandits'-- He says while holding back a laugh. that ended up burning their carriage with both the old-timers and their good for nothing son still in it. Tsk, tsk... Just a streak of bad luck, nothing relating to half the city hating them." He shook his head slightly, still attempting to hold back that stifling laughter, before turning to look over at the two by the fireplace. "You two done admiring that picture of the little harlot? We got a lot of stuff to sell, can fix us straight for a few months."
Both men turned their gazes over to their companions, with Arno speaking in a sharp, stern tone. "We're not stealing from this place. Put those things back where they belong, and let's move on, yeah?"
"No, we're not going anywhere. These trinkets are precious enough to feed us for months without having to work. If we're moving on, we're also taking from here. The more the better." Louis responded, in his own cold and calculated speech, with a hint of venom and impatience, to which Arno immediately roared in his now growingly annoyed voice. "No. We are moving. Now. Drop the things, and let's bloody leave." He points up to the portrait, staring directly at his partners in crime. "This girl saved my Helene from the pox. She is decent folk. We don't steal from decent folk."
"Decent?!" Jacques butted in, shouting. "Don't make me laugh, Arno! She's a damned rich girl, looking down on the rest of us as if we were rats. I don't care what she did for you, I have a family of my own to feed, and I ain't risking barging in a place with people in it!"

At that point, the night's silence was broken by the shouts of the bickering men, and eventually the sounds of fighting, lasting for the rest of the night, before dying down. The light of the rising sun shone through the window, enormous bits of dust and dirt floating through the beam of sunshine that washed over the blood and broken furniture. Three bodies were stacked on top of each other, those of the large man, Arno, and his two adversaries, Louis and Jacques, creating a pool of blood under them and staining each other's dark and simple clothing. Francois managed to drag himself below the window, leaving behind a trail of his own blood. His breath had grown weak and shallow, and he barely kept his eyes open - those drifting around the battered and defaced hall, before eventually settling on the portrait of the young girl.

She smiled to him, through the splatters of blood that concealed most of her visage. Despite the mess, despite the death all around them, she grinned to him still. And he returned her the favor, a weak smile of his own as he closed his eyes tiredly, and his breathing ceased, his body dropping to the side slowly.

And the portrait remained, the canvas stained with dried blood. The girl's gaze presided over the bodies of those that fought for naught, her wide grin as lively and her dull green eyes as gleeful as they were before. How much time would pass before that scene would be met by another's eyes? Perhaps it won't ever be.

Some things are not meant to be known.
« Last Edit: June 23, 2016, 06:38:18 AM by Pav »

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Impotence
« Reply #1 on: April 09, 2016, 06:43:01 PM »
It all began
In one fateful day
Oh, that rueful, awful day
As the maiden dame was on her way
 
Know she was fair
Though it was not rare
That she'd be led astray, here
A weak winged bird caught by the air
 
Try as she might
Despite all her fight
Despite the fire inside
Nothing could calm her inflicted fright

From our maiden
In its place, barren
A part of her flame, taken
Gone to care for the soul of her love

It all ended
In one fateful night
Oh, that rueful, awful night
Here the maiden dame had lost her way
 
« Last Edit: April 09, 2016, 07:22:38 PM by Pav »

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Secrets
« Reply #2 on: April 15, 2016, 03:06:06 AM »
Knight, o' dear knight
What is it that you battle?
How hard does it strike you?
Is it to die, or are we?

Maiden, maiden
Heed my beck and call, please
Rest back your dignity
Tell me of your frightful nights

Father, father
Can you embrace me more?
It is your care, see
Gone with the wind, as you were

Mother, mother
Surely you are alive
Unharmed and yet serene
In another day we will meet

My love, my love
You have broken my heart
Indeed, 'tis for the best
Though my pain will never rest



Pav

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Broken Promises
« Reply #3 on: April 16, 2016, 04:39:43 PM »
My father, he promised
That I will never see the light of day

My mother, she promised
That I will never be happy or safe

My father, he promised
That I will one day get to spread my wings

My mother, she promised
That I will one day see her safe and sound

To myself, I promised
That I will never die in vain for naught

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Dog Days
« Reply #4 on: July 01, 2016, 11:29:14 AM »
[A piece of parchment soiled and marred by large stains of ink, coffee spillage and more, along with manic scribbles in Mordentish...]



THERE IS NOTHING HERE
THERE IS NOTHING HERE
THERE IS NOTHING HERE
THERE IS NOTHING HERE
THERE IS NOTHING HERE
THERE IS NOTHING HERE
THERE IS NOTHING HERE
THERE IS NOTHING HERE
THERE IS NOTHING HERE

THERE IS NOTHING HERE FOR ME
« Last Edit: March 16, 2017, 01:36:53 AM by Pav »

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A Flicker in Time
« Reply #5 on: July 29, 2016, 03:10:14 AM »
. . .
« Last Edit: March 16, 2017, 01:38:28 AM by Pav »

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Dimmed Lights, Dying Sparks
« Reply #6 on: March 16, 2017, 01:39:08 AM »

Very few things tormented her mind as much as regret. It was not that she did not know better, that such thoughts were poison. She knew it well enough, though letting them in, in absence of their counterparts, was one of the few things to keep her feeling alive. That her cause, that her life's work, however short, mattered, and the death of Edith Farthingale only drove such thoughts further down the abyss they called home.

It was not that she did not know better, that grieving the death of someone you've never truly known was folly. But she did it, anyway, because she wanted to. Because she wanted to know her; she wanted to believe that there was someone in life that she could be whole with, that there would be no arguments, no hate, no poison, no patronizing, no... nothing. In the end, there was nothing, and she could still not come to understand,

If it was the world, or if it was her, that was wrong.

Edie's death, and the deaths of her brother and her parents, with all the various people she shoved away, and with all the lives that she could not simply save. They were the source of her regret, her guilt, her grief, her sorrow and her rage.

It was not that she did not know better.

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Dimmed Lights, Dying Sparks
« Reply #7 on: March 18, 2017, 02:51:13 AM »
The stalk of her flower was who she was; the essence of her being. The corolla was the collection of reasons shrouding it in defense.

Not a day went by that something had whittled away at the petals that comprised her shield. She held on to the small graces - the smile of a relieved mother, the familiar face of someone she could call a friend, despite it all, and the countless, shapeless things she'd changed on her way and inspired. She was, even if others would like to argue it, the shield and sword of those powerless to defend themselves from harm; the one that relieved pain and suffering wherever she went, whenever she could; the tool that put it all on the line to keep the darkness at bay.

She was proud of herself, but it was not enough. Not nearly, close to enough.

It was as they said it - she mattered. She needed to matter, to herself, and she needed to find her own peace - peace that would not come when her life hinged only on the pride of her work, but could not find rest to lean on things more mundane, things more earthly.

Could the two be balanced, in her heart?

Her final petal was already halfway withered.

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A Spark Extinguished
« Reply #8 on: September 22, 2017, 06:19:49 AM »



With a flimsy kick of her boot she scattered the accumulated waste from the last faires of the season out of her way. The alleyway that led to the back entry of what used to be the apartment complex that served as her Family's city home was especially filthy and dark, with the autumn rains mingling with the late evening hour. A distant skitter gave her pause, though she pushed the rusty handle down, and inward. It didn't take much effort, with the abandoned and derelict state of the manse. Before she could even step foot within, a beggar rushed past her, wearing nothing but torn rags and mumbling in hysteria - her cloaked, haunched figure was nothing but suspicious, and the city's vagrants did not bother with the sort of person she appeared to be.

Good enough, she thought to herself - then came a cough, and a fit of such followed. Soon enough, her hand dabbed a kerchief at the sides of her mouth, staining the cheap thing with spots of blood. The pain eased, in recent days, though she attributed that to the comfort of proper lodgings as compared to the road. She travelled the Core for a few years, though her condition only begun earlier that spring... or winter? Did she come under its ghastly hold in Bergovitsa, or later yet, in Nevuchar Springs, when she felt the last of the magic drain out of her body from the long period it spent unused? Oh, but it didn't matter, now.

No, it didn't. She stepped into the entryway, and her nostrils were immediately assailed by the stench of human waste, and worse things yet. The damp of the rotten wood served only to burden her already sluggish, heavy steps. Everything was in disarray; the carpets, picture frames and where their likes used to rest, the nails barely clinging to the walls. Some of the paintings were nothing of naught, but that was because the looters carried off everything that could have been of import or value. When she rounded the corner to the solar, she did not even flinch.

Dusty, mould covered skeletons covered in tatters that used to be a common worker's garb greeted her. One was propped against the side of the hearth; the rest were gathered in a pile. It seemed as if no one tried moving them out, though at a quick glance, they were stripped of any valuables by other scavengers - which was likely what they were, themselves. Possibly the first band of looters to come into the estate of her Family since that dissolved. Not even the chandelier that used to hover above middle of the room remained; all that was there were the corpses, the debris, an unlit hearth, and a torn sofa. Used to be its cushions were filled with goose feathers, but now, all that remained was the filthy tarp of linen.

With exhaustion overtaking her, she deigned to sit and rest her limbs for just a moment. She took her time, navigating the city streets, but the effort of moving through the massive labyrinth that was her home of Mortigny still took its toll on her weakened body. When she lowered herself onto the sofa, the wood creaked from her measly weight that nowadays was equally the weight of her travelling supplies and equipment. She leaned back, and her gaze involuntarily carried upward, above the hearth - where a portrait frame hung loosely from a ravished stud. It was a simple, lacquered wooden frame, and the work of art within held the youthful visage of a grinning girl in her adolescent years, her bright brown hair nearly catching fire. The colors were faded, and the canvas parchment turned old and yellowed, yet the sight of it alone was clearer than anything her weary eyes have seen in the last half-decade.

The artist captured her appearance and spirit almost immaculately, then. Her eyes, as green as fresh forest leaves in spring, the pale, sheltered complexion that only girls of higher upbringing could have, and the joy of life etched into her face. How she maintained it despite the constant verbal assault she suffered at the hand of her neglectful parents, a pair that seemed to loathe the existence of either child as if both were a pox on their bodies and names, was beyond her understanding, now. In truth, her brother was more a parent than either could have ever claimed to be, and it was his passing that she mourned all those years later, and not theirs. Folks she used to know would say that is cruel of her.

Her gaze became transfixed on the portrait. The woman the girl had become was a skinny, twig of a thing, and looked as if she was still that age by most respects. Her condition deteriorated, and returned to the skin and bones of her early youth. Her green eyes were dull, unbothered, uncaring, long before she fell under the influence of what drained her. Her hair darkened and lengthened, reaching to her hip, was now riddled with dead, white strands. Lack of sleep rimmed her eyes with red and black and gave her sallow skin that managed to collect a deathly gray pallor.

What happened, she thought to herself. What happened along the way, that took all of it away from her spirit? Was it everything she saw, travelling the Core to find a better place than her home, or was it some specific event in particular, something to drive her over the edge...? She could not remember. All she knew, that the clarion Call she heard in her youth, the one that arrived with praise and attraction to her spirit, was something she could not carry forth. It was a burden beyond her limits.

From endurance, to pride;
From pride, to disdain;
From disdain, to apathy.

From compassion, to nothing.

Her own, faded eyes stared back at her, and that stupid, idiotic grin still persisted. It was then that the tears came, though she did not sob - she couldn't, in fact. A torrent was let loose, and her breath steadily turned huskier, drier. She could not control herself, as her memories kept rushing back into her mind. Her life in Mortigny, with her brother, Bastian, her travels in Barovia, her crusade for the poor in Port-à-Lucine, and where her feet carried her since, all over the Core... searching. Searching for what?

There was no way to find what was lost, that luster for life and goodness. And though her tears continued rolling, her eyes were closed, and her eyelids fluttered against the moisture. She was out of time, and a familiar, yet profound darkness crept into her consciousness, along with something yet unfamiliar... a chill, her thoughts of the past and all she thought was wrong grew eerily distant, as if they disconnected from her mind, until they became nothing to her in the dark, sprawled unconscious on that torn couch as she was.

From the entryway, came the skittering of rats.






Élise Descoteaux
751-775 B.C.
Fin
« Last Edit: September 22, 2017, 06:29:21 AM by Pav »