#dcliverance

She mills around with the Wretched that build at the base. Huts, tents, expanding on the Citadel that cannot possibly fit all the souls supposedly saved by the Wives and the Mothers they sang to every night. She hasn’t seen one yet, hasn’t bartered past fierce-looking women with fiercer-looking guns that guard upper Citadel doors from strangers who float in from the Wastes. Strick’s never had a way with words, has always let her actions do the talking, especially in foreign lands. Her stature alone sticks her out like a sore thumb and she knows that they know it; she isn’t from around here.She feels a pang of regret, a thought of all the resources squandered bringing her across the Wastes; a pilgrimage misspent.She pushes her way through a crowd and a merchant trying to buy her blood off her, shimmying along walls of spotty canvas, trying to subdue the rising guilt that comes with failure that sticks in her throat, turns a corner - and spots a flash of red hair, it stops her in her tracks and she does a double-take, yanks her goggles off for perfect vision - but it’s still there, this vivid color in this bleak wasteland. It belongs to a woman, helping some sort of organization effort that isn’t exactly going smoothly, she has an effortless mane of flowing fiery hair that in these hinterlands could only be a sign from some dried up god that they were here, Mothers and Wives, flourishing, reclaiming the land. It’s a quasi-holy symbol that fills her with a feeling that she hasn’t experienced in a very long time.Strick has never had a way with words, but she finds herself praying nonetheless.“Just this once, I want to pretend…let me pretend that I’m happy.”

<33 Thank you ;;v;; }}

    ❛ ------An attitude like that        isn’t smart. You worry about        yourself. That comes first. ❜

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