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Post by Ceara Mindelan on Aug 9, 2009 9:07:54 GMT -8
Ah! A hit! Ceara grinned as she felt more than saw her blade slice through flesh. It wasn't where she'd been aiming, or as serious as she'd wanted it to be, but at least she'd got a hit, right? Right. She was ready for the woman (who she still didn't know the name of, by the way. She was just calling her evil bitch) to pull out the dagger so that they could begin fighting, but to her surprise the woman rolled and disappeared in the crowd of people, who'd all but ignored them as she yelled at the evil bitch. She snarled in anger and frustration, her green eyes searching the crowd, looking for the woman, for Ceara didn't want her to just get away.
The woman sudden appeared standing on a barrel, looking right at her. Ceara snarled and began walking towards the barrel, but they were still rather far apart. She wanted to scream in fury when the woman winked at her and then took off...changing into a seagull and flying up with the other ones. At least she knew which one was the evil bitch because of the injury on her shoulder, right? She just watched the seagulls for a few minutes, until she realized the one with the bloody shoulder was faltering slightly. Good. Ceara smirked and headed in the direction the seagull went down in, not at all in a hurry. No matter what form the woman decided to change into, she'd recognize her because of the bloody shoulder wound._________________________________________ Words: 268 Mood: Hungry Notes: Okay, I was going to make Ceara find them, until I realized two things: One, it would be funny to see Dahlia play with him for a little while, and two that if she did find them now, they'd be surrounded by a big crowd of people. Not so good xD So I'll leave you two to posting and join in in a few posts! =D Kay? And sorry, this post was cut off a little abruptly because of my realization and stuff xD [/size]
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Post by Dahlia Cruorem on Aug 10, 2009 8:43:43 GMT -8
She scanned the crowd for a flash of blond, for a shimmering color of jewel eyes, hard, angry -- no, Dahlia imagined those eyes would be enraged, especially if she caught sight of blue, as her own eyes had done when swept up in the crowd. Her heart had leapt... but had it been her own? She wasn't sure, wasn't sure and in lieu of confusing herself, and breaking herself against the hope that she was her own will, she let it go, like a fish re-released into the waters. It was okay, it would have to be; so she told herself and straightened her shoulders, though the motion pained her, sent arcs of heat through her, down to her fingertips. Heart pains, she thinks, amused, wholly herself in her amusement as she dons the fake mask of Ceara and turns her face away as the smile curls her mouth in the usual way -- half lifted, bent right at the edges so only half of her lips smiled, and yet it was her own expression that picked up the slack.
Perhaps a chuckle might have rolled off of her tongue but she knew her role, knew it as a player knew the lines which would be written in dark blocky writing on paper. Say this -- and the words were there, so easy to read for your own comfort though you had learned them long ago, had memorized it as if it would cost you your life. In Dahlia's case it often did. So she didn't laugh, or chuckle, or purr in amusement, or pleasure, but kept her head turned away, a constantly moving motion as she gazed and gazed, picking up and discarding faces, immovable though her body told her to run, to keep going. Dahlia was arrogant: she thought herself free and instead of keeping to her instincts, she brushed them aside with an alarming coldness and stilled her lips from cracking a grin. No, Ceara wouldn't smile when she was injured, when she was being chased to the point of asking for help. No, no, no -- but there was no fun in this part of Ceara and Dahlia was loathe to pick up the mask and glue it to her face.
--- but she did.
Whipping around with a motion that almost knocked her shoulder into another person, she wedged herself to the side, trying to stay away from the crowds, from the onlookers which only gave her a momentary, judgmental stare. She might have snarled, but unsure if it was in Ceara to be vulgar, she didn't, and turned her eyes, emerald and sharp, though only slightly dulled by the puzzlement of her injury, toward Emlyn. Perfect face, perfect eyes -- she stared as if she had forgotten he was there -- especially with him closer to her now, burning her skin (was this Ceara's reaction or her own? Definitely Ceara, had to be. Right?) with his fingers, heat curling down her belly, rolling there and bringing her breath sharp. Her head jerked to the side, away from him, eyes squeezing shut as she felt his fingers pulling at her hand, prying open the wound though his hands were gentle. She didn't look, couldn't look for she knew the expression which was transforming her face was not Ceara. Teeth clenched, Dahlia let herself be poked and prodded though all of her instincts rebelled against letting him touch her this way, without her controlling him. He was still free, not even close to the net she would drape over his eyes; if he would let her, she would steal his will and grind it against her own to see which one shown the brighter. But no, no, that wasn't Ceara and she pulled the persona up over her head, a metaphysical thing, invisible, unnoticed but for the softening of her eyes, the hunger to be wanted, the embarrassment of their last meeting.
No! Useless, foolish girl! Even now she would have this impede her? Better to be herself and disappear from their lives. Cutting through it, folding it down, she felt her body her own, though it was still in the knight's shape, still with her blond hair, her soft, pale skin -- red where her shoulder had been sliced open.
I should get you back to Treasure, he's on the edge. I can use the bandages from his saddlebags.
Her eyes snapped open, her body cringing back from his continued touch, from the way in which he was holding her arm -- possessing her -- and the anger was a vile thing indeed, but she choked it back, and turned a quizzical look on him. Treasure? What treasure? He? Swallowing thickly, she nodded, her eyes slicing to the side to look over her shoulder, over at the people. Was the glimpse of bouncing blond hair, a flash of green real, or did her mind conjure it up?
Dahlia was starting to realize that Emlyn was nothing like the picture the girl had given her and she wasn't sure whether to look deeper into the commingled relief and exasperation that filled her, to keep herself distanced. Instead she let herself be steered though she did sigh, "Good, I don't have money for a healer."
Ah! Too late, too late the memory surface as if beckoned by the spell of her very words and blossomed in her head. Nothing like a movie, but a sudden, sure knowledge that perhaps that wasn't the best topic to bring up. Snarling at the girl's temerity, Dahlia cruelly, brutally and without regret, cut all ties to Ceara's personality, stealing only the surface expressions to pinch her eyebrows when the jostling of her arm brought little sparks of pain. Dahlia would never have made such a face. To show pain was to show weakness. To show weakness in front of him was almost unbearable. He was cold, hard, brisk, and she was finding herself staring at him with new eyes. Efficient, not the awkward that Ceara had labeled him in her mind. So different the perception, so very different!
What had this game given onto her lap? What gift! What possibilities. Her tongue darted out, licked her lower lip, though she dared not do what she ached to do: rip her arm from his hand and walk beside him an equal.
Then another thought: who the hell was treasure?
word count;; 1067 tags;; Ceara, Emlyn OOC;; hah, she's a mess.
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Post by Emlyn Zynooth on Aug 10, 2009 10:39:39 GMT -8
Now that the initial shock of seeing Ceara injured was over, lurking doubts began to creep into his mind. He tried to flick them away like flies, but at the same time he was scared they would string if he touched them. Perhaps if he left them alone they'd do no harm? Or should he face them head on? How did one even go about doing that? He couldn't just come out and say everything that was on his mind, firstly because he still had no idea what was on his mind and secondly because he knew he'd blow something. 'Suave' and 'smooth' were never words associated with him, and if they were, it was because he was their antonym, a visual aid of how not to be so.
His eyes flickered down to her, and how down she was. He hadn't really realized how much bigger he was...nearly a foot taller. How had she even done that before...? Oh, that's right, he had been bent over slightly, looking at Treasure's feet. s***, he should not be thinking about that. Why did his brain even have to bring that up? His eyes darted away as deep crimson slowly stalked onto his face. And that wasn't all, no, of course not. His shoulders, moving of their own accord, some forward, and he bent his neck with them, he hunched, a common position for him to be in nowadays. He was mortified at his own inability to move on. But...at least she seemed to be going through the same motions. She was facing away from him, and to be perfectly honest, that made it easier for him. He needed to keep pretending that she was just...a fellow soldier.
But he couldn't, not when people kept on shoving right past them and he knew he wanted to hurt them every time they did so. He wanted to protect her...because she was injured, because he had done so before, because...no, it was time to stop lying. It was because that by now, it just felt natural. If someone hurt her, he would hurt them, that was normal, right? She was a friend, at least, even if he knew that she felt differently, well...he was still pretty fuzzy on that. And d***! It was time to concentrate!
He held his hand on her somewhat tighter as he pushed aside the last of the crowd to where he had tied Treasure to a ring on the ground. The gelding popped his head up from where it had been hanging, and to Emlyn's confusion, stared at Ceara. That was odd, he had never seemed that fascinated before, but he ignored it as he reached into the saddlebags and pulled out a rolls of bandages. They were now on top, due to the irritation it had given him before when he had had to dig through them with a throwing star in his arm. He grunted only slightly as he turned around, but the second he did so, his face became parallel to the ground.
"Could you...um, take...no, um, pull your sleeve off? You don't...have to...just..." Oh crap, not good. He had forgotten about that part of treating injuries. Perhaps he should just make her put it on herself, but...how much of an idiot would that make him seem? No, he could do this, along as he stopped thinking. She was just a soldier. A soldier.
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Post by Dahlia Cruorem on Aug 10, 2009 15:28:05 GMT -8
What fun! What fun! Her smile when he turned his back on her was rather mischievous, a strange, unsettling smile that sparked her green eyes in an unusual way. So much Dahlia, too much, one might say -- a dangerous game she played, deeper than the first, more likely to fail; she was willing to play with fire to make this man dance to her tune, to turn his eyes to her and make them stay there -- it was a dance, a thing she was willing to do even if she burned, even if the very flesh from her body was taken from her. Would he flay her? Would he hurt her, hm, hm? In this not-knowing was a high that fed poison to her system, made her feel, made her want with a passion that danced under her skin. She was more alive now, than she had been before -- even the pain in her shoulder was dying, dying, dying, disappearing with every pulse that throbbed through her stolen body. Again, and again -- and the heart revives itself, dusts off the weaknesses and smiles when there should be no smile.
It's okay though -- he is not looking at her, but shoving ahead, hauling them through the crowd, his own shoulder the scythe that cuts through the masses. She imagined his glare, the sharp way his eyes would force those ahead of him to move, to disappear -- and so begins the cycle of fiction. First in one girl's heart, and then again in the next. She was losing sight of him: the way he had hesitated, the way in which he had initially stepped back from her. It was fading beneath the onslaught of I want, I want, I want and if she would die in this bubble of delusion, she would make it worth her while. There was a kiss on her tongue, the remembered touch of his lips pressed tight to her own though she had cut Ceara from the body she took after. Too bad, so sad, and she tried to conceal the energy which made her move without trouble though her arm should have been hurting -- though it did in fact pain her.
There was another smile, a vicious turn of her glare raking across the startled looks of girls, of boys too young to know what real blood looked like, what injury was; they would have taken her gold, would have taken the shoes off of her dead body but seeing the blood, seeing the death in action was another thing altogether. Yet the viciousness there was something that frightened them more than any blood might have and they scampered free, her own face transforming into beauty, into a happiness that was unexplipsed. The blond had disappeared from view and she was cocky, drunk on the power that allowed her to press against his back when the crowds pushed her roughly against him. It was a shallow press, but one that she owned, and she savored it as a dog would the marrow cracked open by it's own jaws, it's own power. Ducking her head, pulling herself apart from him, she kept her gaze askew, knowing the delight there, the sheer mischief and decidedly wantonness of her smugness would give her away.
Do not show it, and she did not, but instead, forced herself to look serious when all she wanted to do was laugh at the merry chase she was leading. So simple! So easy! And what did he have to fear from her? An injured girl he knew and trusted? Why would she ever slide a blade through his back, but the thought was there in the way her eyebrows rose over her gaze where she was watching him, allowing him to lead though she wanted nothing more than to take his hand in hers and show him what a real chase was, to show him real excitement, real bloodshed. To see the coldness in his eyes, the quiet, white static that filled his eyes when he had pulled her fingers from her wound and looked at it, studied it as if it did not mean anything. Ah, that coldness would freeze her marrow, a match that would cool her, anchor her to earth when she would do nothing but burn and burn and her ashes would rise, become smoke, burned so thoroughly she was just a thought that her malicious laughter would follow.
"Wait..." she stumbled, caught by hands, by bodies pushing her one way while he went another, and her voice came out muffled, almost strained though in her own head her voice was husky, darker, rough with desire, wait! and she imagined pulling him down and riding him, dividing herself as she grew bloated and slaked of the hunger. Oh hunger, what hunger! Would you cease if she managed to persuade this prize in her jaws?
Motion, suffocation --how she hated crowds, and the way they touched her without permission, without control. Disorienting: until it stopped and she was floating in nothingness. The crowd fell away from her, the boards of the dock disappearing beneath stamping, trampling feet. Tezca, she thinks, momentarily caught in surprise that such worry would tinge her view. Would she be an encumbered as Ceara? Pride drew her forward when the negligent feeling of guilt wormed it's way beneath the plate of bone that protected her heart. Bad heart, bad! A twist of her lips as she came eye-to-eye with a horse, it's slitted, horizontal pupils staring at her, staring through her. Hesitation as he let go of her, body pulsing where it had been held.
Lifting it up against her torso, she tossed her gaze over her shoulder, constantly vigilant though she had convinced herself she was not being followed any longer. But there was a heated stare on her body, prickling her flesh where the little hairs on the back of her neck was raised and she turned her eyes toward the horse while Emlyn fiddled with the saddlebags. Eyes shifted back to orange, a flickering of fire dilluted crystal, dilluting the softness there until with a fierce scowl she silently hissed at the creature; hand came up to grip her injury, as she turned her hot gaze from him, pulled up her magic snugly around her, powerfully around her, dismissing horse, cat and fixed herself.
Could you...um, take...no, um, pull your sleeve off? You don't...have to...just... [/b] Her eyes came up, vibrant green, pupils wide in her face for the briefest moment. Surprise, shock -- so easy to mimic, to take on the shape of as her lower lip trembled, flush creeping up her face. How shameful to be so afraid of physical contact! And he! Dahlia's eyes would have narrowed had she not been caught up in the act, in the game. "Yeah, sure." she drew closer to him, her other hand, though slightly stickied with blood, crusting along her nails, worked at the clothes around the wound, taking out her blade, Belle Mort disguised by magic as the dagger she had been, ironically, hurt with. The blade cut through the fabric of the collar with steamy ease, and her eyes downcast as she worked, didn't even think as she sightlessly sheathed the blade in it's home on her thigh, a familiar weight coated with venom. Pulling her hurt arm from the sleeve, she caught the fabric from falling and potentially revealing too much flesh and tied it altogether with deft fingers below the armpit, snuggly fitting it so her entire arm was bare. Taking the extra cloth she gently, eyes pinched from the sting, wiped the excess blood from the deep, clean swipe, and offered it to him as if it were a trophy, her eyes meeting his fearlessly. "Is this going to hurt?" she asked, her voice almost amused, warm, though her eyebrows were quivering and she had bitten the inside of her cheek. [/blockquote][/color][/size] word count;; 1358 tags;; Emlyn, Ceara OOC;; ^^
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Post by Emlyn Zynooth on Aug 10, 2009 18:21:55 GMT -8
Emlyn had to look away as she cut at her shirt, which really made no sense because he was going to bandage it anyone, but didn't want to just stand there and look. He was not that kind of man under any circumstances and he didn't want anyone to even have a thought that he was like that flutter over their mind. No, it was his duty to look away as any gentleman would. He, Emlyn, had no such urges. The only thing that came to mind when the words 'want' and 'female' went through was his desire to protect, and nothing more. No lust had ever boiled his insides enough to drive him mad, like it did to other men his age. He had control, discipline, and just...intelligence.
When she seemed done, he slowly turned around but kept his eyes facing downwards. What if she thought that if he looked then it would be fine for her to kiss him again? And what if this time she didn't run away? What the hell would he do then? His brain was just so used to coming up with the worst-case scenario so that he would know what to do when the time came, it just couldn't shut off. Normally, it helped him survive. It was what had got him through training, since they usually did throw the worst-case scenario at them. Now it was a system that had been rigged so strongly into his daily living, but now it seemed it was a curse that would make it impossible for him to function. Normally it helped him, but it was distracting him from what needed to be done. He couldn't let her bleed anymore. He was not nearly as skilled as Aithne had been, but he could at least do that.
When she asked him if it would hurt, he couldn't but melt a little bit at the fear...wait, there was no fear in her eyes. Well, it was an odd question. Hadn't she had a wound wrapped before? She was a knight. Maybe she just hadn't had an injury on her shoulder, and knew that he would know exactly how much it hurt. After all, she had done the same thing for him. Only he had been less willing, MUCH less willing. She hadn't been willing before, but they had been more in public, now they were already on the edge.
"No...it won't hurt."
He took steps closer and leaned over so he could see what he was doing, but flushed harder as he did so. Soft, but very nervous hands delicately lifted her arm slightly up so he could start wrapping it around, while ignoring the slight tingle he was feeling. He probably didn't do the best job, rather messily folding it around and around until he finally tied it in a knot, but it was decent and it would stop the bleeding. It was humiliating, letting this stupid feeling affect his ability to perform. He kept his eyes down as he backed away to avoid eye contact.
"There, um...done, I mean...you're done, it...it's done."
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Post by Dahlia Cruorem on Aug 11, 2009 21:42:59 GMT -8
It was hot, cold -- and nothing made sense, it was a confusion that clouded her eyes and gave her nothing but grief, of contradictory thoughts, wants, desires, hates, and it was centered around her wound, around herself, her damnable, untelling, secretive self. Did she hate who she was? Well who the f*** knew? She didn't even know herself and in that not knowing she was dancing from one mask to the other, donning different faces, taking on different existences in hopes that one, just one would make sense, would fit with the way that her soul flickered. For the briefest moment she had thought that Ceara had been that soul -- that perhaps maybe she was just another reborn Ceara, waiting to take on her body as she had done, but more than that! Yes, yes do not mistake her. It is no compliment when she finds herself infatuated, fascinated, enthralled by the mere scent of your sweat, by the strange shifting tides of your eyes.
It wasn't a compliment at all, at all, but a threat, a thing which would cast it's shadows over your dreams and feed on them, grow fat as worm, a leech that drank of your blood, supped of your sex and slowly, eventually became you, disposed of you one wondrous night on a hot sticky june evening. She would smile, a crooked, lustful thing and she would shift, her body rolling with new shapes, new plains, become you, replace you and you? Who would you be but a corpse staring wide-eyed at the bed, confusion puckering the stiffening muscles along your brow. Didn't you know? Didn't you know the viper was nothing but a feeding animal, a rabid, lustful flame that devoured and devoured, unable to contain the hunger, the craving, the utter ridiculousness of it's gluttony?
Shame, shame, that you didn't see how sinister her smile was, that she was nothing but a living trap, a walking, breathing, swaying -- oh gods she writhed when she rubbe up against you! -- man-eating creature of nightmares. Changeling? No such changeling was as confused as her, so demented by her own power she saw nothing beyond the next shape, the next addiction to make her blood thrum, her pulse to pound so thickly in her head. So she smiled and smiled and played along, until a mouse came along and the snake would grin, crack it's lips back to bear thick poisonous fangs, but it wasn't a quick death. Circle, circle, and wrap it's coils around you with slow, sensous ease -- an easy chuckle, a strange little turn of her mouth and suddenly it wasn't who you thought, but another, another creature with orange eyes. Black hair. Terrible, terrible ease, so simple with her glorious Sweet Requiem, Belle Mort --- would you ever taste of Picotin? Would you ever corner the snake, become the mongoose?
Didn't you know, didn't you know? Yes, she devoured, she consumed, she ate and ate and ate and was never satisfied, always smug but always hollow, always empty of the thing she wanted: the mongoose. The danger that would leave her weak at the knees. Someone like her perhaps? Or perhaps not. Perhaps someone so different it completely blindsided her, made her want nothing more than to dip her hands into the pool of their essences and still be denied. Perhaps that was just it: denial. She wanted to be told no, even as she struck out at any who dared to.
Was it so wrong that Dahlia tried her strength, her cunning against everyone in the world? Not so wrong, for it was a time of strength, a time when women were weak minded fools fanning themselves and sighing so beautifully their lashes flickered over pink, blushing cheeks. But she was not that. Could never be that no matter that she donned that mask as well, wore as a veteran might wear it's old uniform to remember old, precious times. Times of war, time of blood -- it sang in her heart, made her clench her teeth against the bitterest winter which would have colored her eyes. But he was acting strange and it took her mind off of their wandering path and into the reality: what was wrong with him?
So hesitant, so awkward... but to speak of it would be some social transgression and Ceara -- the Ceara that she was taking hold of -- was not one to breach those codes, though Dahlia wanted to, wanted to so badly her muscles clenched where his hands were on her; staring eyes, boring holes into his flesh as if she could see within, see through and it was a strange thing in which she saw. No words passed her lips, but a fierce, sudden nod as he reasurred her in his strange, quiet way. Where was the killer? Did he feel the same as this Ceara? Did he soften under the brunt of her emerald gaze? How disgusting, how terrible!
Must she do everything? Disgust tingled along her jaw and though it quivered she kept the mask from falling and instead watched as he wound the injury, sawing in it nothing useful. The moment it touched the injury it darkened with blood, seeped through no matter that he wrapped it tightly, securely. Sloppily, but then Dahlia was not used to letting others fix her injuries -- so easy to take on a doctor's shape, to know knowledge rather than earn it. He was close though, and the impulse was dangerous on her tongue, pulsing there like melting candy, sweet and perfect.
So close, she could breathe in his sweat. Should she touch him? In that not-knowing her body did the instinctive thing and recoiled when he was done, though there was a curiously challenging lilt to the arch of her eyebrow where it was raised up in question. So strange, so awkward? Where did the cold warrior go? Where was the source of that coldness, that efficiency? Or was it a mask of it's own? Too many thoughts and it made her fingers twitch as if she would grip her shoulder again. "Yeah, it is. Thanks."
A quick glance over her shoulder and she sighed, a rough soul-weary sound. "I'd pay you if I could but --" she lifted one arm empty-handed, "I have nothing, but my thanks." --- she almost twisted her mouth impishly before catching the instinctive smile to take over her mouth, and winced at the motion of her shoulder. "I hope that's enough." Another motion of her eyes as they darted to the side before landing on him again, restless, ready to be on. "Look, I'm going to keep moving in case I didn't lose them. Uhm, thanks for everything, I'll get out of your hair." A positively awkward smile later and Dahlia was growing disgusted with Ceara's softening toward him. Could she not think straight with this man in front of her? But then wasn't Dahlia in the same situation? Ha, ha, ha.
[/color][/size] word count;; 1175 rags;; Em Cea OOC;; if it doesn't make sense it's cause i'm too drunk to notice. ecuse the spelling errors. please.
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Post by Ceara Mindelan on Aug 12, 2009 8:47:15 GMT -8
Ceara finally stopped walking, sighing angrily as she looked around at the crowd once again, trying to spot the woman, or at least, someone with an injured shoulder. She had no idea whether the woman would switch into another form so that she couldn't find her as easily...sure, it seemed like the logical thing to do, but even then she should still be able to realize who the woman was by the injured shoulder. At least, she sincerely hoped so. She didn't want to let the woman (who, by the way, she'd never learned the name of) get away with messing with her head like she had.
Still, she'd been looking for her for close to half an hour and she just couldn't find her. Ceara sighed, looking around once more. She decided then that she might as well get headed home, so she pushed her way through the crowd until finally she'd left it behind. She spotted a horse she recognized, and a set of blue hair, and an immediate grin came to her face. She still had her sword in her hand, but she ignored it for now. "Hey, Emlyn, have you seen-" She broke off then as she finally set her eyes on the woman that was with him. It took her a moment to finally react, for at first she just stared at herself, looking a little confused before finally remembering the changeling, the woman she'd been looking for all along.
Her face contorted in a look of anger as she raised her sword, beginning to walk toward her. "What the hell do you think you are doing!?" She hissed at the woman that had stolen her appearance. Not only that infuriated her, but also the fact that she had tracked down Emlyn, in her own appearance. Who knew the sort of things she could have done or said to Emlyn. The evil bitch had already messed with her head, what if she was now doing the same thing to Emlyn!? "Leave him alone!" She said, and considering Emlyn would let her get close enough to 'herself' with her sword still raised, and that the woman hadn't fled or something at the sight of her, she'd swing her sword at the woman's neck, aiming to render her head from her shoulders. She ignored the fact that it looked like she'd be killing herself. _________________________________________ Words: 418 Mood: Eh. Notes: Just in case the end was confusing, if Emlyn stepped in front of her or something she would have stopped, so she wouldn't have had the chance to swing at Dahlia's neck. Or if Dahlia ran off or something xD [/size]
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Post by Emlyn Zynooth on Aug 12, 2009 10:38:59 GMT -8
"Yeah, that's fine," he said shortly, swirling to face the other direction. Yes! That was it, and now she would leave. They wouldn't have to bring up anything and it would be like it had never happened. He was once again the soldier, in stead of...who did he become when she was around? He was the runner then, the person who ran away from his problems. But he could be normal again, in the form that had shaped the majority of his life. He straightened up his shoulders slightly and pretended that none of this had affected him or his ability to perform at all.
Then he heard her voice again...d***, but it was coming from a different direction, he must have not heard her move. But when he turned slightly, he saw Ceara running towards him...completely uninjured? What the hell? And...now she was was about to attack Ceara! Instinctively, he stepped in front of Ceara and grabbed the...other Ceara's arm, the one she was holding her sword with, though utter confusion was fluttering through his eyes. She didn't have a twin, did she? Wouldn't she have told him about that?
Then he remembered what Ceara had said about the changeling, they were shape-shifters! This must have been it! No wonder she had wanted to get away, he should've been faster with his bandaging, and maybe let her ride away on Treasure so she could avoid another encounter. He threw a look back at her to confirm that this was indeed the changeling. But what else could it be? Whatever it was, he wouldn't let it hurt Ceara again, not if he had anything to say about it, and he would, oh how he would.
With his other hand, he grabbed the hilt of his sword in case she had another weapon that she would take out, and he looked venomously into her sharp green eyes that he knew had been stolen, "Leave Ceara alone, you're the changeling, aren't you?" All confusion and emotion left his eyes, he saw only an enemy that might hurt the person he cared about...wait...cared about? No, the person he felt an obligation to protect. He would not stand for anyone trying to mess with her. His tolerance level already had been low, but now he was over the edge and he just wanted things like this to stop happening.
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Post by Dahlia Cruorem on Aug 12, 2009 14:37:15 GMT -8
Dahlia cursed in her head, I knew I should have gone --- but wait! Wait, wait, wait, hold on a fucking moment, who's thought was that? Since when did Dahlia ever want to leave a potential confrontation? Miss invincible, Lady Death? What was going on? Teeth clenched, eyes flickered as she felt the world slow on it's axis and come to a painful, grinding halt. Problems, serious problems were going to unfold and not all of them were physical, most were metaphysical as she fought her baser instinct to attack, to shift into something dangerous as she felt, something that wouldn't be impeded by the injury to her shoulder, to the weakness she had let herself come into contact with. Oh, Dahlia, you've done it now, but wait ... just wait a minute.
As if time had stopped she lifted her head, the blond of her hair falling over her shoulders, as her eyes flashed, peeking back over her shoulder at the girl coming at her, yelling at her, hating her with her entire being and then clarity. So clear it must have been sent from some malign God that watched her back -- the very snake painted on her body, each painful stitch of ink and thread coming together to grant her sanctuary. Oh, how delicious this might be. Such anger in those jewels and finally, finally Dahlia managed to wrestle herself free from the strange emotions of Ceara, of the girl she had stolen, and was slowly dying in. There were too many constrictions in this body, too many things that hindered her though her anger was great and petty. A snarl crossed her mouth, but there was something coy in the way her eye fluttered at the oncoming beast of a woman, an amazonian with her sword hefted, disgust and revulsion tightening her face.
Dahlia moved, quicker than perhaps she should have -- moved back, dancing away as her uninjured arm went to the blade on her hip, Sweet Requiem pulsed, wanting to be used, a thing which transcended reality, with it's sharp twining fangs. It would be delicious to take those fangs and plunge them deep into her neck, to give her the same, lasting injury. But no, no, she would play this the right way -- the fun way. She would draw it out as the devious, sinister coils began to unwrap from her heart and slither out. Oh evil creature, what did you have in your mind now that made her want to smile so?
But she didn't smile -- she growled, her voice raw with indignation, with a fearlessness that seemed so part of Ceara's bravery. "WHAT THE HELL?!" she yelled at the oncoming creature, the vixen who had managed to find them, "Stop taking my shape! Don't you have better things to do?" she snarled, her face twisting, eyes ablaze with indignation as her sword rang free, bristling in her uninjured hand. "You got me the first time, it's not going to happen again." and briefly, she met the cold eyes of her companion, of Emlyn who blocked the path that would have killed her; she didn't smile but her eyebrows tightened, her eyes flashing with a touch of unease. So disturbing to see this mirror image wasn't it?
Teeth clenched, energy buzzed through her, writhing like an angry serpent intent on having it's vengeance, but the moment that he turned from her to stare at the other, Dahlia's eyes shifted back to orange, to a dancing fire where mischief was reflected, taunting as her tongue slipped from between her lips and wiggled it. So cheeky!
A quick moment, but one in which there was nothing of Ceara in her face, or her expression -- a sudden, fierce moment of pure Dahlia with her intensity, her mischief, her incorrigible nature where she pushed the girl, egged her on with her mere expression, with the way she was standing which was nothing proud but entirely too sexual, too slippery. Then the heartbeat past and there was nothing in those green emerald eyes but cut, rigid sides, a fierce scowl narrowing her cheeks, her neck taut with emotion as she half-raised her sword. "Leave me the f*** alone." she hissed.
[/color][/size] word count;; 707 tags;; em, cea OOC;; short, but she was in a spiteful mood.
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Post by Ceara Mindelan on Aug 12, 2009 15:23:39 GMT -8
Ceara wanted so badly to end this evil bitch's life, to watch the life leave her eyes. She wanted the woman who had stolen her image and invaded her mind and memories, who had played with her heart to die, preferably a very painful death. The knight part of her should have been disgusted at such thoughts of murder, but this was personal, obviously. This evil bitch had invaded her privacy, and then played with her, switching into Emlyn's form and trying to hurt her that way by making one of her deepest desires come true. Only it hadn't come true, for the bitch had decided to switch back into herself and then kiss her. How disgusting, to know that this disgusting, vile creature that had stolen her image had ever touched her.
However, before her sword had a chance to render the other Ceara's head from her shoulders, Emlyn stepped forward and grabbed her arm, stopping her sword. She looked up at him, emerald green eyes meeting his own dark blue-violet eyes. For a moment she felt almost betrayed, before remembering that he thought the evil bitch was her. So, really, he was just protecting who he thought was her from the changeling, right? How confusing. By trying to protect her, he was stopping her. Still, she stopped fighting and didn't even try to get make him release her, though she probably could have. Her eyes flashed down to the hand which he had laid upon the hilt of his sword. A warning? How ironic that would be, if by trying to protect her from the changeling, he actually killed her.
"I'm not the changeling, Emlyn! You have to believe me, she is!" She said, her voice much quieter than it had been when she'd been yelling at 'herself'. She turned her cold stare on the changeling in her form once again, her fists clenching as she noticed the woman's eye colour change from her emerald green back to the orange. She was obviously taunting her, and it infuriated her. "You fucking bitch. I'm going to kill you! Get the hell out of my form, and stop lying!" She snarled. Finally she struggled against Emlyn, aiming to pull her arm out of his grasp. If she managed to do that she would try move around Emlyn to swing her sword at the evil bitch once again._________________________________________ Words: 415 Mood: T'is alright Notes: Poor Emlyn xD...and poor Ceara! D= xD (this is so much fun! [/size]
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Post by Emlyn Zynooth on Aug 12, 2009 19:30:11 GMT -8
A flicker of doubt went through his eyes, and his grip loosened...but only slightly. No, Ceara...no, the changeling was lying, wasn't it? Unless...it really was Ceara, but Ceara had been so right, she's been...Ceara. Oh, it was confusing just to think about. How could a shape-shifter know how someone acted? They couldn't do that, could they? Or was it just that it was obvious? Was he obvious? No, but she even had Ceara's memories, she had her own memories because she was Ceara! That was the only way to get them! "You're the lying bitch."
But wait...how could that work? They both knew his name! Could they really get memories as well? What kind of violation of privacy was that? Did that mean...which ever one was the changeling...knew about...oh no. One of them had to be lying. How the hell was he supposed to find out which one was which? Did it even matter? Yes, it did, or he wouldn't know which one to help in a fight...he might even end up killing the real one. This was pure hell.
He kept his grip on...the second Ceara and turned slightly and grabbed the other Ceara by her forearm. He wasn't letting either of them get away, but now he reddened slightly, for now there was no chance that he wasn't holding the real Ceara...he bowed his head slightly and didn't look either of them in the eye. He couldn't just ask which one of them was real...they'd both say yes. And if they really could see memories...then they could see all of Ceara's memories, but could they choose which memories they saw? Well, it was worth a try.
"Um...how did I get my scars?" It was the only thing he could think of, "Don't say it out loud, whisper it to me." Yes, he needed them both to answer, because the strategy might not work, then he would know that changelings could easily search through memories if they both got it right. It was the best question he could think of, for it was less of Ceara's memory and more of his, perhaps that would confused it. Maybe he could even trick it into giving itself away.
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Post by Dahlia Cruorem on Aug 14, 2009 14:24:49 GMT -8
The coiling viper of a woman, of an animal, of a beast knew the lines before they were spoken, was the master when all from her fingers were just puppets, their strings tied neatly around each digit, moving,dancing, speaking only when she allowed them. So easy to know, to pull on this thread and to see another unravel, to see limp, dead arms fall to the floor without even a glimmer of pain. There was no play, no script in which she didn't know -- for weren't humans predictable creatures? Didn't they always slide back, back, back, fall on their basest instincts of self-preservation? So easily manipulated, so easy to read, the lines, big, black blocky letters held up for her to see, to know, to truly know -- it did not take a genius to know he would rely on his own independence, on his own twisted form of logic.
Perhaps it was just logical nonsense, but it was a bird's pulse on her tongue, a sweetness like melting chocolate that purred through her entire body, for prickles to make her dizzy with it. This was excitement! This line in which she walked as easily as a cat, one foot in front of the other no matter that darkness was encroaching, that she was courting danger like rolling clouds darkening on the horizon:ominous, foreboding, and it slithered under her feet to shake her footing, but she was a cat, a viper, a cold blooded animal heated on the anger of others, her skin to flushing, her body to boil over on the tension, the very laughable threat of that puny sword in the knight's puny hands. Only one thing to fear: the cold hard edge of a sharp mind, and it was here in her midst, stretching it's fingers out to play their cords, to see which one was the false and which one was the true.
He must truly like us, Dahlia thinks, a smile aching to curl the edges of her mask, but she knows her place, knows her role and simply remains still as he seethes and turns over, a volcano awoken to smoke out and grow hot, hot, hot until it boiled over. It would, she knew, and she was tempted to reach out and touch it, to rub it along her skin -- to know his hatred as much as she would know his body, his resentment and his bitterness: these were the things in which humans unified themselves. Who cared for love when it was such a predictable beast? Not her, not the bloody flower, the butcher of life, the harbinger of danger, of oncoming catastrophe.
Hmm, hmm, and she let the hurt show in her eyes as he spoke the words she knew by heart, the script in which she held in her head, so clear and perfect. She waited, knowing that eventually he would run from the script, hold it in a different light and take a new path; hoped for it, and yet, feared it. Very few things were unknown to her, and for Dahlia to reach out without knowing someone, or something's deepest, basest existence was unsettling as it was relieving -- so imagine her confusion, her anguish to know that she wanted him to be different, craved that difference in her life, while fearing it at the same time? Would it mean the death of her? But then ... would it mean he saw her for herself? For Dahlia, and not this wretched blond human? Yet, she remembered perfectly the way in which he had snarled at the knight, the true Ceara unknowing. Could she bare to see that look on his face?
Yes, yes, yes -- her blood sang out for it, to be differentiated even as the power around her flexed, wanting to be the same. Dual emotions, dual desires and yet they both aimed for the same man, the same woman and engulfed them, swallowed them as she held them close in her mind's eyes, smelled the very breath on her lips. Such power to cut her mind in two, in three, in a thousand tiny fragments of thought! -- but she did it, and felt her eyes crumble at the hurt slicing through her gut. He didn't believe her. Then acceptance, a fierce hatred that quivered along her lips, her nostrils flaring slightly as her face tightened, looked at the other Ceara, the true one and knew she would have to steal the thoughts, to know it as his very words sparked the memory of it in her mind. So she hissed, a soft, angry sound, ".... I hate you." and for the briefest moment, she even did hate the girl, feeling the indignation strangling her gut.
Plucking the memory from her mind was easy, as his question rolled over and through her and made her view him in a different light. Failure. A new facet to add to his growing fame in her mind. Would he fail again, she wondered, and almost hoped he wouldn't. Then to him, her eyes shifting with strange emotions, making her say despite herself, in Ceara's voice, in Ceara's body and hating, hating, hating it. "Careful she doesn't stab you when she whispers in your ear." and she leaned in, breath touching his ear when she murmured, "from when you failed."
But then those were Dahlia's words, and she tried not to show a little bit of unease as she realized Ceara would never have said it so bluntly, or cruelly, but what was said, was said and she kept her face in place, stepping back with a wary eye on the real Ceara, her hand hovering over hilt, a steely look in her eyes.
[/size][/color] word count;; 958 tags;; em, ceara OOC;; sorrehhhhh! and a s for Dahlia, I figured I might as well make her mess up a little, since I really couldn't think of how Ceara might respond to that lol
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Post by Ceara Mindelan on Aug 14, 2009 15:07:51 GMT -8
Ceara could almost sense Emlyn's doubt as his grip on her arm loosened, but still she didn't move, other than allowing her gaze to flick to his hand on her arm, then over towards the evil bitch before roaming back to rest on Emlyn's face. She felt a momentary flash of pain as he said that she was the lying bitch, and it showed in her eyes for only a moment before she steeled herself, a tightening of her lips the only sign that she was not happy. But that was to be expected, who the hell would be happy in a situation like this, the man she liked not believing that she was really...herself. Still, it would have been even worse if the woman didn't act anything like she did and still Emlyn couldn't tell that she was the real one. She was glad that that wasn't the case.
She knew that she really couldn't blame Emlyn for not telling them apart. Heck, they were completely identical and the woman seemed to have her personality down flat as well. That was slightly unnerving, to know that she could take one look at her mind and know how she would feel, what she would say, how she would act. She wondered briefly if the woman knew all of her memories, from when she was a child to this day. She would have thought that would be an overload on the woman's brain...but she was a changeling, she supposed she was used to that sort of thing or something, right?
She snarled as the woman said that she hated her. "Right back at you, bitch." She snapped, before turning her attention back on Emlyn as he asked how he had gotten his scar. She grinned, doubting that the woman would know the answer. She narrowed her eyes and glared at the woman as she warned Emlyn to make sure she didn't stab Emlyn when it was her turn to whisper in his ear. "If I were you, I'd be more worried about me stabbing you." She snapped. As the woman leaned in to whisper to Emlyn, she could tell that the evil bitch knew the proper answer, for she hadn't seen any worry or anything on...well, her own face. She just glared and then leaned forward herself to whisper in Emlyn's other ear.
"While you were training for the Russian army. They would whip you when...you couldn't do something their expectations." She said before stepping back once again. She hadn't heard how the other woman had said it, but she was pretty sure it was the same answer anyways. She hadn't wanted to use the word 'failed', because she knew Emlyn wasn't proud of his scars, or how he had gotten them. She felt the familiar surge of anger as she remembered that they had whipped him just because he wasn't perfect at everything. It pissed her off, and she really wished she could go and whip them in return.
She suddenly got an idea but she hesitated, looking a little unsure as she watched the other woman. Finally she leaned in to whisper in Emlyn's ear once again, hoping he would bend down and allow her to do so. "Ask about how I go my scar." She would whisper to him, considering he had bent to allow her to do so. She wasn't sure that this would work, but she was hoping. That memory she had locked up tight, and she only told people she absolutely trusted...and not even all the time then. She'd only told Emlyn about her scar because he had told her about his...mostly because she'd sort of forced him to, but still. As she took a step back and glared at the evil bitch once again, she was sure to keep her mind completely occupied with thoughts of how much she hated this bitch, and refused to allow her mind to wander to her scar._________________________________________ Words: 701 Mood: Good Notes: Well, if Emlyn catches on Dahlia's word slip up, it would be good to put some doubt in him about whether she's the real one [/size]
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Post by Emlyn Zynooth on Aug 15, 2009 12:04:21 GMT -8
It was hard to watch them both throw insults at each other and not know which one was the one he should support. He knew he was betraying Ceara, which ever was her, but he didn't really have another option, now did he? If he didn't have them secure, he was sure they'd be at each other's throats. He would do that same thing if someone had been pretending to be him, prodding into his mind, his memories, his relationships...yes, he would want to kill them with his bare hands.
He cringed slightly as the first Ceara whispered in his ear. Failure. Yes, that was what it had been, but it still killed him every time he heard that. Wouldn't she know that and try not to hurt him like that, if she...really did care about him in that way? But maybe she was just frustrated now because he was holding her back. But her words rang in his ear like they were the trigger for some mental alarm. Heights, heat, people...people, this was one of them. One of the things his mind just couldn't get past, one of those d*** things. He just had to be smarter than it, and not let it take over him. He could pretend that this was one of the things he was good at, like the cold or the dark. All emotion could wash away, these two Cearas...where just tests, they were part of it and he would show them that he could succeed. This time he would prove them wrong. Most people worked best when they were relaxed, but Emlyn always seemed to perform at his maximum when he felt like someone was watching him or that he was under pressure.
Then the other Ceara answered, and it was...more to his liking, but maybe that was a plan of the changeling's. Oh, he didn't know her well enough to know how blunt she'd be in a situation like this, or whether she'd blame him or hate him or something like that, in which case it was more likely that the other one was the real one. But right now, it was still tied evenly between them. He hadn't picked a very good question, had he? Both of them had the memory of him telling Ceara that at their fingertips.
Then she...one of them asked him to ask about her own scar. But...wouldn't the changeling know that too? He gave her a confused look. He wasn't sure he should do it, in case she was the changeling and this was all some plan for him to turn on the real Ceara, but...maybe this was her and she knew something he didn't, something about changelings. He didn't know anything about them, so it didn't take much. "Fine, where did you...where did Ceara get her scar from?" he asked, grip tightening on both of them.
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Post by Dahlia Cruorem on Aug 15, 2009 12:57:58 GMT -8
Unease was a stifling thought, a thing which captured her for a quick kiss and then, just as abruptly released itself, her stomach untwisting, relaxing as the turmoil dissipated like a dream. He believed her -- for now. A smile, a flicker of disappointment that tightened the pupil of her eyes: did they turn a flavor of orange? Did the disappointment really just twitch her eyebrows closer together as she drew away, as she stepped back, eyes seeking the other, the knight, the person on who's shoulders Dahlia was placing all of this blame, all of this unwanted emotion. If only she hadn't come, if only, if only, if only.
Stupid games, but she had always enjoyed them ... until it forced her to look too closely on her own nature, and her own faults. It was when her natural defiance surged up from the darkness of her soul and shoved angrily at this confusion, this tenacious morality that tried to make her guilty when she didn't want to be, when she wanted to be her own, her own self. A tightening of her lips and her eyes lingered a little too forcefully on Ceara, looking at the edges of her mouth, of her nose, of the way her face shifted when she spoke --- the glimpse of tongue as she wrapped language around it. There was jealousy there, for sure. And a deep abiding resentment that was building in her, burning her like a brand. Eyes softened, anger turning mellow under the weight of that emotion and she shifted her eyes away, looking at the floor, feeling her body sulking in this unusual emotion.
Ceara didn't know this doubt, didn't understand it and her body did not know how to hold itself -- did not understand anything but the raised shoulders and pride. Damnable pride! Dahlia seethed.
Fine, where did you...where did Ceara get her scar from?
------------------------------------------------- and lightning struck her. Metaphorical, hard, fast, a spasm of hell that knotted in her back. Confusion then: where was the answer? It was like giving yourself over to faith and finding nothing but false hopes below you, letting you fall, fall, fall, and she fell, goddammit, she fell hard, and quickly, her hands reaching out for an answer that eluded her, disappeared the moment she reached for it. Pain in her, a terrible ache that clenched her heart and filled her head with dread -- the answer was right there! Right, there. A glimpse of a terrible face, an angry, lustful face, but it was too distorted, and the knowledge slipped through her grasp and let her die.
A hiss, angry, seething rage at this trick Ceara had played. She knew, she knew! the devil curse her! Jerking her arm forcefully out of Emlyn she snarled, "Why would you ask that?" Hardness, a coldness that dampened the heat of rage, blunted the edge as she edged away, glaring at Ceara, hatred softening to grief, to sorrow, to an unending hurt as she looked at Emlyn. [/size][/color] word count;; 505 tags;; em, cea OOC;; sorry it's short -- I'm busy.
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