#icpost

A fine evening of stymieing Forsaken and Horde efforts to recover supplies from Brill. Naturally, those belong to us as does Lordaeron as a whole. The Land is ours, and we won’t have it any other way. Lordaeron for the Living!

“If I told you that my favorite color wasn’t Blue, would you believe me?”

[Start of Part 1]

---------------------- The rumble of the engine thrummed through the cabin as she found herself lost in thought.. Or in a bout of late stargazing. The shimmering sun itself was beginning to dip below the horizon, kissing the line between heaven and earth with a warm glow. The skies were a surreal painting of oranges to deep dark blue.The only sounds aside from the  hum of magitek were memories that danced in her head. Words from different voices that all said the same thing.

“And when you can…. Come home safe.”

[Mood Music]

[Mentions/Involvement]: @enambris @glowinggunmetal @thavnairian-phoenix 

The scritch-scratching of a quill against parchment was incredibly loud in the area that served both as a study and as an intimate gathering space. Rosette’s home was quaint, small...nothing like the house that she had grown up in, the Valeria estate sprawling in one of the larger plots of the Goblet’s wards. Truthfully, she preferred it this way as it provided a cozy atmosphere for when her ragtag family gathered together for a meal or to visit. 

The merchant dipped her quill into the ink and continued to elegantly scrawl notations on the documents and reports for her Syndicate patron, Lady Noni. The one benefit of having been so badly injured was that she had gained the ability to catch up on inventories, shipping manifests, a multitude of different contracts that demanded her attention, and some research into shipping companies that could move her product. Murdock, her retainer and right hand man for the newly minted Desert Rose Industries, was utterly indispensable when she was out and about with the Black Garden. The one-eyed, scarred redheaded Hyur and his chosen Elezen life partner, Richart, ran quite the tight ship on her behalf. Once she had been feeling better, she was immensely pleased that nothing was amiss and everything accounted for.

She didn’t look up as she heard footsteps across the floorboards above her head, continuing to focus on her notations and reviewing contracts. Nor did the sound of footfalls on her stairs break her trance. Murdock and Richart had continually been coming and going the last two or three days, bringing her updated inventories and offers from shipping companies that ventured to and from Doma and Kugane. She had a few ideas and had been up late the night before speaking with both of her associates in regards to branching out into supplies to help rebuild Doma and tempt some Goldsmiths and jewelers in Kugane--

“Well, dear sister, I do hope I’m not interrupting.”

Tangled legs and mangled dreams. That's how he used to wake up, hateful for the hangover but thankful for the warmth on those brisk Ishgardian nights.

This evening, the hanging vestiges of that familiar sensation - spiderweb wisps - of something warm and soft roams around his calves, jolting him upright.

"It has been too long" is where his humor prompts his mind to go, but he buries it with a deep inhale. Meditation is the way he chooses to center himself these days; though wholly tempting is it to drown in the drink or throw a night's earnings to the roulette tables at the nearest gambling parlor. Instead, he slowly focuses on his surroundings, breath gliding in an even cadence, air tightening his abdomen, awakening him to the present moment in calmness.

Still.

What the fuck is THAT?

"Oh," Cyprien comments lamely, lavender eyes blinking and finding the source of his discontent. Eto's tiger is making his rounds, weaving over and atop the troupes' sleep-paralyzed legs, butting them with his dewy black nose. The Elezen can not contain a small smile; he is such a big baby. They all were, in their own ways. Taunted creatures from all ends of the earth, brought together by the craving for belonging, camaraderie. A balm for their bruised hearts. Tantalus was their name. Their family. De Sauveterre was a vestige of a former life he'd long since severed, grinning as the blade brutely hacked off that tainted flesh.

Skeletal fingers sharply pat Whisper on his hindquarters as the beast sulks silently over to another sleeping circus member. Cyprien rises and goes about his stretches, then makes his way into the circus tent proper.

It is a harlequin ghost, an empty shell this early in the morning with moonlight still kissing the diamond-shape pattern on the canvas walls. The moon is milky on his own skin; he raises his hands, breathing steadily again to ignore the light marks on the undersides of his forearms. He covers them in makeup to omit the scarring, the ridges from past bouts, past drugs, past hindrances. He clenches his fists and makes for the center of the room - where his violet silk dangles. A lover's finger beckoning him to dance.

He gathers the tendrils of silk in both hands, winding the fabric swiftly around his forearms three times. With a hop and a firm tug downward, he pulls himself up off the floor, jerking firmly on the lengths of silk and swings both legs up and over her head, flipping into an upside-down split. In a whirl of purple, he twists at the hips and bends his knees, entwining the excess silk around his legs. Letting go of the silk in his hands he swings downward, dangling precariously by the fabric wound tightly around thick thighs.

His expression turns grave and his eyes dart fearfully at the silk tangled about her. He abruptly tosses his arms out at his sides as he screams silently, unintelligibly, thrashing against the bindings. He quickly seizes the tail of ribbons dangling beneath his head and tosses them violently and haphazardly around his torso and arms, ensnaring herself within the silken vines.

Halfway through reality and dream, misty morning crashing in as performance butts against nightmares still crawling through his mind.

Cyprien curls his head and knees into his chest, forming his body into a violet cocoon. The movement makes him rock languidly back and forth, but he twitches and jerks violently inside the purple embrace, suggesting that whatever transformation is occurring is not a gentle one. He then abruptly bursts forth, silks unraveling around his form as he plummets towards the ground. Just before he hits the floor, the silks snap tight, twisted securely around his calves and ankles. He brings his arms up over his head and clasps both ribbons, arching his back and tilting his head up, eyes ablaze with excitement.

This is the heat he lives for in his chest. The delicious thrill of being winded, being feareful of the plummeting darkness. Nearly crashing to his death, bashing his brains across the floor. But at the last moment...he saves himself.

The pitter-patter of incoming rain loomed closer with every step Margharette took towards her cabin in the middle of the woods, nestled against a hill and overlooking the ocean. She could smell the damp soil every time the wind blew her way. After several drops had already stirred her hair, Marge finally made it through the front door, giving the moderately sized but singular area she called home a quick inspection and eventually locking the door behind her. Gloves were thrown on the small leather couch at her left, fabric dyed blue and gold, intricate geometric combinations hand stitched along each seam. About seven years ago, Margharette discovered she had a talent for fixing furniture and decorating it too. Ever since then, she has been building said talent. Through trial and error, she refined her skills and this had been her first completed project. One built from scratch and a personal touch among the art she collected.

Again the sound of rain interjected in her thoughts. This time it came from directly above as it fell and slid along the roof. With the sun disappearing into the horizon and the clouds rolling low in the sky, the home was as dark as it needed to be for humans to lose sight of obstacles along the way. This proved to be little challenge for Margharette who calmly evaded the small, round and high table three steps to the left. The buttons of her suit were undone, jacket tossed on the left corner of the bed. Five steps in and the woman turned to the right, left index finger licked before it was used to undo the knot of her tie. Before rising unto the elevated kitchen, she paused at her fourth stride and uncoiled the tie from her neck, letting it fall to the floor and listening for signs of life from the wall behind her. If Wilder was home, she'd hear the snoring. If she wasn't, Margharette knew she was alone with her thoughts.

The woman rose, using the single step along the divide and elevation that lead to the kitchen area. After making her way around the kitchen table, toes narrowly avoiding the legs of her chairs, Marge came to stand in front of the sink. The weight of whatever dream had been haunting her for the past couple of days slamming into her shoulders and chest like a brick wall. She gripped the edge of the sink and the counter with both hands in order to keep her body from collapsing in the wake of a torrent. Margharette screamed at the top of her lungs. From the dark and lifeless cabin in the woods came the roar of what could be mistaken for a wounded animal.

In the dark, cold home, a pipe broke. Water rushed from the sink with enough strength and volume to push Margharette across the room. She slammed into one of the walls, hand breaking the window but body helplessly pinned in place. The cabin flooded with unnatural haste, Marge soon finding herself with only the air already in her lungs available to keep her alive. It wasn't enough. Though she tried to swim her way out once the pressure had equalized, there were no windows or doors to be found. The light that barely filtered through from the surface was the only guide she could find in an otherwise cold and dark ocean deep. The only source of warmth there was to have was the growing burning that came from her lungs as they demanded more oxygen. Margharette gasped for air, only to succeed in taking in more water. The dim light shook violently, this being the result of body spasms, extremely close to succumbing.

When her eyes opened again, she stood in front of the same sink as before, only it was now daytime. A hand still gripped the edge of the counter, but the left was carrying a fresh cup of coffee. Gentle plumes of steam billowed from it's surface, the bitter aftertaste lingering in the tip of her tongue. Margharette also wore something more comfortable. A simple and over sized white shirt with a small hole along the right side hung over her upper thighs, bare toes wiggling on the rickety floorboards. A deep inhale brought the pleasing aroma of her drink back into play, sending a minute but definite shiver up her spine. Marge smiled, turning away from the kitchen and making her way out through the backdoor.

The gentle sway of the grass as the wind rolled along the hill tickled Marge's ankles and even her knees as she made her way across, not bothering to put on any shoes. The warmth of the earth itself was something she valued far higher than the fleeting passing of fancies or the comfort of friendly faces. No matter what, it would always be there -- or at least, that was how she saw it. Hair fluttered in much the same way as the greenery and flora carefully selected and planted all around her. Soon, her gaze met the matching hue in a deep, blue sea. Carefully, she took a seat along the incline where the roots died and the sand began, digging her feet into the latter. Across the expanse of the horizon her gaze traveled, another satisfying drink from her cup of coffee taken.

"Hello again, sweetheart." The gruff voice came from her left. Margharette recognized it's source in an instant, soon lowering the cup and turning to face the translucent image of her father. Though Marge looked mostly like her mother, height and body shape included, the same dark hair and fluid eyes mirrored that of the man now sitting beside her. "I'm about to do something stupid, aren't I?" The woman asked with a soft and respectful tone, shoulders slouching. It was another sip of coffee that kept Margharette from melting into the sand or trying to stick her head beneath it. The two watched the waves go by, clear and sunny skies the playground of gulls in the distance. "Yes. You are only human. This isn't the first, nor will it be the last. Thankfully, you've inherited a lot more from your mother than you care to admit." The man replied through a channel of tones and distortions. His words pulled on a string that struck a somber chord. She took another drink from her cup of coffee before leaning forward, knees bending as they rose. Eventually, she'd lean forward, coffee held over her upper arm. "How is Victoria?" Margharette murmured, hooded gaze following the movements of a bird in the distance. Father and specter rose from his spot, a few steps forward taken. Through him, Margharette watched the waves crash into rocks in the distance. However, there seemed to be little care towards this, the woman calmly drinking from her cup. "She's not with us anymore, Margharette -- the answer has not changed." It was with a smile that she responded to his answer. After getting to her feet as well, she began to make her way towards the shore, cup left along the incline. "May she rest forever." As the woman passed the ghost, there was a sudden change in wind. Silver and black glow swirled, caving their human formation and disappearing into the air. Marge pulled on her shirt, tossing it to the side and doing the same with her underwear soon after. A serene posture and expression settled with every step she took into the water -- her goal being to reach the rocks on the distance, around the bend of the earth.

Hands gripped on the edge of the counter and the sink as tightly as they had done in the beginning. It was nighttime -- the pitter patter of rain even louder than before. Margharette no longer had any of her work clothes on. She didn't have any at all. Water dripped from her hair, sometimes tickling the tip of her nose. Her hold only loosened when her hands began to tremble. It was with a deep breath and a few steps back that Marge began to pull on the reigns of discipline. What began as a routine of neck stretches slowly transformed into a sway with rhythm. The left shoulder gave a roll, followed by a twitch. In the darkness of her home, Margharette closed her eyes and imagined a light of her own. She focused on this single point, shedding away more nervous ticks here and there -- and then the deep exhale came. From head to toe, the woman's posture melted into a quietly confident one. Eyes opened to reveal the sharpness of her stare, one that fell on nothing and nobody. Head turned then, searching for a lamp that ought to be there. A half step towards it was taken, Margharette stepping on a broken piece of wood. It was then that she realized the kitchen table wasn't even there anymore. The wind whistled through the broken window not far away, sound penetrating the wound on her hand and making her painfully aware of it's existence. "Fuck me.." Margharette grumbled, head shaking before she quickly began to clean up before Wilder got a chance to see it.