Shrixenna Lueltar - An Archetypal Atrocity

[Siobhan]

Shrixenna
of Lueltar

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

[Siobhan]

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.

[Siobhan]

True Beauty Lies
beneath

The drowess speaks to an imaginary point beneath her, as if addressing someone kneeling in attendance to her throne. Her voice is reflective and self-indulgent, clearly not expecting any sort of meaningful reply from the imaginary person.

"That this is a city of lies, false kindness, and broken promises is hardly a surprise. But what has irritated me most deeply is the depth to which those rivvil here believe their own self-serving fabrications."

"My matron ensured, in my earliest educations, that I understood service. That the grace and allure of the visage I cultivate was a tool to further her aims. And that beneath it..." Shrixenna pivots in her chair to reveal her back. Her low cut gown leaves her spine and shoulderblades in plain view - the usually concealed skin gleams in the dim light, soft and well-maintained, but covered in a tapestry of raised scarification. Layers of lashmarks, burns, and animalistic puncture wounds tell an unspoken story of historic abuse.

"... beneath the polite formalities of social expectation. That is where true beauty lies." The elf curls her lips into a sly smile over her shoulder, as if indulging her imaginary supplicant in a tantalizing glimpse into a burlesque fantasy.

Then, with a slow, sinuous movement of her arm, she draws an ornate dagger, more ceremonial than practical in make. The blade is wickedly curved and radiates with malicious arcane energy. There's a brief pause and Shrixenna's gaze lifts to the audience to purposely break the fourth wall of her performance, a sharp and predatory glint to her pinkish eyes as she considers them, weapon in hand.

However, the break in character lasts for no more than a moment. Her attention returns to the imaginary supplicant, as if the actual audience did not exist.

"Of course, I have since reclaimed my agency from my mother's designs." Her voice rolls smoothly while she contorts her wrist to bite the dagger's point into a lashmark to open a line of crimson upon her dark grey flesh. A slow, hissing exhale then twists from her lips to process the pain of it.

"But I am what I was made to be." She pivots back around in her chair now to fully face forward. There's a bit of a hunch to her posture, the imperious attitude of her initial entrance discarded. With a hesitant vulnerability, she rolls up the velvet of her left sleeve to reveal her bare forearm to her imaginary confidante. Similarly to her back, its surface is scarred and mutilated, however these marks lack deliberate planning - a haphazard collection of old wounds allowed to crystalize into permanent damage.

"These are mine." Shrixenna's voice is plain, stripped from intonation and conceit, as she holds out her arm in presentation. The wounds displayed are similarly historic, the scartissue smoothed over from the passing of time. "Each, an unanswered prayer for reprieve from the cruelty of mortals."

"I thought that I had grown past these naïve complaints. That I was inured to the pain of a broken promise." She looks away from her imaginary supplicant to gaze down upon the mottled collection of scars, as if surveying a ledger whose totals don't quite add up to the expected value.

"But I did naut account for the depth to which those rivvil here believe their own self-serving fabrications." The elf repeats her words from before with a rueful quirk to her lips. She turns her wrist with a gentle rolling of her joints to allow the underside of her arm to catch the light. Amidst these scars, there is one that takes obvious precedence - it is long and red, the tissue still enflamed with recent trauma.

"Emeric." She explains to the imaginary person kneeled before her makeshift throne. There's a tremble to her voice that threatens to spill over into a cry, but the elf chokes it back into composure.

Shrixenna lets the moment sit, then her demeanour towards her supplicant begins to shift - vulnerability slips into fear, then rises into a cold panic. With a hissed snarl, she levies the dagger in her offhand into an aggressive grip and strikes it out like a snake, miming the unmistakable motion of slitting another's throat across her imaginary confidante.

With a clatter, she lets the dagger fall to the ground. Then, she turns her head to one side. A final glimpse of raw regret can be seen in her dark features before they are hidden by a sweep of her silvery hair. Slowly, Shrixenna turns back to face the audience - her expression a perfect mask of a polite smile. Entirely genial and agreeable, perched atop her chair as if she was ruling the world, her posture is balanced in an artist's rendition of poise and grace.

With a smooth sweep of her expensive skirts, she leaves the stage. The only evidence left behind from her performed vulnerability is the dagger discarded on the floor, still wetted with a few droplets of her blood.

[Siobhan]

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.

[Siobhan]

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.