Shrixennaof Lueltar(https://www.dropbox.com/s/amuhwc3b6seg5or/shrixenna.jpg?raw=1)
I know what you're thinking
I must be the problem here
I think too fast, talk too loud
Barely touch the ground
Yes, I must be the problem here
My Dark Mother
not my mother
I have retired to the privacy of my bedchamber. The respite is a well-deserved lull in forwarding my auspices. Even the most industrious female must claim time for her indulgence, though relaxation in this displaced world is difficult to find. These rivvil chandeliers are, of course, brighter than necessary. The harsh, glaring gleams of my breastplate atop the dresser provide a fitting backdrop to my thoughts.
Why must that male be so infuriatingly correct. This would all be so simple if I dismissed his competancy as overreaching. I would extract his wailed apology from a rite of suffering, offer his flesh to our Dark Mother for Her amusement, then reforge what remains into a docile jaluk. But it is far too late for that now...
It is far more calming to think of my rivvil. He is a meek thing, as all humans are, but endearingly fierce in his devotion and ambition. Moreover, he possesses the wit to weild the influence he commands, rather than simper in short-sighted indolence. I will continue to invest in him such that his aims are woven into a subset of mine.
Hmph. I am distracting myself from the irritation of my jaluk's usefulness. The lessons my mother carved into my skin are at odds with how he best serves me, since the liberties from Ilythirii convention that I have afforded him are undeniable in their results. But that is no excuse - I expect our Dark Mother's terrible judgement to fall upon me, as a Yath'abban. And in my depraved distortion, I yearn for Her disfavour. If Lolth never cared, then all of my scars are without meaning... just the mundane abuse of a matron over her daughter, without divine resonance.
But I refuse to believe that I am without Destiny. It awaits me. Even here, in this seemingly displaced world, I can feel Her Eightfold Gaze. So when She finds me, I will surrender into Her ruinous judgement with grace and laughter, as a Daughter of Lueltar should.
Test me, Lolth.
Pyrrhic Victim
a victory of our own demise
Piles of half-open books, pamphlets, and newsletters lay littered across the desk. The drowess lifts a mug to her lips, then grimaces at the sludged, murky leftovers of her coffee. She must have lost track of time. How long has she been writing? Too vithing long. Her delicate, dark grey fingers are stained with ink, making a mess of lacquered nails. Small black-streaked smudges have teased their way into her hair to mar the pristine silvery locks that she puts so much effort into maintaining. In this rare moment, the armour of her appearance is secondary to her intent.
There is a chessboard on the edge of the table. Its pieces are arranged into a tidy symmetry that stylizes ideal opening states that would never see actual play. Presumably, the pieces of both sides are dappled with ink, but it is only the white wood that is smudged. Shrixenna groans, staring at her draft with the prejudice one might reserve for someone who slipped ahead of you in a queue to take the wagon ride you had reserved. It is too late to regret taking on the mantle of a librarian. But the Abyss, she has not trained for this work.
A quirk of a smile touches her dark lips. By the Abyss... The curse carries so much more release since she has freed herself from Lolth's tyranny. It is a celebration, an adulation, a dare to the Spider Queen to strike her down for her heresy. But neither the Dark Mother's influence, the scattered lolthites who cling to her dogma, not her enemies have managed to snuff her breath. Surely, that is a victory. But is it enough?
She knows the answer, of course. Deep in her bones, the defiance screams through her core: it may be that only the strong survive, but I want to win. Her fingers fly to the chessboard to make a seemingly random move, hoping at knight into place where it lays threat to a pair of pawns. Her smile widens as a surge of energy courses back into her posture. Shrixenna's quill once again begins to scratch across the page, well into the night.
It is only when she finishes her draft and sets her quill down does she take the time to fully take in the sticky state of her hands. However, before she can fully indulge in satisfaction, an insidious drone pierces through her thoughts. What a pathetic Jalil. When were your hands last stained with the blood of the meek? It is not your strength, but your absolute and cosmic insignificance that keeps you safe. Her lips twist. She needs to drown the doubt out. Now.
The drow elf turns on her chair to fully face the board. Her pale red eyes strain in exhaustion, but she keeps her gaze even and level with the pieces. Soft clicks of wood echo into the open room while she tries, over and over, to play her way out of the trap that she made.
Sweet Dreams
who am I to disagree
It is in my reverie where the incongruity of who I was meets who I am. What kind of Jalil am I, who values her human company over that of Ilythirii… I tell myself that I am one who is clever and insightful, that I recognize the advantages offered by their society. But in a century, when all whom I know are dust, what then? How long until I tire of the new faces, the introductions, the veiled barbs of politeness, and instead waste my ambition away in the pursuit of comfortable familiarity?
Enter the mid game.
Humans possess dreams. The comatose hallucinations are a failing of their weak natures, of course. But there is a freedom there, in that they are not chained to their past each cycle of repose. They restore themselves in fits of fancy, imagined tragedy, or the calm of the void. My companion has proven the strength claimed from its detachment beyond any doubt.
Clear the board.
So, I clear the board myself. Each time I restore myself to full consciousness, I put each warring piece of myself away tidily and neatly behind the rationalizations that I have constructed to contain them. Each time, I push past the temptation to flounder and scream at the discrepancy between what I deserve, and what I receive in this surface world.
Remember, Jalil...
Time is your weapon, not theirs.
And so long as I breathe, I will endure. I will chip away at the divide between what I possess and what I desire. So, as long as I breathe, I am winning. It isn't a question of 'if' but of 'how soon'.
I don't want to find out if victory rings hollow, alone.